Enjoy the cake and stop feeling guilty

Cake in Venice: how much marg do you think it contained?

If ever there was a revealing comment about food and varied national relationships toward it, it came on Wednesday night in the shape of BBC4’s Patisserie with Michel Roux Jr.

It was an interesting programme anyway, ranging from the revolutionary work of Marie-Antoine Carême (1784-1833), the first celebrity chef – who also wrote books that included the immortal phrase: ‘You can try this at home’ – to some of Paris’s finest pâtissiers plying their skills today.

One, for instance, works with a top perfumier to create new delicacies.

But as was pointed out, if you think that’s a bit outré, Carême was playing similar games himself, filling the display stands of patisserie with scents such as rose water in order to appeal to the nose as well as the eye.

However, in one of Paris’s tea salons, Roux met American Francophile Dorie Greenspan for hot chocolate and sumptuous-looking cakes.

Greenspan has written several books about patisserie and she observed that, back in the US, she only ever heard people discuss cakes in terms of guilt: “‘It’s so good, but I really shouldn’t have this’,” she said was what she would hear from fellow Americans when she was back in the US, before then noting that there was no comparable comment that you’d be likely to hear in France.

The French, she suggested, “have a special relationship with indulgence”: they understand that a little regular indulgence is part of living a good life.

It may seem odd to think that we still harbour such a puritanical attitude in the UK, where consumerism seems to be king and where religiosity has declined in recent years, certainly in the mainstream, but we will all have heard similar attitudes voiced.

But as I’ve touched on before, our search for the ‘body beautiful’ creates a secular version of guilt, with new year’s resolutions and then Lent and then preparing for the beach – and then for the winter party season – all pressuring people to give up some foods (the ones that generally are most enjoyable) and, if they don’t, feeling guilty again.

Decades of poor diet advice has added to the guilt and the social pressures that exist around the subject.

So perhaps those are part of the reasons that we have hardly any of the sort of patisseries that you can see on so many French streets, and that instead, as Roux pointed out, we have solid Eccles cakes or Bakewell tarts handed to us in a brown paper bags, as though we’re as embarrassed as if we were hiding an adult magazine.

The French have patisserie shops that are as astonishing as any top-end boutique in the way in which they display the products for sale. And it’s not just Paris – even Collioure has one such shop, plus at least one more patisserie that I’m aware of.

There are little moments of hope: only yesterday on Twitter, ligging into the revival of baking and the apotheosis of the cup cake, Flora had paid to promote a tweet advertising Flora Buttery to bake said morsels.

Now, it’s worth noting that when an advertiser ‘promotes’ a tweet, it gets charged for any responses.

Within moments, as well as the sort of positive responses that Unilever was happy to respond directly to, others were urging people to use real butter and not something full of additives. The myths are being challenged.

For clarification, Flora Buttery’s list of ingredients runs thus:

Vegetable Oils (Seed Oils 82%), Water, Buttermilk (10.5%), Salt (1.5%), Emulsifiers: Mono- and Diglycerides of Fatty Acids, Lecithin, Flavourings, Preservative: Potassium Sorbate, Citric Acid, Vitamin E, Vitamin B6, Colour: Beta-Carotene, Vitamin A, Folic Acid, Vitamins D and B12.

There are no ingredients lists for a pack of unsalted butter and when making butter (which you can do in your own home) you don’t have to invent a method of making liquid solid, as you do with vegetable oils if you’re going to market them in a tub as something that can be spread as well as used in baking.

But Flora’s marketing is partly based on guilt – and a concomitant belief that using a butter substitute can make you feel less guilty by making you think that what you are using is more healthy, not least if you are feeding it to others as well as to yourself.

Of course, the entire fat-is-bad-for-you myth has been particularly successful in the US and UK.

Fat – the food type that makes for wonderful mouthfeel; that makes food tasty and which helps sate you far quicker than a whopping big bowl of cereal.

The French – who recognise that a bit of regular indulgence is good for you – also consume more dairy than anyone else on planet Earth and, in the south west of the country, have wonderfully fat-laden foods such as duck confit and foie gras available as part of the regional cuisine.

Somehow, I doubt very much that when a French pâtissier makes an Opéra – described by Larousse Gastronomique as “an elaborate almond sponge cake with a coffee and chocolate filling and icing”, any of it will have been made with margarine.

And yet – and here is the supposed ‘French Paradox’ – the French still have lower rates of heart disease than in this country or the US.

It wasn’t before time when, just a few weeks ago, Sweden because the first country to change its diet advice from a low-fat diet to a low-carb diet – a major crack in the wall of the myth that has built up over the last 40-50 years.

The British – and US – attitude is one of fear for health that ties very neatly into a guilt at culinary pleasure (indulgence), which itself is a residue of the puritanism that has affected both countries.

And because we have that deep-seated fear of ‘indulgence’, we distrust anyone who treats indulgence with a certain seriousness and as a genuine and wonderful art, and then when we do indulge, we overdo it (leading to more guilt – see new year’s resolutions again) and often do so on rubbish.

Not that the French are alone in creating such fabulous cakes – the Italians aren’t exactly bad, for instance, while the Austrians would probably make the list too.

But would it be stretching things too far to point out here that these countries, and France, have not suffered from puritanism or any other forms of non-conformist pleasure-hating denominations in the same way as the UK, US and others have.

While it produces plenty of its own psychological problems, Catholicism is rather more understanding of of ‘sin’ and pleasure and indulgence – and no, that’s not a pun on something Luther got in a huff about.

The sooner we all learn that a spot of regular indulgence is good for us, the better we’ll feel for it.

The denial of nature

Don't worry – this is entirely natural.

When I wrote at the weekend that sowing seeds allowed me to be “a god in my garden, granting the opportunity for life to grow from what seems, on the surface, like shriveled death,” it was within the context of a celebration of being in closer proximity to the natural world than those of us in vast urban conurbations often find ourselves.

So don’t fret – there are no delusions of divinity here!

However, it was also a reminder that my acting tutor at Leicester Polytechnic, the wonderful Tony Yates, once told us, his students, that we were gods too, for our ability to create; to breathe life into something as otherwise insubstantial as a dream.

But if my connection with nature, through the natural world, has such a simple meaning, ideas of nature can be far more complex.

Take religion.

The Catholic church in particular is fond of talking of the ‘nature’ of human beings. In particular, this tends to refer to the sexuality of human beings and the type of relationships that the church has decreed are ‘proper’ – ‘natural’; of nature.

Within this context, homosexuality itself and same-sex relationships are considered unnatural.

But this belief in such a simplistic idea of human ‘nature’ is both false and destructive, while the church’s continued promotion of such an idea is also inherently hypocritical.

At the weekend, having previously announced that he was taking legal advice over accusations of ‘improper’ sexual behaviour, the UK’s senior Catholic cleric, Cardinal Keith O’Brien, admitted that his behaviour had not been ‘as expected’.

In effectively saying that the accusations were true – or had a grain of truth in them – he basically outed himself.

If O’Brien had made sexual advances or suggestions to other clergy – themselves men – then he is either gay, bisexual, bi-curious or was simply downright frustrated sexually.

And whichever of those is or was the case, he was and presumably is denying his own nature.

The church’s very insistence on celibacy for clergy and nuns is a denial of nature – even masturbation is considered a sin (this is the same for Buddhist monks) – just as the church’s continued refutation of non-heterosexual sexualities as natural is itself a denial of nature.

It is both of nature and the norm to want sex. Indeed, male ejaculation has been shown to confer health benefits in reducing the risk of prostate cancer.

So if God says that this is bad – a situation that he created – then he is demanding that people behave in an unnatural manner and, indeed, open themselves up to health risk (also something that, to maintain the logic, he created).

Many outside the church of Rome – other religious groups and some outside any religion – continue to fall for the fallacy that homosexuality and bisexuality are not ‘natural’, often conflating this with their not being ‘normal’.

Part of the problem is in demanding black and white realities with no grey in the middle. Thus we have homosexuality in one corner, heterosexuality in the other and nothing between the two.

Kinsey’s idea of human sexuality being a scale – so as above, but with many different gradations in between – makes much more sense; it certainly explains bisexuality, for instance, and allows for the variations in the nature of bisexual desire Bisexuals don’t simply have equal proportions of attraction to either sex.

This obviously makes sexuality difficult to measure in terms of simple numbers. Estimates of the percentage of the population that is homosexual vary from between 2% to 10%.

So it’s quite clear from this that homosexuality is not ‘the norm’ – in other words, it’s not the majority situation.

But that doesn’t mean that it isn’t natural – ‘of nature’.

Homosexual behaviour has been observed in many, many species other than humans. In other words, it forms a part of nature. Thus, quite simply, it is natural.

Now from a religious point of view, if one believes that God created the world and everything in it, and nobody else has the power of creation (in Catholicism, to believe the latter would be heresy), then one is left with a reality, according to one’s own belief system, of God having created the full scale of sexuality, both in humans and the rest of life on Earth.

If, as Judeo-Christian tradition has it, Yahweh-Jehovah is omnipresent, omnipotent and omniscient, then God created everything, in the full and certain knowledge of what would occur.

There’s no room for choice in this: if God knew what would happen, having himself created it, then choice does not exist.

So on that basis, one cannot choose one’s sexuality. Neither can one choose if one is to act in a way that the church regards as sinful – it was preordained.

Yet religious groups take the logic of their own beliefs and warp them to claim that some groups are un-natural, and that we can all choose whether, through acts or faith (and most often, a combination) we are to be saved from eternal damnation.

As it happens, there is no scientific evidence that sexuality is a choice.

But let’s take a slight diversion here.

Colm Tóibín’s new novella, The Testament of Mary, is an astonishing work, seeking to allow Christ’s mother the chance to tell her view of the story.

Mary is nothing more than a symbol in the Bible; a characterless, featureless piece of fleshly clay onto which assorted events are imprinted.

In the Bible, she has no choice in being ‘chosen’ by God to give birth to his son – rape, by anyone’s standards – and only accepts her situation meekly after being divinely impregnated.

Which, as only a very slight aside, might be at the root of why the Vatican does not see rape as a justification for abortion; it replicates the conception of Christ.

But in his book, this symbol of womanhood is torn to pieces by Toìbìn, who presents instead a complex, emotional human being; vulnerable and tenacious at the same time, angry with her son’s disciples and not believing in his divinity, and facing an indescribable grief and horror at what happens.

Written in deceptively simple language, it is an incredibly powerful and moving piece.

And it is a portrait that is far truer to anything in nature than the one in the Bible or the one-dimensional, hagiographical one that religion, and Catholicism in particular, has presented down the centuries as a template for real women.

The Catholic Church's specialisation of distorting the nature of things is widespread and deeply corrosive.

While far from new (Christopher Hitchens did a rather fine hatchet job some years ago), research has shown, once again, that Mother Teresa was far from the saintly figure conventionally portrayed.

In her ‘hospitals’, suffering became the norm, the natural; not to be alleviated, even when entirely possible, but to be maintained as some sort of recreation of Christ’s own suffering. Not that Mother Teresa herself held to the same standards when she was ill.

It was a warping of even the church’s own images of maternal love and care – as also happened in church orphanages and schools, and in the obscene collusion between Irish state and Catholic church that was the Magdalene Laundries.

For centuries, various religions and religious groups have taken the word, the idea of ‘nature’, and both distorted and denied it.

The Catholic church is just one that had or continues to have ‘issues’ with the theory of evolution – indeed, the pretence amongst fundamentalists that the word ‘theory’ does not mean what it does in a strictly scientific sense either shows a deep lack of understanding/education or is deliberately disingenuous.

But then again, evolution is the antithesis of what such religious groups claim – that there is a nature that is set in stone; that it is undeniable and unchanging; that we can trace it back X hundred or thousand years and say that it is the same now as it was then and for ever will be.

This is all an ongoing battle. A battle that pits knowledge against superstition, in just such a black v white manner. No grays. No grays ever.

Some years ago, I interviewed – for the Morning Star, just so you know – the late Lord Rev Dr Donald Soper.

It was in his house in Hampstead. We shared tea together. I remember it fondly. He was a charming host – and also a great intellect.

Much of what he personally believed, I would not. But he had great honesty and enormous integrity – and he didn’t see his faith as an excuse to close down others and simply claim a divine right to be assumed correct.

Indeed, Soper was one of the very first clergy to stand on a platform calling for LGBT rights.

It might have appalled my father – a clergyman of the same denomination – but when I look back at it, at least I look at the Methodism I was brought up in and can think that it was not all reactionary and hate-filled.

And against nature itself.

There are other clerical figures I’d think similarly of, incidentally – Archbishop Trevor Huddlestone would be one; Archbishop Derek Worlock would be another (I can be quite ecumenical) – and there are more.

But here we are, watching as fundamentalists seek to fill the vacuum created as people of moderate faith (if you will) fall away from organised religion.

And so we see – increasingly in the mainstream – what was once the preserve of the far-flung fringes.

Nature changes. Nature is not set in stone. Nature grows.

That is the nature of nature.

That some religious people seek to pretend otherwise – and even, in attempting to do so – warp and betray the logic of their own faith – does not change this. Not one jot.

And what we are left with is human tragedy: that someone like O’Brien, having denied his own nature, must be in so much pain, and feeling so much self-loathing.

I’m not sure that I would wish that on anyone.

They all came to Elne

In this part of the world, they talk of having 27 centuries worth of history.

Now most places have lengthy histories, but if that sounds like an exaggeration, it isn’t.

And nothing could have made that clearer than a board charting those centuries in timeline form, which hangs in a small room off the cloister at the Cathédrale in Elne.

Originally under the control of the Ibéres, the town was first known as Pyréne, then Illibéris, during which time, in 218 BCE, Hannibal dropped in for a break after crossing the Pyrenees.

The Romans liked it so much that they came, saw, conquered and stayed around for a while, from 118 BCE to 414 CE, during which Elne became Castrum Helenae.

Then the Visigoths came, replaced by the Arabs for around 70 years, and followed by the Carolingians for just over a century.

By the time the Catalans took over in 873, it was Elna. Then the French popped over in 1473 before the Spanish arrived in 1494, to be replaced by the French again in 1642 when they realised they rather liked the place and would keep it. And so the town became Elne.

It was the bishopric of Roussillon from the 6^th century, but as nearby Perpignan prospered, Elne declined. In the late Middle Ages, the counts of Roussillon moved their seat there, with a papal bull seeing the Episcopal seat follow in 1601.

The Cathédrale Sainte-Eulalie-et-Sainte-Julie was founded in 1060 and consecrated nine years later, a lasting monument to the Roman style of architecture, with its two towers soaring above the town from the old ville haute.

The cloister is one of the finest examples of the Roman style – and now, centuries later, is one of the major drawing points for tourists, as Elne slowly starts to benefit from the rise in tourism – and the development of an area that, not that long ago, was considered the poor man of France.

And that cloister is astonishing.

It isn’t exaggerating to say that one could almost sense monks walking around, their habits rustling almost imperceptibly. The more imaginative could even be forgiven for thinking they hear the sound of chant on the breeze that brushes the lavender in the quadrangle.

The cloister developed from the Greek and Roman peristyle, or open porch, frequently surrounding an internal garden, and here, the colonnaded shade and the Mediterranean sun present sharp contrasts.

The carvings that decorate columns and walls run from the Romanesque to the Gothic, and besides showing Biblical scenes, also include flowers and patterns, together with mythical creatures, including griffins and mermaids.

The church itself is interesting too, with its Romanesque vaulted ceiling – rounded, not rising to a point. There are the usual side chapels and statues and candles, but nothing quite to equal the cloister.

Carvings of griffins.

We had taken the bus from to Elne and wandered upward, into the haute ville, the oldest and highest parts of the town, which surround the Cathédrale.

This small area offers extraordinary views across the plain to the Pyrenees as they slope gently down to the sea at Collioure, and to Perpignan and the Corbières hills in the other direction.

There were geographic advantages to Elne as a point from which to rule.

Next to the tourist information office was an old building that housed the gallery and glass-blowing workshop for Sylvain Magney and Veronique Carvalho.

Heaven alone knows what the heat would have been like if there had been any glass being blown when we were there, but the artist was having a day’s rest.

The glass was lovely. I came away with earrings and a pendant, in a sea green, with bubbles in them, like air rising to the surface. Unique pieces.

Little Zazou.

Artisanal crafts are a part of Elne’s revival and, a short while later, as we ambled among to apparent jumble of Roman walls and later housing, we found a little artists’ enclave with a café serving regional items – even up to Catalan cola.

As we sat amongst the palms, we saw a little cat. A sweet-faced thing, with a touch of mange and very dodgy back legs, one of the craftsmen (he makes harps) told us that this was Zazou.

At 14, she had been abandoned by her owner for being ‘too old’. Apologising for his language, he said how disgusting he thought this was. The artists and craftsmen and women in the café were all making sure that she had food and water.

“She’s not ready to die yet,” he added, looking fondly in her direction, as she lay on the step outside his workshop.

Such selfishness on the one hand and kindness on the other.

After the Cathédrale, we headed for lunch, and found ourselves at the very nearby Au Remp’Arts.

There we both had jambon and melon for a starter; vast portions of sweet, ripe fruit and glorious ham, served on little wooden pallets.

There’s a reason that this is such a classic combination: with quality ingredients, it’s superb.

The Other Half opted for a steak to follow, while I hunted the menu for the fish.

Spotting something called ‘cabillaud’, the fact that it was grilled and coming with aioli suggested that this was in the right area.

Indeed, it was cod. And very nicely done too, arriving on a bed of garlicky potato purée, with a piece of crisped skin and two chives as a garnish, and piles of a sort of julienned version of ratatouille on either side.

With a three-course deal for €26, desserts were a bit of a letdown. The Other Half’s crema catalana was closer to scrambled egg than it should have been – Hurrah! I’m not the only one who can scramble a custard!

My peach melba was simply chopped peach with a little vanilla ice cream and a pile of chantilly cream on top.

But after two excellent courses, at such a reasonable price, it would have been churlish to complain.

We ambled some more as clouds threatened a downpour, and eventually found our way, via a circuit, back to a gallery that contained a number of works by local artist, Ètienne Terrus.

The great advantage of such galleries, as with individual exhibitions of a single artist, is that get a sense of that artist’s journey.

And Terrus had certainly been on a massive journey, artistically speaking.

Looking at works from the late 19^th century, there was nothing to suggest what would follow.

Elne, by Ètienne Terrus, 1900.

Technically excellent, but two still lives (of oysters and of a fish with pan) were reminiscent of Gustave Courbet, in terms of the light and use of colour.

But then Terrus discovered Impressionism and, with it, a vastly increased palette of colour.

And where his work went from there sees him now regarded as a precursor to the Fauves – the likes of Matisse (a friend) and Derain and Dufy, many of whom spent much time in Collioure, with which they and their art movement remain inextricably linked.

After a combination of religion, food and art, we made our way back to Collioure, via the hubbub of Argèles sur Mer (great beaches, town built up as the archetypal resort).

It had been a fascinating day.