With the Dear Leader away at a conference of super villains - she's giving a paper titled 'When Minions Betray Us - Towards a Theory of Creative Executions' - I was only cooking for two last night, Sternest Critic being home for Easter. The temptation was to do steak as we're blokes. Actually, if I understand the TV adverts, real men don't cook even that, they only ring for takeaway.
I made us some Chinese-ish food, (having travelled many a time and oft in China, and worked with Chinese businessmen throughout South East Asia, I know that a) there is no such thing as 'Chinese food', and b) My version of what I've eaten there is not at all authentic) as I'd been busy doing stuff and it was getting to the point that post-gym SC was turning a cannibal eye on me. Dinner was ready in about 15 minutes, 20 tops. On the very rare occasions we do dial for 'fast' food they always say 'about half an hour', and it takes closer to 60 minutes.
Anyone brave enough to have read early posts on this blog will perhaps recall that my favourite ever cookery programme was a dramatised take on de Pomiane's finest work, French Cooking in 10 Minutes. Think Jamie Oliver, but avec charm and sans annoying Essexisms. And half a century before the pukka prat was the first person ever to discover rapid cookery. The book and the programme show how you can produce four and five courses in 10 minutes (charcuterie starter, fruit as pud, cheese, there's three with no cooking needed). You're limited (no roasts, bakes, slow simmers etc), but it's not the idea to do this all the time.
Our two substantial dishes took twice de Pomiane's target, but for something with plenty of healthy protein and veg, and a bit of carb, not one morsel of which remained uneaten, it's still not a bad effort. Thanks for asking, stir-fried chicken with mushrooms and broccoli, and prawn and crab (tinned white meat) with bamboo shoots, water chestnuts, sweet pepper and fine egg noodles. The former had chili added, the latter plenty of garlic, both had soy sauce and sesame oil.
I could have griddled the chicken thighs and served them on tinned lentils perked up with mushrooms and garlic, with a green salad to follow and cut the time down below 10 minutes. Or done a chicken salad in the same time. Or any number of other possibilites.
My point is that to have something toothsome on the table rapidly need not involve a phone call and paying a small fortune for what may well be cook-chill stuff. So to the Just Eat campaign we say Just Piss Off.
Tuesday 31 March 2015
Tuesday 24 March 2015
Potage is for Peasants?
I detected a briefly raised eyebrow last night when I announced the main part of our evening meal was to be a soup. Had that meant some powdery packet jobbie I could understand the doubt, likewise had I been using tins (though Heinz tomato is a slightly perverse glory of our national cuisine). But this was a very hearty mushroom (a packet of dried porcini and a paper bag of supermarket white 'shrooms) and veg deal, incorporating homemade stock. Nothing was left in the pan, so it can't have been too bad.
Perhaps the problem is that we tend to see such fare as only a starter. Or that both our Dear Leader (ever present) and Sternest Critic (home for Easter) know I (like any half reasonable home cook) sometimes play the potage card to use up things not at the throwing out stage, but past their peak. It is an aid to frugality then, but also can be a delight: the two need not be incompatible.
One of the best things I ate in my distant youth was the sorrel and potato soup dished up by my exchange buddy Patrick Mulot's mum in Montfort L'Amaury (I spent three weeks with them after he had been three weeks with us). No need for truffle oil etc, it was perfectly balanced, filling, smooth, delicious. They were far from rich, and I seem to think we ate it twice a week at least, but no matter.
Likewise the table d'hote dinner menu at small French restaurants and hotels will always include a soup, generally vegetable, that you know is the chef cooking to a budget (it doesn't hurt that the crisply crusted bread on the table accompanies it to perfection).
But both those would be starters.
Is it a fear of appearing to be poor peasants that relegates soup to a supporting role? I have read restaurant reviewers who would go further: they hint soup is not worthy of their taste buds, or inclusion in a starry meal, consigning several thousand years of creative cookery to culinary oblivion in a few arch words. How sad. How shallow.
I was then delighted that the tasting evening menu last Thursday at Mitton Hall featured soup. The carnivore list had French onion with gruyere crouton, and the vegetarians (Dear Leader played that role, and designated driver. My stay in the Gulag will hopefully be short) enjoyed a take on Jane Grigson's 1970s-classic curried parsnip soup. Both were excellent (the parsnip particularly so), and I admired the chef for having the courage to offer superbly realised simplicity.
By way of contrast, on a press trip to Michelin-starred restaurants in South West France I tasted a spoonful of soup made with ground ivy (not tree ivy, that's poisonous). It was part of another taster menu by a well-regarded (particularly by himself) chef scaling new culinary heights. Someone should have pushed him off, it was foul. Fine new soups may yet be discovered, but will any of them be as excellent as that sorrel and potato plateful Patrick's mum surely learned from her mother and on back to Parmentier's introduction of the spud into the French diet? Potage may be for peasants, but it satisfies. So no eyebrow should be raised when it's promoted to the main event.
Perhaps the problem is that we tend to see such fare as only a starter. Or that both our Dear Leader (ever present) and Sternest Critic (home for Easter) know I (like any half reasonable home cook) sometimes play the potage card to use up things not at the throwing out stage, but past their peak. It is an aid to frugality then, but also can be a delight: the two need not be incompatible.
One of the best things I ate in my distant youth was the sorrel and potato soup dished up by my exchange buddy Patrick Mulot's mum in Montfort L'Amaury (I spent three weeks with them after he had been three weeks with us). No need for truffle oil etc, it was perfectly balanced, filling, smooth, delicious. They were far from rich, and I seem to think we ate it twice a week at least, but no matter.
Likewise the table d'hote dinner menu at small French restaurants and hotels will always include a soup, generally vegetable, that you know is the chef cooking to a budget (it doesn't hurt that the crisply crusted bread on the table accompanies it to perfection).
But both those would be starters.
Is it a fear of appearing to be poor peasants that relegates soup to a supporting role? I have read restaurant reviewers who would go further: they hint soup is not worthy of their taste buds, or inclusion in a starry meal, consigning several thousand years of creative cookery to culinary oblivion in a few arch words. How sad. How shallow.
I was then delighted that the tasting evening menu last Thursday at Mitton Hall featured soup. The carnivore list had French onion with gruyere crouton, and the vegetarians (Dear Leader played that role, and designated driver. My stay in the Gulag will hopefully be short) enjoyed a take on Jane Grigson's 1970s-classic curried parsnip soup. Both were excellent (the parsnip particularly so), and I admired the chef for having the courage to offer superbly realised simplicity.
By way of contrast, on a press trip to Michelin-starred restaurants in South West France I tasted a spoonful of soup made with ground ivy (not tree ivy, that's poisonous). It was part of another taster menu by a well-regarded (particularly by himself) chef scaling new culinary heights. Someone should have pushed him off, it was foul. Fine new soups may yet be discovered, but will any of them be as excellent as that sorrel and potato plateful Patrick's mum surely learned from her mother and on back to Parmentier's introduction of the spud into the French diet? Potage may be for peasants, but it satisfies. So no eyebrow should be raised when it's promoted to the main event.
Thursday 19 March 2015
A Critique of Criticism
In the not too distant the Dear Leader and I are off to Mitton Hall, a rather swish country house hotel and restaurant, to do a review of their new tasting menu. I can feel the waves of sympathy flooding over me - having to work evenings. We are clearly looking forward to the experience. Being paid to eat well is not a bad gig.
But how critical will we be? And is the degree of perfection expected of our chefs healthy and fair?
Last night I cooked two dishes that could have been better. The dressing on the warm lentil and parsnip salad (one of the last of our parsnips from the allotment) needed to be far sharper; and the cheesy-oniony spuds done in the oven with the parsnip chunks could have done with higher heat and a few minutes longer. But both were still good, and I got no complaints: the two things went together well, and were perfectly acceptable.
It must be galling for pro chefs whose dishes stray slightly from the perfect path to be criticised when they are still dishing up excellent fare. Should our degree of criticism be related to the cost of the meal (the higher the cost, the greater the expectation of miracles)? Or to some accepted degree of difficulty (a la ice dancing) for each dish? Or do we judge them on their own standards, so someone with two Michelin stars is expected to be at least 99 per cent on song all the time?
I prefer not to regard every aspect of a meal, every dish and every detail, as an examination with a 100 per cent pass mark. It is the overall experience that counts. That could in itself be a tougher test than each dish being perfect, as if the balance or choice is out, that spoils things for me.
How healthy and useful is criticism? Being terribly British I'm embarrassed about the process, but if we keep quiet when served rubbish it's a disservice to future diners. I tend to vote with my feet (however difficult it is holding a pencil that way) and boycott a place that has failed me.
On occassion I've felt the need to be more direct - memorably when a meal at an 'Italian' restaurant was beyond Mr Bean: ordered a half bottle, got a full one and was asked to drink to halfway; garlic bread was in fact cold rubbery polenta that had never met any garlic; likewise the garlic and herb sauce with my main course, sans herbs, sans garlic, and with easily discernible lumps of the powder from which it had been knocked up. The evening was crowned when we asked for espressos and the waitress didn't know what they were (they had filter coffee, she thought). When the head waitress came over to ask, belatedly, the 'was everything alright?' question I let fly.
Does criticism do any good? A couple of years later that same place was the only restaurant open for Monday lunch when I had French colleagues to feed. It was no better. When rivals opened up nearby, it changed beyond measure (I was told - twice bitten, thrice shy).
But how critical will we be? And is the degree of perfection expected of our chefs healthy and fair?
Last night I cooked two dishes that could have been better. The dressing on the warm lentil and parsnip salad (one of the last of our parsnips from the allotment) needed to be far sharper; and the cheesy-oniony spuds done in the oven with the parsnip chunks could have done with higher heat and a few minutes longer. But both were still good, and I got no complaints: the two things went together well, and were perfectly acceptable.
It must be galling for pro chefs whose dishes stray slightly from the perfect path to be criticised when they are still dishing up excellent fare. Should our degree of criticism be related to the cost of the meal (the higher the cost, the greater the expectation of miracles)? Or to some accepted degree of difficulty (a la ice dancing) for each dish? Or do we judge them on their own standards, so someone with two Michelin stars is expected to be at least 99 per cent on song all the time?
I prefer not to regard every aspect of a meal, every dish and every detail, as an examination with a 100 per cent pass mark. It is the overall experience that counts. That could in itself be a tougher test than each dish being perfect, as if the balance or choice is out, that spoils things for me.
How healthy and useful is criticism? Being terribly British I'm embarrassed about the process, but if we keep quiet when served rubbish it's a disservice to future diners. I tend to vote with my feet (however difficult it is holding a pencil that way) and boycott a place that has failed me.
On occassion I've felt the need to be more direct - memorably when a meal at an 'Italian' restaurant was beyond Mr Bean: ordered a half bottle, got a full one and was asked to drink to halfway; garlic bread was in fact cold rubbery polenta that had never met any garlic; likewise the garlic and herb sauce with my main course, sans herbs, sans garlic, and with easily discernible lumps of the powder from which it had been knocked up. The evening was crowned when we asked for espressos and the waitress didn't know what they were (they had filter coffee, she thought). When the head waitress came over to ask, belatedly, the 'was everything alright?' question I let fly.
Does criticism do any good? A couple of years later that same place was the only restaurant open for Monday lunch when I had French colleagues to feed. It was no better. When rivals opened up nearby, it changed beyond measure (I was told - twice bitten, thrice shy).
Wednesday 18 March 2015
Bacon and Cream Make Everything Better
I was reading the excellent 'Edible Seashore' book by John Wright the other day (it's one of the River Cottage series), and was amused by his comment about (if memory serves) a cockle recipe which included bacon, cream and garlic, making the entirely sensible point that with those additions, pretty much everything tastes good. Looking over one of Nigel Slater's tomes shortly afterwards, it was clear that the fringed fop has built much of his style on that very thought. [I enjoy his ideas, but his writing style can be a trial - not everything is comfort food for goodness' sake - though why goodness and rice wine should be linked I have no clue]. Nigella Lawson, it could be said, did the same with buckets of thick cream (and a considerable cleavage).
With our now well-established healthy approach to matters culinary cream is a rare treat, but I had a hankering for lardons during a visit to Aldi for fruit bushes (£2.49 for three, and they're in very good nick, top bargain), and incorporated the pack in what would normally be a vegetarian warm salad, bacon replacing mushrooms. Naturally it worked, the other ingredients of blue cheese, rocket, roasted butternut squash (yes, it's a take on an HF-W recipe) greeting the salty stuff with open arms. As I had the oven on for the squash I cut large toms into thick slices and roasted them too for 20 minutes, half the time the squash got, and included a handful of bashed unpeeled garlic cloves, which roasted to nearly burnt brown were the most garlicky thing I've had in weeks. Cold the same toms are tastless; cooked and warm they are sharp and pleasing, a nice balance to the rest of the dish. Some walnuts warmed in with the bacon proved a bit superfluous.
The question is, would the dish have been, though clearly different, as good or even (whisper it quietly) better without the lardons? I actually think that as they were the overly dominant flavour (the slightly caramelised squash and the garlic equal second), taking a bit of limelight away from the veg, this was something that actually would have been better without bacon. My world view is shaken to the core.
With our now well-established healthy approach to matters culinary cream is a rare treat, but I had a hankering for lardons during a visit to Aldi for fruit bushes (£2.49 for three, and they're in very good nick, top bargain), and incorporated the pack in what would normally be a vegetarian warm salad, bacon replacing mushrooms. Naturally it worked, the other ingredients of blue cheese, rocket, roasted butternut squash (yes, it's a take on an HF-W recipe) greeting the salty stuff with open arms. As I had the oven on for the squash I cut large toms into thick slices and roasted them too for 20 minutes, half the time the squash got, and included a handful of bashed unpeeled garlic cloves, which roasted to nearly burnt brown were the most garlicky thing I've had in weeks. Cold the same toms are tastless; cooked and warm they are sharp and pleasing, a nice balance to the rest of the dish. Some walnuts warmed in with the bacon proved a bit superfluous.
The question is, would the dish have been, though clearly different, as good or even (whisper it quietly) better without the lardons? I actually think that as they were the overly dominant flavour (the slightly caramelised squash and the garlic equal second), taking a bit of limelight away from the veg, this was something that actually would have been better without bacon. My world view is shaken to the core.
Monday 16 March 2015
Taste - not Everybody Has It
The title of this post doesn't refer to people who wear brown shoes with navy suits, or think stone-cladding is a good idea. It's about having the ability to actually taste things.
The thought has been prompted by my recent and continuing bout of man flu (if you could find one, it would have killed a lesser man, though I have naturally not made a fuss about it). Clearly serious though that particular emergency is, it's far less so than the situation of a friend going through post-operative cancer treatment. I read recently (in a piece plugging the Royal Marsden Hospital Cancer Cookbook) that one unpleasant side-effect of chemo is that much of the sense of taste goes, and that what's left tends to tell the brain everything tastes of metal. Nasty piled on nasty.
What is suggested to cleanse and please the palate with chemo patients, apparently, is pineapple, which flushes the taste buds and throat and speeds the recovery of the sense of taste. I found that with a mouth that was tasting of mucal grey-green (how unpleasant) fruits cut through that whereas vegetables failed with a whimper, and meat didn't even make that effort. I guess it's the acidity, though I prefer to think of it as nature's way of saying 'eat me, eat me'.
My step-grandmother lost her sense of taste after she banged her head in a fall. She loved her food, as her size evidenced, and the loss of any pleasure derived from meals was a cruel trick of fate. There are of course other aspects to the enjoyment of food. Travels in Japan showed me how that country's people value texture just as much as flavour, with some foods only explicable by their textures - I have a dim memory of some sweet bean cakes whose delightfully smooth centre in no way made up for their jam-gone-off taste. As Proust wrote (making a lot of fuss about tea and cake*), it is the taste that stays in our minds. What he didn't say is that taste is not only central to our memories, but for those of us whose basic needs are met, it is perhaps the core of the sensual part of our nature. An exceptionally cruel psychologist could carry out an experiment on a death row prisoner, offering the choice between a last hour spent with a girl- or boyfriend, or eating and drinking of the finest**.
Intensely selfish and focused on food as I am, I have started to worry about the gradual loss of taste as I age. Now in my very late 30s (my maths may be at fault here, given I was born in the late 1950s) I observe how my elederly father needs to cover his food with half an inch of salt to get any flavour from it. As he gave up smoking many decades back it is hard to blame tobacco for that.
As we are all, if newspaper reports are to be believed, destined to live to 135, loss of taste could be one of the many crosses we have to bear, as it is an embuggeratoin for those undergooing chemo. My sense of taste has started to recover from the man flu already. I intend making the most of it while I can.
(* Actually I loved reading Du Cote de Chez Swann at university, and of the five books I'm reading currently it's the only re-read)
(** May I combine the two?)
The thought has been prompted by my recent and continuing bout of man flu (if you could find one, it would have killed a lesser man, though I have naturally not made a fuss about it). Clearly serious though that particular emergency is, it's far less so than the situation of a friend going through post-operative cancer treatment. I read recently (in a piece plugging the Royal Marsden Hospital Cancer Cookbook) that one unpleasant side-effect of chemo is that much of the sense of taste goes, and that what's left tends to tell the brain everything tastes of metal. Nasty piled on nasty.
What is suggested to cleanse and please the palate with chemo patients, apparently, is pineapple, which flushes the taste buds and throat and speeds the recovery of the sense of taste. I found that with a mouth that was tasting of mucal grey-green (how unpleasant) fruits cut through that whereas vegetables failed with a whimper, and meat didn't even make that effort. I guess it's the acidity, though I prefer to think of it as nature's way of saying 'eat me, eat me'.
My step-grandmother lost her sense of taste after she banged her head in a fall. She loved her food, as her size evidenced, and the loss of any pleasure derived from meals was a cruel trick of fate. There are of course other aspects to the enjoyment of food. Travels in Japan showed me how that country's people value texture just as much as flavour, with some foods only explicable by their textures - I have a dim memory of some sweet bean cakes whose delightfully smooth centre in no way made up for their jam-gone-off taste. As Proust wrote (making a lot of fuss about tea and cake*), it is the taste that stays in our minds. What he didn't say is that taste is not only central to our memories, but for those of us whose basic needs are met, it is perhaps the core of the sensual part of our nature. An exceptionally cruel psychologist could carry out an experiment on a death row prisoner, offering the choice between a last hour spent with a girl- or boyfriend, or eating and drinking of the finest**.
Intensely selfish and focused on food as I am, I have started to worry about the gradual loss of taste as I age. Now in my very late 30s (my maths may be at fault here, given I was born in the late 1950s) I observe how my elederly father needs to cover his food with half an inch of salt to get any flavour from it. As he gave up smoking many decades back it is hard to blame tobacco for that.
As we are all, if newspaper reports are to be believed, destined to live to 135, loss of taste could be one of the many crosses we have to bear, as it is an embuggeratoin for those undergooing chemo. My sense of taste has started to recover from the man flu already. I intend making the most of it while I can.
(* Actually I loved reading Du Cote de Chez Swann at university, and of the five books I'm reading currently it's the only re-read)
(** May I combine the two?)
Tuesday 3 March 2015
One Flame Cooking - Vegged-up Style
Vegged-up. Gosh, how demotic as a good friend would probably say.
My one flame cookery has tended to be a meat-centred thing, but inspired it has to be said by HF-W's veg book, and for reasons explored in another recent post, we've cut down on meat (not cut it out) and pushed the veg quota here. I'm a big fan of what our American cousins would call the dinner salad too, so put those factors together with the one flame idea and you end up with some substantial meatless feasts.
Best of those has to be the lentil-centric salad (lentil-centric being like London centric, but different in that one is concerned with a lot of rather greyish vegetables all looking alike with no space between them, the other has lentils. Boom-tish, I'm here all week).
In the trusty Le Creuset cast iron pan a chopped onion is fried gently, with a chopped red pepper for colour, some garlic sliced, then a posh sachet of lentils. Had some been available I'd have added a few cubes of bacon or slices of chorizo (people who pronounce that cho-ritz-o now quite high up my list of those due to die horribly when I rise to supreme power). So long as the onion and garlic are cooked it's just a case of warming the rest through, not even getting them hot (how very continental), as you eat this warm.
Lettuce or rocket or lamb's lettuce on the plate the lentil mix is added, some Parmesan shavings and walnuts put on top (with enough time then for the oil in the nuts to warm through a bit - I am not a fan of toasting them), and the lot dressed with a vinaigrette. It's the basis for further experimentation (adulteration?) - goats cheese or blue cheese are good, tomatoes go nicely, black olives and hard-boiled eggs fit in too. So long as there are not too many ingredients (in which case it evolves into another nice Americanism, the garbage salad) it remains a good solid filler-upper, and one that can be on the table in 15 minutes.
Does this count as austerity cooking? As Merchant Gourmet lentils (for 'tis he) only cost about £1.50, and the rest if no bacon or chorizo used would add another £1.50 tops, that's dinner for two or three for £3.
My one flame cookery has tended to be a meat-centred thing, but inspired it has to be said by HF-W's veg book, and for reasons explored in another recent post, we've cut down on meat (not cut it out) and pushed the veg quota here. I'm a big fan of what our American cousins would call the dinner salad too, so put those factors together with the one flame idea and you end up with some substantial meatless feasts.
Best of those has to be the lentil-centric salad (lentil-centric being like London centric, but different in that one is concerned with a lot of rather greyish vegetables all looking alike with no space between them, the other has lentils. Boom-tish, I'm here all week).
In the trusty Le Creuset cast iron pan a chopped onion is fried gently, with a chopped red pepper for colour, some garlic sliced, then a posh sachet of lentils. Had some been available I'd have added a few cubes of bacon or slices of chorizo (people who pronounce that cho-ritz-o now quite high up my list of those due to die horribly when I rise to supreme power). So long as the onion and garlic are cooked it's just a case of warming the rest through, not even getting them hot (how very continental), as you eat this warm.
Lettuce or rocket or lamb's lettuce on the plate the lentil mix is added, some Parmesan shavings and walnuts put on top (with enough time then for the oil in the nuts to warm through a bit - I am not a fan of toasting them), and the lot dressed with a vinaigrette. It's the basis for further experimentation (adulteration?) - goats cheese or blue cheese are good, tomatoes go nicely, black olives and hard-boiled eggs fit in too. So long as there are not too many ingredients (in which case it evolves into another nice Americanism, the garbage salad) it remains a good solid filler-upper, and one that can be on the table in 15 minutes.
Does this count as austerity cooking? As Merchant Gourmet lentils (for 'tis he) only cost about £1.50, and the rest if no bacon or chorizo used would add another £1.50 tops, that's dinner for two or three for £3.
Monday 2 March 2015
Classics for a Reason
Sometimes there's little space between classic and cliche. Though in the complete OED I bet it amounts to at least 100 pages. The food world seems far more interested in novelty than the established, so what are classics now too often find themselves labelled cliches. How arrogant and short-sighted.
That thoughtlet came to mind last night as we ate what were the best crab cakes I've ever cooked, and it's something I've had a go at often. The outside crispy, the inside quenelle light and (important this) with the crab flavour central, they were simple, quickly done and delicious.
But they were not ground-breaking, so had they been served to a restaurant reviewer I'm sure the phrase 'gastro-pub cliche' would have appeared. That in itself suggests the reviewers in themselves have become cliches.
To quote Montaigne (has anyone else noted the great man quoted far more often of late than for many years?) 'The art of dining well is no slight art.' Chasing the new tends to make it so, however.
For anyone who wishes to know, the cakes were just three slices of stale ciabatta whizzed to crumbs, two tins (yes, tins) of white crab meat, 1/2 tsp of sweet smoked paprika, salt, pepper, and two beaten eggs. Formed into crab patties (when was the last time Montaigne and Spongebob made it into the same piece?) and fried over a moderate heat in a little olive oil they puffed up a treat, were toothsome, and tasty. But no guava, fermented Peruvian bogie-juice, or crushed dung beetles, so what was the point?
That thoughtlet came to mind last night as we ate what were the best crab cakes I've ever cooked, and it's something I've had a go at often. The outside crispy, the inside quenelle light and (important this) with the crab flavour central, they were simple, quickly done and delicious.
But they were not ground-breaking, so had they been served to a restaurant reviewer I'm sure the phrase 'gastro-pub cliche' would have appeared. That in itself suggests the reviewers in themselves have become cliches.
To quote Montaigne (has anyone else noted the great man quoted far more often of late than for many years?) 'The art of dining well is no slight art.' Chasing the new tends to make it so, however.
For anyone who wishes to know, the cakes were just three slices of stale ciabatta whizzed to crumbs, two tins (yes, tins) of white crab meat, 1/2 tsp of sweet smoked paprika, salt, pepper, and two beaten eggs. Formed into crab patties (when was the last time Montaigne and Spongebob made it into the same piece?) and fried over a moderate heat in a little olive oil they puffed up a treat, were toothsome, and tasty. But no guava, fermented Peruvian bogie-juice, or crushed dung beetles, so what was the point?
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