Why I loved my season as a 'chalet granny'

At 55, Helen Hutt reviewed her life and headed for Courchevel

IT'S THE last day of the 2003 ski season in Courchevel 1850 and my roommate,
Debbie, and I have taken the lift to the top of the Saulire mountain "just to say goodbye" before our season as chalet hosts finishes. After three days of rain, it is a beautiful sunny day but there's virtually no one around. The last holidaymakers went home yesterday. No weekenders have come because of the weather. Last night the bars had to be drunk dry before closing for the summer, so most "seasonaires" are still in bed, probably nursing hangovers . . . and other seasonaires.

There is, however, a surprise in store for us. Overnight the rain has become snow and we have a blanket of fresh powder all to ourselves - what a privilege. We ski all the runs that are still open in the Trois Vallées, and some that are not. It is truly the most magical interlude in five memorable months of hard labour, unspeakable stress, immeasurable fun and brilliant skiing.

This adventure had started as a germ of an idea a couple of years ago, but somehow I couldn't justify it. Then an operation and a potentially life-threatening complication persuaded me life's too short; I just had to go for it. "It" was the experience of becoming one of a motley band - mostly well under half my age - who were about to pack in whatever they were doing (if anything) at home to experience life as a ski skivvy.

I told the family over dinner one Friday night in June 2002. They gulped, laughed, stared and finally said "good on you, go for it" or words to that effect. I'd thought hard about the logistics before making my announcement. My daughter Catherine had just returned from her gap year (of which I had been incredibly envious) and was about to start university. My son, Dominic, was firmly, if not very gainfully, settled in London.

All I had to do was teach Chris, my husband of 30 years, to cook a few simple dishes and how to work the washing machine. Oh, and what about my PR business? One person fewer meant no one at all but, with a friend offering to "manage the shop" and a laptop and mobile phone in Courchevel, I reckoned I could get by - and I did, with most of my clients none the wiser.

But first came the interviews, also conducted by people young enough to be my children. For one prospective employer, there was also a culinary assessment at the Tante Marie School of Cookery where we had to prepare individual portions of meals we had previously suggested as being suitable for hungry skiers. Have you ever tried cooking coq au vin for one? I christened it the “monocoq”.

I seemed to become everyone’s mum on that occasion. “Anybody got a pastry brush?” I had. “Help! I’ve forgotten my apple.” I gave him mine. “Is there any foil here?” Yes, I had brought my own.

From four job offers, I chose Simply Ski, a fairly upmarket company offering chalet holidays for reasonably well-heeled Brits. I was to look after ten people in my favourite resort and I could hardly wait.

At the end of November, my skis, boots, board and bags sat by the front door, which I would not see again until the end of April. I mused that some of my 19-year-old workmates would be packing contraceptive pills and safe-sex apparatus. I had six months’ supply of hormone replacement therapy and a knee support.

First there was a week of training for the team in Méribel. Health and safety was important and, I confess, made me wonder how I’d managed not to kill my entire family during my 30 years as wife and mother. I could see my reputation as “leftovers queen” wouldn’t stand a chance here — every unused morsel was to be binned. But I knew how to cook. I could slalom through a dinner party with ease.

However, I hadn’t bargained on the mogul field of the cake challenge (we had to bake a fresh one daily for guests’ afternoon tea). I rose to the challenge but my cakes didn’t: no one had mentioned the effect of altitude. In the first week I produced ultra-solid creations, unintentional pancakes and caramelised lava flows. My super recipes from home were abandoned in favour of the infinitely variable yogurt cake — saviour of the chalet host.

I coped with the dietary fads of vegetarians, vegans, Muslims, Jews and spoiled children but I triumphed with Cleo, a lovely vegetarian actress with dairy and wheat allergies. I glow with pride to think of the creative things I did with rye bread, olive oil and soya milk.

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