Yis have all been very touchy about the fifteen. It has aroused more annoyance than anything else I have written so far. People keep tackling me about it, looking wounded. It really must be a national treasure. We are all very attached to the tray bake-even men who insist on doing things women don't understand, like putting chocolate in the fridge and liking kebabs. I was out walking with a good cross section of males the other day and you should have seen them falling upon the Malteser Squares and Millionaire's Shortbread during the coffee break, it was like the Women's Institute with P.M.T.
We were on the Lagan towpath and it was jam packed, let me tell you, with rowers, cyclists, canoeists and runners. The runners were extremely cheeky, coming up behind a person and saying things like 'Pick a side' rather than 'Excuse me'. I felt like retorting 'Pick the stones out of yer bake when I knock you to the ground' but I was trying to impress my new walking friends by pretending to be tolerant. I don't hold with running and not purely because the beauticians tell me pityingly that I have 'high colour'. Runners always look strained, wrinkled and miserable; a combination of the horrid exertion of it all and having had to dress themselves in those unspeakably unflattering skintight leggings with the lizardy markings. And do not get me started on wetsuits. Women were standing about having chats, quite unconcerned at having donned some rubber tubing, which contrives to squash your bosoms and yet bag in a triangular manner at the crotch so you look like Sindy without her pants.
May I also add that I took my business elsewhere as it were, from Spin Class at my gym purely because of the cycling shorts, the whooping that went on when people hit their endorphin high and the impish little man-lady who kept insisting that we each could be 'Number One'. That figure only interests me if it indicates my position in a queue to get Lancome samples. So I repaired to something called Zumba; oversubscribed Caribbean dancing,which leads participants to become all overcome by their own sexiness and actually high-five each other at the end of each track. Some nights, it's all I can do not to pretend I don't recognise high-fiveing and just smack people. I'm extremely popular at the gym, I am sure you can imagine.
My mother has just been round, complaining about having been set upon by The Brick's daughter's dog , which she described as wrinkly and 'all the one colour' which is a terrible affliction in her book. (She says Charles Dance is 'all the one colour' -skin, hair, eyes and sadly I can see what she means. The dog's colour in this case turned out to be 'taupe', she pronounced indignantly, then it was clear to me she was referring to a Wiemaraner, which cheered up my monday. It's always worth dwelling on some of her unique opinions when one is in need of a good laugh. She suspects that Michael J. Fox and Jodie Foster are the same person ; 'You never see them together,' she mutters, darkly. She said the same about Michael and LaToya Jackson and I was worryingly close to believing this until LaToya made that unmistakeable appearance at Michael's funeral in her, er, Fedora. When Mum wants to indicate Kate Winslet, she goes; 'You know that mouth I hate?' and she still thinks it was an awful pity about Rock Hudson and Montgomery Clift.
I will be as close to a Fifteen this weekend as I ever intend to get by having lunch at Jamie Oliver's similarly named restaurant as it was no doubt called after thon bun -a closely guarded secret until now. Or is it that fifteen reformed hallions cook yer tea? I will report.
Monday, 21 February 2011
Thursday, 10 February 2011
Crimes de cuisine
I was watching an old episode of Nigella Bites last night. I love these because of the house and the way she talks. It's also fascinating to see how she cooks in a denim jacket with her hair hanging down. No-one else would do this. At least the hair was clean-I had to give up Nigel Slater as his grooming is wanting, in that pervert kinda way. Now, Nigella almost brought me round to the idea of jelly (which I am agin) as hers was such a lovely pink and had fizzy wine in it. She spoiled it all though, by serving it with pouring cream. War crime. It makes all desserts freezing and soggy. Would you pour a glass of wine on your roast dinner? I thought not. You must whip the cream, in my book, I don't care if you are saving on dishes. There's just no point otherwise. Several other enraging culinary features very quickly occurred:
1. Frisee lettuce. It's bitter, unattractively pointy and scratchy-gets caught in the back of your throat. Should be called 'sore salad'.
2. Herbal tea. One is always trying to embrace it but it is impossible to ignore the overtones of bathroom. That is, whatever it says on the packet, it always tastes like hot toothpaste or tepid bath water. Take your pick.
3. Offal. Of any description. Men regard eating it as a test of virility, it appears. Why else would a person ingest what has been scraped off the abbattoir floor? I had a Home Economics teacher, whose catchphrase was 'Offal's not awful'. Oh, but it is.
4. Mealy powder from packets to which water must be added; soups, sauces and of course Potnoodles. One is not an astronaut. I have a pupil who is unable to accept that Potnoodles do not exist in France and thus he may not just write it down on his 'mon menu' worksheet next to 'un fry'.
5. Speaking of pupils-what is the deal with Haribo? Bits of coloured tyre. Known in our house as A.P.R (aul plasticky rubbish), a term I felt sure I had invented, until I had to reread Cal for teaching and found I had lifted it straight out and adopted it. Two of my sisters apply it to anything considered tacky or inferior , as in 'Don't you buy those APR curtains just 'cos they were in the sale.'
6. Things that my mother thinks are 'tasty'; broth, stew, gammon, corned beef, items fried in lard. I can only attribute these tastes to a post-war childhood,overshadowed by the horror of the powdered egg.
7. Fifteens. Those of you not from Norn Iron may not know these. I strongly suspect they are unobtainable elsewhere. They could be our national dish or national 'traybake' at least, were they actually baked . Unbelievably, they are abominable confections consisting of fifteen low -rent raw ingredients, each disgusting in its own right; glace cherries, condensed milk, marshmallows, dessicated coconut-I cannot go on.
8. Big Macs. I have never had one at higher than blood temperature. Furthermore , I was too deeply affected by a distant Simpsons' episode in which the 'special sauce' was revealed as mayonnaise left out in the sun.
9. Chocolate paired with fruit, such as is found in boxes of Dairy Milk, sporting a sort of pip effect in its design, as if that would make any right-thinking person wilfully consume a Strawberry Cream. The most appalling example of this syndrome can be found in an orange Revel. I have never met anyone who likes orange Revels and let me tell you, there are more of them now than ever. The last time I went to a particularly murky cinema, I had to keep spitting them straight back out, like Tom Hanks in Big with the caviar.
10. Couscous. Firstly you have to add boiled water to it. Not on. Then you have to 'fluff' it with a fork. What? It's about as insubstantial as polystyrene beads as it goes down, so you forget you have eaten-worse than after a Chinese. Men never eat it-it is not considered masculine. I know one who flies into a teeth-grinding homophobic rage if it is mentioned on a menu.
Back to Nigella. It's not so much that she can cook; it's that she knows how to eat. Not just as can be regularly seen in her shows but because I agree with her snack philosophy. She once said she loved sweet and salty together, in the form of chocolate in one hand and salt and vinegar crisps in the other. Stick a glass of white wine in the middle and switch on Skinny Celebrities, confident you will never be emaciated enough to require a facelift.
1. Frisee lettuce. It's bitter, unattractively pointy and scratchy-gets caught in the back of your throat. Should be called 'sore salad'.
2. Herbal tea. One is always trying to embrace it but it is impossible to ignore the overtones of bathroom. That is, whatever it says on the packet, it always tastes like hot toothpaste or tepid bath water. Take your pick.
3. Offal. Of any description. Men regard eating it as a test of virility, it appears. Why else would a person ingest what has been scraped off the abbattoir floor? I had a Home Economics teacher, whose catchphrase was 'Offal's not awful'. Oh, but it is.
4. Mealy powder from packets to which water must be added; soups, sauces and of course Potnoodles. One is not an astronaut. I have a pupil who is unable to accept that Potnoodles do not exist in France and thus he may not just write it down on his 'mon menu' worksheet next to 'un fry'.
5. Speaking of pupils-what is the deal with Haribo? Bits of coloured tyre. Known in our house as A.P.R (aul plasticky rubbish), a term I felt sure I had invented, until I had to reread Cal for teaching and found I had lifted it straight out and adopted it. Two of my sisters apply it to anything considered tacky or inferior , as in 'Don't you buy those APR curtains just 'cos they were in the sale.'
6. Things that my mother thinks are 'tasty'; broth, stew, gammon, corned beef, items fried in lard. I can only attribute these tastes to a post-war childhood,overshadowed by the horror of the powdered egg.
7. Fifteens. Those of you not from Norn Iron may not know these. I strongly suspect they are unobtainable elsewhere. They could be our national dish or national 'traybake' at least, were they actually baked . Unbelievably, they are abominable confections consisting of fifteen low -rent raw ingredients, each disgusting in its own right; glace cherries, condensed milk, marshmallows, dessicated coconut-I cannot go on.
8. Big Macs. I have never had one at higher than blood temperature. Furthermore , I was too deeply affected by a distant Simpsons' episode in which the 'special sauce' was revealed as mayonnaise left out in the sun.
9. Chocolate paired with fruit, such as is found in boxes of Dairy Milk, sporting a sort of pip effect in its design, as if that would make any right-thinking person wilfully consume a Strawberry Cream. The most appalling example of this syndrome can be found in an orange Revel. I have never met anyone who likes orange Revels and let me tell you, there are more of them now than ever. The last time I went to a particularly murky cinema, I had to keep spitting them straight back out, like Tom Hanks in Big with the caviar.
10. Couscous. Firstly you have to add boiled water to it. Not on. Then you have to 'fluff' it with a fork. What? It's about as insubstantial as polystyrene beads as it goes down, so you forget you have eaten-worse than after a Chinese. Men never eat it-it is not considered masculine. I know one who flies into a teeth-grinding homophobic rage if it is mentioned on a menu.
Back to Nigella. It's not so much that she can cook; it's that she knows how to eat. Not just as can be regularly seen in her shows but because I agree with her snack philosophy. She once said she loved sweet and salty together, in the form of chocolate in one hand and salt and vinegar crisps in the other. Stick a glass of white wine in the middle and switch on Skinny Celebrities, confident you will never be emaciated enough to require a facelift.
Sunday, 6 February 2011
'Change and decay in all around I see' or Abide with I
A girl like I is apolitical (a fancy way to describe ill-informed laziness) but I can't not comment on the recent tragedies in Norn Iron. A local newlywed was strangled in her honeymoon suite in Mauritius in January, having intercepted hotel staff stealing from her bedroom. The morning rush hour traffic was at a standstill for hours as the suicide attempt of a 31 year-old paraplegic was thwarted , on a bridge over one of the busiest roads in Europe. This woman was buried last monday, having returned to the exact same spot a fortnight and a day later, to fulfill her death wish. The road was re-opened just a couple of hours after the body was removed. You can see three or four bouquets attached to the railings as you whizz past, getting on with your life.
There was an interesting contrast in the media treatment of the two women in question; the details emerging from Mauritius were both sublime and ridiculous but always positively prurient. We know exactly why Michaela Harte went back to her room that day, salacious accounts of her struggle with her attackers have emerged and a great deal of information about her funeral was given, even her burial clothing. I repeat none of it here-it's unnecessary, of course, both because all can be rapidly revealed online and because much of it was none of most of our business anyway.
However, little is available to illuminate the case of Karen Cromie, the temporarily dissuaded suicide. There are obituaries available in various forms and a sparse account of her funeral. Here the discretion has been admirable and ironically, I find myself very interested to know more about this very unusual sequence of events. There is to be an 'inquiry into her aftercare' following the suicide attempt. Mental Health professionals may find themselves taken to task, in the coming months. Answers are required where, it seems now, ultimately none can be given. We will never know or understand how or why a person can arrive at this unimaginably desperate, hopeless, solitary desolation. That we must accept, if we can.
The same I cannot say, as regards the parents of the two children who commited suicide last week, in unrelated events ,and the teenager who collapsed playing rugby and later died. People at funerals have often panicked about what to say and I always bellow advice and often a possible mini-script. But sometimes there really are no words.
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