As I speed through the third decade of my thirties time, its benefits, passing and cruel jokes at our expense has begun to assume more significance than it did in my salad days (accompanied in the Sixties and Seventies of course by Heinz salad cream). With experience has come a reasonable knowledge of restorative beverages, and the money to pay for a decent standard thereof. But annoyingly once we are of a certain age the body's tolerance for alcohol reduces, so an evening of anything more than mild conviviality can leave one feeling delicate next day. Thus we try to drink well rather than lots.
A new quirk of maturity hit me recently. Enjoying a night's sleep a month or so back I began what seemed destined to be that very rare pleasure, a sex dream. I make no apologies for my subconscious. Several (it would appear said subconscious is decidedly ambitious) of my wife's former colleagues (attractive female ones) were seated around our table with the Dear Leader, all dressed somewhat inappropriately for the March weather, though despite them being seated at a round table I could only see their backs wherever I stood. I sported an apron, and nothing else.
Tragically the dream took a diversion. For their meal I was preparing pork sausages (way ahead of you Sigmund) fried then sliced on the bias and the flat faces browned, with apple juice added to the pan to caramelise and create a sticky jus. The dream had become culinary not carnal. I focused on what heat would be needed to keep the apple flavour but make a nice syrupy sauce to grace the meat, and if it needed herbs (I now, fully conscious, think a touch of sage). Even in the dream I felt this was missing the point, but was seduced by the simple recipe idea, rather than as might have been hoped the company.
Carpe diem seems very brusque, however rapidly time is racing. Whatever the latin for embrace in place of seize seems more inviting. We did that yesterday by planning for the promised sun. A lamb shoulder on a generous bed of sliced leeks (picked the day before on the allotment) and bruised garlic cloves went into a very low oven (110 celsius) mid-morning, a bottle of Christmas-leftover Babycham (the Dear Leader enjoys retro sometimes too) to keep it all moist. A lidded pot let the whole steam gently. When we ate in the garden mid-afternoon the sun shone, the meat fell off the bone, and the sweet mushy alliums and a big serving of steamed Red Russian kale were ideal partners. As was a half-bottle of Rioja. Should we regret not having the head anymore for a full midday Sunday bottle, or celebrate having the nous to construct such a pleasant hour?
Monday 20 April 2015
Thursday 16 April 2015
Time, Coffee, Breakfast, and Mr Kurtz
Reflecting on why our breakfasts are currently more enjoyable than ever before in our 99 years of marriage, the conclusion is that we now have time, or at least we more frequently have time, to spend over said meal. Sternest Critic is off at university so we no longer have the school bus rush. I have worked from home since 2007, and since last summer the Dear Leader has two or more days a week when world domination is plotted here rather than at one of her secret bases.
I do not believe that either food or drink can be truly savoured unless there is time available to focus on them. A cup of coffee gulped en route to the office will not give the same pleasure as the same cup sipped calmly at the table. It's not a matter of focussing intently from first sip to last, but the greater opportunity to take a moment and notice. Stop and smell the flowers, or the coffee, as it were.
This brings me to the horror of grazing, and the (exaggeratedly) reported death of the family meal. As an admitted hedonist I would take some persuading to swap my time at the table (morning, noon or evening) for time spent on another activity. An extra hour spent texting friends, retweeting what some pointless celebrity('s PR hack) has written about toenails, or playing games on my phone would none of them tempt me to change.
If you graze then it's just re-fuelling. Quality is sacrificed for convenience. Reheated rubbish that can be carried without spillage will be preferred to anything that needs a slow simmer and has sloppy juices.
I am standing for the Green Party in my local ward this May. When I rise to absolute power, as seems inevitable (the Dear Leader busy developing a mind-altering ray even now), grazers will be sent to re-education camps in the foothills of the Norfolk mountains to face a stern regime of meals featuring dishes lifted from the finest pages of de Pomiane, David, and (Jane) Grigson. They will be forced to sit for a minimum of half an hour over each meal, with no TV, music, or access to personal electronic devices. Anyone failing to engage in delightful conversation during the evening sitting will be required to spend another 15 minutes over cheese*. The horror, the horror. Conrad was deliberately ambiguous with those death-bed words, but I wonder if what Kurtz was imagining was people on the go eating as breakfast those strange squashed-egg and sausage patty efforts foisted on the world by McDonald's. I may be wrong of course.
* Those putting butter on their cheese biscuits will naturally be shot for the good of the gene pool. I'm no extremist, but tolerance has its limits. Anyone asking for cheese with bits of mango, or cranberries, or ginger in it will be treated far more harshly.
I do not believe that either food or drink can be truly savoured unless there is time available to focus on them. A cup of coffee gulped en route to the office will not give the same pleasure as the same cup sipped calmly at the table. It's not a matter of focussing intently from first sip to last, but the greater opportunity to take a moment and notice. Stop and smell the flowers, or the coffee, as it were.
This brings me to the horror of grazing, and the (exaggeratedly) reported death of the family meal. As an admitted hedonist I would take some persuading to swap my time at the table (morning, noon or evening) for time spent on another activity. An extra hour spent texting friends, retweeting what some pointless celebrity('s PR hack) has written about toenails, or playing games on my phone would none of them tempt me to change.
If you graze then it's just re-fuelling. Quality is sacrificed for convenience. Reheated rubbish that can be carried without spillage will be preferred to anything that needs a slow simmer and has sloppy juices.
I am standing for the Green Party in my local ward this May. When I rise to absolute power, as seems inevitable (the Dear Leader busy developing a mind-altering ray even now), grazers will be sent to re-education camps in the foothills of the Norfolk mountains to face a stern regime of meals featuring dishes lifted from the finest pages of de Pomiane, David, and (Jane) Grigson. They will be forced to sit for a minimum of half an hour over each meal, with no TV, music, or access to personal electronic devices. Anyone failing to engage in delightful conversation during the evening sitting will be required to spend another 15 minutes over cheese*. The horror, the horror. Conrad was deliberately ambiguous with those death-bed words, but I wonder if what Kurtz was imagining was people on the go eating as breakfast those strange squashed-egg and sausage patty efforts foisted on the world by McDonald's. I may be wrong of course.
* Those putting butter on their cheese biscuits will naturally be shot for the good of the gene pool. I'm no extremist, but tolerance has its limits. Anyone asking for cheese with bits of mango, or cranberries, or ginger in it will be treated far more harshly.
Thursday 9 April 2015
Lord Emsworth and I
Breakfasting is rather an art I feel. It's of course a cliche that the first meal of the day is the most important, setting one up nutritionally and spiritually for the next 14 or 15 hours. Over the last week or so I've enjoyed very contrasting ways to break my fast. During our recent stay at my father's house it was variations on the grilled platter - sausages, bacon, black pudding, toast, eggs etc - that saw my weight rise and energy fall. I love all of those items, but perhaps once a week (or more sensibly once a fortnight) suffices to have them all together.
By way of contrast I feel full of beans (though they are not on the menu) after our habitual start to the day of strong (real) coffee, a homemade smoothie, and toast and marmelade or poached egg. Lord Emsworth, from what one can gather from the Blandings novels fared best on Dover sole, not something I've ever eaten before noon. We have in common, however, that something light and carefully chosen does make one feel at ease with the world. And of course we are both sound on pigs.
There is no 'right' breakfast in terms of a set menu. I've eaten curry in India and congee in Indonesia, pastry or rolls and coffee in the USA and France, steak in South Africa, black bread and blacker tea in the USSR, and felt good after all of them because the food satisfied not just my thirst and hunger but also a feeling of belonging and of well-being. How the kids I sometimes see eating crisps and drinking Red Bull on the way to school must feel I can only imagine. Not, sadly, important enough for their parents to have provided something more beneficial.
A lot of schools now are offering breakfasts to pupils, and it's not just the under-privileged who maybe need this - I know of a kid at a fee-paying establishment where it's not lack of money but parental laziness that sees him reportedly start his day more often than not on an empty stomach. That is sad in at least two ways - for his educational performance, but also for the missed moment of family bonding, of contentment and care that a simple breakfast can give.
It's a missed moment of culinary art too. Preparing the perfect poached egg is simple but rewarding - water barely simmering, a splash of vinegar because fresh eggs (as they should be, and with our own chickens are here) tend to disintegrate without it, eggs carefully broken and slipped into the water (I don't see the point of the cheffy whirlpool thing), drained and en-toasted when the yolks are runny and the whites soft but formed - it's a skilful ritual worth the effort.
By way of contrast I feel full of beans (though they are not on the menu) after our habitual start to the day of strong (real) coffee, a homemade smoothie, and toast and marmelade or poached egg. Lord Emsworth, from what one can gather from the Blandings novels fared best on Dover sole, not something I've ever eaten before noon. We have in common, however, that something light and carefully chosen does make one feel at ease with the world. And of course we are both sound on pigs.
There is no 'right' breakfast in terms of a set menu. I've eaten curry in India and congee in Indonesia, pastry or rolls and coffee in the USA and France, steak in South Africa, black bread and blacker tea in the USSR, and felt good after all of them because the food satisfied not just my thirst and hunger but also a feeling of belonging and of well-being. How the kids I sometimes see eating crisps and drinking Red Bull on the way to school must feel I can only imagine. Not, sadly, important enough for their parents to have provided something more beneficial.
A lot of schools now are offering breakfasts to pupils, and it's not just the under-privileged who maybe need this - I know of a kid at a fee-paying establishment where it's not lack of money but parental laziness that sees him reportedly start his day more often than not on an empty stomach. That is sad in at least two ways - for his educational performance, but also for the missed moment of family bonding, of contentment and care that a simple breakfast can give.
It's a missed moment of culinary art too. Preparing the perfect poached egg is simple but rewarding - water barely simmering, a splash of vinegar because fresh eggs (as they should be, and with our own chickens are here) tend to disintegrate without it, eggs carefully broken and slipped into the water (I don't see the point of the cheffy whirlpool thing), drained and en-toasted when the yolks are runny and the whites soft but formed - it's a skilful ritual worth the effort.
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