It has been a funny old few days – and there are substantial parts of recent days that I have no desire ever to repeat.
Thursday morning dawned bright and clear – and after getting ready for work, I popped the kittens into the cat basket to nip to the vet for their post-operation check. The night before, we'd spotted that Loki had been trying to chew her stitches, so fully expected her to arrive home with one of those 'collars' on that would stop her doing just that.
But the diagnosis was that both Loki and Otto had picked up infections in the wounds where their surgery had taken place – and indeed, Otto's was worse.
They had antibiotic jabs and then both had those conical collars popped over their protesting heads. They were not best impressed.
When I got them home, I called into work and had a chat with my boss. Since I was also under orders to bathe their wounds twice daily, it seemed coherent to take the remaining days of the week off. This was a lot easier because we were in one of our quietest periods.
You can't laugh at cats, of course. But it was tempting, watching Loki try to adapt to the cone on her head. Cats use their whiskers to tell them a great deal about distance, and with those cut off from the rest of the world, it was obviously not as easy to move around.
Otto, however, didn't want to move at all, but simply to curl up on the sofa next to me. Later, I managed to encourage her to eat, but she was hardly enthused.
Not that eating was much easier than moving around, as the plastic tended to butt up against the bowl whenever they tried to reach meat or biscuits. I spent part of the day helping them with that – and similarly helping them when they wanted to go to the litter tray.
By Friday, Loki had perked up, but Otto was not better. I phoned the vet, talked to an assistant, and was given reassuring words – but also told that, if I was still concerned, the surgery would be open that evening. At 4pm, having wavered between: 'don't be an hysteric, it'll be fine' and 'I'll never forgive myself if I don't take her' for hours, I phoned a cab.
We arrived at the surgery a few minutes after it opened at 5pm and, since someone had just cancelled an appointment, we had no time to wait. I didn't care whether I was over-reacting – I wanted to be absolutely on the safe side.
The vet – not the same one (although they're all Antipodeans) – decided very quickly that I had done the right thing. She wasn't any worse – but she wasn't any better. He checked her weight – she hadn't lost any in the intervening 30 hours, which was good – and then gave her another antibiotic jab, followed by an anti-inflammatory injection, and handed me antibiotic tablets for two doses a day for six days, with a reminder on bathing with a strongly concentrated saline solution.
I had, thankfully, trusted my instincts and done the right thing – particularly since it was a bank holiday weekend.
Later that night, she started sitting up and paying a bit more attention to the world. By Saturday evening – The Other Half had done watching duty while I'd gone to Manchester for a match – she was properly perky again. Indeed, it became clear over the last two days that both of them were brighter than they'd been for a month or so, since puberty had started and they'd begun dipping in and out of heat. It was back to play fighting with us and bouncing around – albeit with coned heads that see them both trotting around with rocking heads, like those little bobbing dog toys on the back shelves of cars.
I had had a moment or two of real fear: but everything seems to be okay now. They can't go into the garden until their stitches are out and their collars off – that'll be next week, I think – but that's a sensible precaution. Otto is taking her tablets really easily – not least because she's been having them disguised in a little bit of French pate each time, and she seems to approve deeply of such a meaty treat.
People might dismiss them as 'pets' and say that they're 'only animals', but that is to totally misunderstand and underestimate a relationship. Seeing them both back in such bubbly and bouncy form is a real joy – just one of the pleasures of the relationship that has developed with us. Although knowing that all Otto wanted when she wasn't feeling good was to be with me, touching me, was also intensely moving. And now she can jump around again – including right into my arms.
Tuesday, 4 May 2010
Wednesday, 28 April 2010
Spare a thought ...
Today is International Workers Memorial Day: a time for remembering all the men and women who have died at or as a direct result of their work.The figures make sobering reading.
According to the International Labour Organisation (ILO), across the world:
So today is partly about raising awareness of that hidden toll.
In the UK, there is a belief among some people that health and safety is bad – usually because it's used as an excuse by organisations that don't want to or cannot afford to do something, or are terrified of potential litigation: there is no ban on children playing conkers, for instance.
But some companies still try to claim that health and safety costs too much – as if pounds, shillings and pence, and a perceived inconvenience of implementation) are more important than human lives – and some companies are simply sloppy in their implementation of health and safety.
An acquaintance of mine was injured at work three years ago. Sent to clean a wall, he was given the wrong ladder for the job. It slipped. He went with it, crashing down onto his back and head. There was no trained first aider on site: a manager gave his back a rub and told him to go home – driving himself, after hitting his head.
His back gives him almost constant pain. He's fighting for compensation – but it won't actually take away the pain or the prospect of major spinal surgery that doctors are discussing.
And all because some small, basic precautions were not taken. This was not a small company either, but one of the biggest in the UK.
I was on a construction site, photographing today's ceremony – the first year in which it has been an officially recognised day in the UK. Kitted out in proper safety boots, visibility jacket and hard hat, I was escorted up several floors by one of the site managers. He explained that, not only is smoking not allowed on site (they have a special area set aside), but neither are mobile phones. If that sounds petty, then think about how concentrating on a phone call could quite easily make you lose concentration on what you were doing, where you were walking etc. And on a construction site, that has the potential for serious problems – not just for the individual on the phone, but for their colleagues too.
Health and safety exists for a reason.
So today, wear your purple ribbon with pride: remember the dead – and fight for the living.
Tuesday, 27 April 2010
Drowsy kittens and a fresh risotto
Last night was dominated by the kittens slowly but surely overcoming post-anaesthetic drowsiness – both of them leapt straight out of the cat basket, pushing the half-opened gate aside, Otto racing to the litter tray and Loki straight to the food bowls before checking out that their toys were all still in the right place.
Then the former sat down, just outside the bathroom, and simply went to sleep, clearly unable to keep her eyes open or even think much.
After a while, she tottered into the kitchen slowly – and then proceeded to sit in front of a food bowl and fall asleep all over again.
Eventually, when she sort of slumped down, stage by stage, until her nose was on the carpet, I picked her up gently and placed her on the sofa.
Loki, having pottered and clambered around, had also decided that a rest was in order, and opted for a more deliberate sit down and doze.
But this state of affairs didn’t last very late into the evening, and gradually things became a little livelier.
Boudicca, has seemed to be in a particularly tetchy mood in recent weeks. But the discovery that the kittens are girls may cast a little light on this.
The Other Half has apparently spotted her flehming in recent days – that’s when a cat opens its mouth and has their tongue slightly out, as if they’re sniffing. Which is what they’re doing – except that, in effect, they’re tasting smells.
So with the kittens starting puberty, and flitting in and out of phases of being in season, she’ll almost certainly have been able to smell this. And knowing that her feline flatmates were fellow females, and were on heat, does not seem to have best pleased her.
The Queen B herself though, has changed her behaviour in the 24 hours since they arrived home, returning to her bouncy routines with The Other Half this morning, and jumping up onto a bookcase in the bedroom, which now I think about it, she hasn’t done for some weeks.
Otto and Loki go back to the vet for a post-operation check on Thursday and then have their stitches out in about another 10 days. They are not going to pleased, though, by not being allowed out for another nine days. Boudi will be delighted to have the garden to herself again for a while.
But in the midst of all this, I managed to concoct a seasonal risotto that I thought I’d share with you.
Start heating your stock.
Finely chop some shallots and the stalks of some asparagus, then soften in olive oil.
Add your risotto rice and stir until the rice has taken on the oils in the pan. Then add a good glug of Noilly Prat (or Vermouth or white wine). The smell will be wonderful. Let that absorb, then start adding your stock, one ladle at a time, until you’ve reached maximum absorbtion. On average, this is around 20 minutes.
Now, pop your asparagus heads and some drained artichoke hearts from the deli into the rice mix, plus some torn mint leaves. Stir very gently, pop a lid on the pan, lower the heat to the minimum and leave for 10 minutes.
Take the pan off the heat and add a good tablespoon of crème frâiche. Warm it back up gently.
Take a heavy frying pan and get it hot. Drop in some wafer think slices of a salami (I had a cracking one with fennel seeds) and just let the frizzle up a little.
Dish out your rice mix, top with the salami and garnish with a bit more mint and some grated lemon zest for a really fresh spring risotto.
Then the former sat down, just outside the bathroom, and simply went to sleep, clearly unable to keep her eyes open or even think much.
After a while, she tottered into the kitchen slowly – and then proceeded to sit in front of a food bowl and fall asleep all over again.
Eventually, when she sort of slumped down, stage by stage, until her nose was on the carpet, I picked her up gently and placed her on the sofa.
Loki, having pottered and clambered around, had also decided that a rest was in order, and opted for a more deliberate sit down and doze.
But this state of affairs didn’t last very late into the evening, and gradually things became a little livelier.
Boudicca, has seemed to be in a particularly tetchy mood in recent weeks. But the discovery that the kittens are girls may cast a little light on this.
The Other Half has apparently spotted her flehming in recent days – that’s when a cat opens its mouth and has their tongue slightly out, as if they’re sniffing. Which is what they’re doing – except that, in effect, they’re tasting smells.
So with the kittens starting puberty, and flitting in and out of phases of being in season, she’ll almost certainly have been able to smell this. And knowing that her feline flatmates were fellow females, and were on heat, does not seem to have best pleased her.
The Queen B herself though, has changed her behaviour in the 24 hours since they arrived home, returning to her bouncy routines with The Other Half this morning, and jumping up onto a bookcase in the bedroom, which now I think about it, she hasn’t done for some weeks.
Otto and Loki go back to the vet for a post-operation check on Thursday and then have their stitches out in about another 10 days. They are not going to pleased, though, by not being allowed out for another nine days. Boudi will be delighted to have the garden to herself again for a while.
But in the midst of all this, I managed to concoct a seasonal risotto that I thought I’d share with you.
Start heating your stock.
Finely chop some shallots and the stalks of some asparagus, then soften in olive oil.
Add your risotto rice and stir until the rice has taken on the oils in the pan. Then add a good glug of Noilly Prat (or Vermouth or white wine). The smell will be wonderful. Let that absorb, then start adding your stock, one ladle at a time, until you’ve reached maximum absorbtion. On average, this is around 20 minutes.
Now, pop your asparagus heads and some drained artichoke hearts from the deli into the rice mix, plus some torn mint leaves. Stir very gently, pop a lid on the pan, lower the heat to the minimum and leave for 10 minutes.
Take the pan off the heat and add a good tablespoon of crème frâiche. Warm it back up gently.
Take a heavy frying pan and get it hot. Drop in some wafer think slices of a salami (I had a cracking one with fennel seeds) and just let the frizzle up a little.
Dish out your rice mix, top with the salami and garnish with a bit more mint and some grated lemon zest for a really fresh spring risotto.
Monday, 26 April 2010
Sex change
It was that special, one-off trip to the vet today for Otto and Loki, so that they could be 'chopped and chipped'.
I hate these sort of days anytime: I know it's the responsible thing to do; I know it'd best for their health – and for a peaceful life for us too: none of that spraying, less straying and less fighting. But I hate leaving them, knowing that they're actually about to undergo surgery.
With all this in mind, I'd booked the day off: the plan was to drop them off at the vet at 8.30am and then come back to do some much-needed spring cleaning while the house was rather quieter.
And so it went. Having not previously been in a cat basket, they were intrigued at first, but after being in it for a few minutes, less than impressed. And the cab ride had them both mewling. As I waited in the reception room at the vet, they had quietened completely: probably scared and confused.
I walked back via London Fields and Broadway Market, stopping off to pick up fresh bread and assorted cleaning items. And shortly after I'd got home, I realised that someone had tried to call me – the vet. This was enough to set off a mild (to say the least) panic and I called back straight away.
To hear some astonishing news.
The boys are not boys.
The boys are girls!
On the basis of what we'd been told when we got the furry duo, before and then on the day they arrived in our lives, we have happily assumed that the declaration of maleness was correct. After all, who distrusts someone who says they're a vet's assistant? And it's not easy to see obvious genitals at that age anyway.
Now admittedly, the thought had passed fleetingly through our minds that there didn't appear to be much for the vet to chop off, but then again, I wasn't actually tipping them upside down and poking around down there with a magnifying glass and torch.
Given that there is no need to worry about whether you clothe them in pink of blue, or whether they have to have dolls or toy cars, it doesn't actually make a blind bit of difference. But that still didn't stop it taking a very long time to sink in – followed by a panic over whether we should change their names. That, of course, would be far more confusing for them than any gender issues. Were there a feline Freud, he'd be hopping up and down right now at the thought of just what my confusion and apparent need to foist human ideas of gender (in the form of naming conventions) onto them would do to their little heads.
As it happens, according to at least one naming site on the interwebby, Loki can be used for girls. And there is Ota for girls. Which isn't that far removed from Otto. But Otto he – she – will remain. That's who he – she – is.
The point is, they just are. And it does rather make you realise how much of an artificial construct gender is and just how fussed humans get about it.
But I admit to feeling a bit daft that I hadn't spotted it before the vet found out.
Not, I'm relieved to say, that this is a unique situation. My pub landlady has a cat called Charlie who is female – pretty much the same thing happened, as I recall. There is a British musical called Charlie Girl and I have been known to croon the title song to Charlie while dancing with her on my shoulder. Perhaps that's why, for some years, I was one of the very few people who could pick her up without being scratched?
Now, if you'll excuse me, it's off to the vet to collect the girls.
I hate these sort of days anytime: I know it's the responsible thing to do; I know it'd best for their health – and for a peaceful life for us too: none of that spraying, less straying and less fighting. But I hate leaving them, knowing that they're actually about to undergo surgery.
With all this in mind, I'd booked the day off: the plan was to drop them off at the vet at 8.30am and then come back to do some much-needed spring cleaning while the house was rather quieter.
And so it went. Having not previously been in a cat basket, they were intrigued at first, but after being in it for a few minutes, less than impressed. And the cab ride had them both mewling. As I waited in the reception room at the vet, they had quietened completely: probably scared and confused.
I walked back via London Fields and Broadway Market, stopping off to pick up fresh bread and assorted cleaning items. And shortly after I'd got home, I realised that someone had tried to call me – the vet. This was enough to set off a mild (to say the least) panic and I called back straight away.
To hear some astonishing news.
The boys are not boys.
The boys are girls!
On the basis of what we'd been told when we got the furry duo, before and then on the day they arrived in our lives, we have happily assumed that the declaration of maleness was correct. After all, who distrusts someone who says they're a vet's assistant? And it's not easy to see obvious genitals at that age anyway.
Now admittedly, the thought had passed fleetingly through our minds that there didn't appear to be much for the vet to chop off, but then again, I wasn't actually tipping them upside down and poking around down there with a magnifying glass and torch.
Given that there is no need to worry about whether you clothe them in pink of blue, or whether they have to have dolls or toy cars, it doesn't actually make a blind bit of difference. But that still didn't stop it taking a very long time to sink in – followed by a panic over whether we should change their names. That, of course, would be far more confusing for them than any gender issues. Were there a feline Freud, he'd be hopping up and down right now at the thought of just what my confusion and apparent need to foist human ideas of gender (in the form of naming conventions) onto them would do to their little heads.
As it happens, according to at least one naming site on the interwebby, Loki can be used for girls. And there is Ota for girls. Which isn't that far removed from Otto. But Otto he – she – will remain. That's who he – she – is.
The point is, they just are. And it does rather make you realise how much of an artificial construct gender is and just how fussed humans get about it.
But I admit to feeling a bit daft that I hadn't spotted it before the vet found out.
Not, I'm relieved to say, that this is a unique situation. My pub landlady has a cat called Charlie who is female – pretty much the same thing happened, as I recall. There is a British musical called Charlie Girl and I have been known to croon the title song to Charlie while dancing with her on my shoulder. Perhaps that's why, for some years, I was one of the very few people who could pick her up without being scratched?
Now, if you'll excuse me, it's off to the vet to collect the girls.
Sunday, 25 April 2010
Making the most of a cloudy day
Saturday might not have been quite as clear-skied as the forecasts had suggested, but it was still hot and sunny enough to sit out for most of the day, and enjoy a spot of Man Cooking in the evening – a whole week earlier than the first braai of last year.
The weather – which I seem to becoming obsessed with, in a typically English way – has certainly been a boon to my efforts to stick with a much more Mediterranean/Italian style of eating: and to boost my early tan.
Apparently, the British Isles enjoy more cloud than any other part of Europe. So it could hardly be considered a shock when today, unfortunately, the cloud returned. Desperately trying to get outside for the intermittent patches of sun has proved futile – and the chatter of a large group enjoying a BBQ in the carpark just beyond our tiny garden has rendered it well nigh impossible to concentrate on Gore Vidal's writings on sex. A loud and lengthy discussion about car insurance is not making it easy to concentrate on an essay about W Somerset Maugham.
So I've given up and returned inside.
Food will just have to compensate – and it's not doing badly thus far.
The first broad beans of the season were available on Broadway Market yesterday – cause for celebration and a late breakfast of these little emerald gems with some feta.
That was followed by a Collioure salad – I'd found good anchovies at Waitrose last week and combined these with some roasted pepper, a few black olives and a half each of hard-boiled egg, plus a large sprig of lamb's lettuce on the side.
Dinner was simply some boerewors that had been in the freezer since last summer, small steaks and a lamb chop each, plus a salad of orange segments and beetroot, and a nice bottle of a chilled Languedoc white.
Today, with The Other Half in sunny Yorkshire for the Rugby League, I prepared a simple tomato and basil sauce, served with penne, for lunch (the rest will be reheated for him tonight). And later, I'm going to try a vegetable dish of asparagus, broad beans, peas and potatoes, 'stewed' in olive oil – a Roman dish from one of my River Café books – followed by simply grilled Dover sole and courgettes.
I've made some more chocolates (double cream, infused with vanilla, heated and then poured on chocolate to melt it, before being dolloped onto greaseproof paper and popped into the fridge to set) and even processed a load of pictures I took on Thursday for an organisation, and which will inevitably end up as my second photographic charitable donation in eight days.
I've even managed to order some clothes to pep up my summer wardrobe, which is, to be perfectly honest, in need of a serious overhaul.
Because I've slowly been losing weight for a few years now, I didn't get anything new last summer. My collection of linen trousers were already descending of their own free will then – and it's not different now. And further up, tops that once seemed quite smart are beginning to look decidedly the worse for wear. The next thing will come tomorrow – when I actually take a binbag to the wardrobe and actually strip out all the things I won't wear again or which, bought at The Wrong Time of the Month, were mistakes in the first place. Shopping might be a form of therapy, but there are periods when that therapy is more expensive than ever: and that's particularly true of periods. Shopping trips undertaken in such an hormonal state leave you with stuff that your rational self would never touch with the proverbial bargepole.
But back to today: depending on how energised I feel, I may actually get the camera out in a while and see if I can't manage some more indoor still life shots – I have a couple of ideas and it's enjoyably creative stuff to try.
The sun may have disappeared at present, but there's no shortage of things to occupy my time.
The weather – which I seem to becoming obsessed with, in a typically English way – has certainly been a boon to my efforts to stick with a much more Mediterranean/Italian style of eating: and to boost my early tan.
Apparently, the British Isles enjoy more cloud than any other part of Europe. So it could hardly be considered a shock when today, unfortunately, the cloud returned. Desperately trying to get outside for the intermittent patches of sun has proved futile – and the chatter of a large group enjoying a BBQ in the carpark just beyond our tiny garden has rendered it well nigh impossible to concentrate on Gore Vidal's writings on sex. A loud and lengthy discussion about car insurance is not making it easy to concentrate on an essay about W Somerset Maugham.
So I've given up and returned inside.
Food will just have to compensate – and it's not doing badly thus far.
The first broad beans of the season were available on Broadway Market yesterday – cause for celebration and a late breakfast of these little emerald gems with some feta.
That was followed by a Collioure salad – I'd found good anchovies at Waitrose last week and combined these with some roasted pepper, a few black olives and a half each of hard-boiled egg, plus a large sprig of lamb's lettuce on the side.
Dinner was simply some boerewors that had been in the freezer since last summer, small steaks and a lamb chop each, plus a salad of orange segments and beetroot, and a nice bottle of a chilled Languedoc white.
Today, with The Other Half in sunny Yorkshire for the Rugby League, I prepared a simple tomato and basil sauce, served with penne, for lunch (the rest will be reheated for him tonight). And later, I'm going to try a vegetable dish of asparagus, broad beans, peas and potatoes, 'stewed' in olive oil – a Roman dish from one of my River Café books – followed by simply grilled Dover sole and courgettes.
I've made some more chocolates (double cream, infused with vanilla, heated and then poured on chocolate to melt it, before being dolloped onto greaseproof paper and popped into the fridge to set) and even processed a load of pictures I took on Thursday for an organisation, and which will inevitably end up as my second photographic charitable donation in eight days.
I've even managed to order some clothes to pep up my summer wardrobe, which is, to be perfectly honest, in need of a serious overhaul.
Because I've slowly been losing weight for a few years now, I didn't get anything new last summer. My collection of linen trousers were already descending of their own free will then – and it's not different now. And further up, tops that once seemed quite smart are beginning to look decidedly the worse for wear. The next thing will come tomorrow – when I actually take a binbag to the wardrobe and actually strip out all the things I won't wear again or which, bought at The Wrong Time of the Month, were mistakes in the first place. Shopping might be a form of therapy, but there are periods when that therapy is more expensive than ever: and that's particularly true of periods. Shopping trips undertaken in such an hormonal state leave you with stuff that your rational self would never touch with the proverbial bargepole.
But back to today: depending on how energised I feel, I may actually get the camera out in a while and see if I can't manage some more indoor still life shots – I have a couple of ideas and it's enjoyably creative stuff to try.
The sun may have disappeared at present, but there's no shortage of things to occupy my time.
Tuesday, 20 April 2010
Sun and a sole sole
The sun has been out in style again today: after what seems to have been a really long, cold winter, we seem to have barely got ourselves into the spring before something more akin to summer has arrived.
I love, love, love the sun.
When it's like it has been since Saturday, all I want to do is soak it up. Crystal clear skies over Manchester, making me have to don sunglasses to watch Saturday's derby game against the unmentionables, even managed to make dying-seconds defeat less difficult to take.
For Otto and Loki, of course, this is their first experience of the sun. It might only be small, but they love the garden. Otto adores rolling around in what passes for soil in our little plot, while there are moments when his brother simply springs around the place with utterly infectious pleasure.
For me, it's as though the sun soothes and relaxes me.
I spent most of Tuesday in the sun, and then followed it with the simplest food: asparagus, boiled and then dressed in virgin oil and lemon juice, seasoned with Maldon Sea Salt, followed by a lemon sole, brushed with a little olive oil and then grilled, then served with lemon and seasoning. Nothing else – and utterly blissful. It left me feeling sublimely satisfied.
I don't know whether it was because I had particularly good ingredients that the meal was so good. But then again, as far as I know, the ingredients were no better than those that I usually buy.
We're so used to cramming a single plate full of food that perhaps we don't even really taste one or two simple things properly. It's that simplicity thing again – but I'm beginning (yes, I know I'm rather slow at this) to understand that the best way to do this is two or three courses, done this way.
It's also remarkable just how much cultural baggage I find I'm carry with regard food. When we were away, I was talking with The Other Half about fish and how he doesn't appear to like having a whole fish on his plate – even when, like plaice or sole, they're really easy to take off the bone.
It emerged that what he doesn't like is having such a fish whole – when his plate is crammed with loads of other things, that makes dealing with the fish more difficult. It also emerged that I give him far too bigger portions of potatoes – he thinks this is another cultural thing, whereby Woman of House gives Man of House more of everything (and particularly the stodge) because Him Man and Needs More Food for His Hard Work. Okay – he didn't actually make the last bit of analysis. But he's right.
And similarly, I have that cultural baggage of 'meat and two veg' (one of which is potatoes) to contend with. Actually, I don't think I'm doing badly on all food fronts – but it's an interesting indication of how difficult it is to really, at foundation level, alter food habits. And of course, once you recognise such things, it's easier again to move forward.
I love, love, love the sun.
When it's like it has been since Saturday, all I want to do is soak it up. Crystal clear skies over Manchester, making me have to don sunglasses to watch Saturday's derby game against the unmentionables, even managed to make dying-seconds defeat less difficult to take.
For Otto and Loki, of course, this is their first experience of the sun. It might only be small, but they love the garden. Otto adores rolling around in what passes for soil in our little plot, while there are moments when his brother simply springs around the place with utterly infectious pleasure.
For me, it's as though the sun soothes and relaxes me.
I spent most of Tuesday in the sun, and then followed it with the simplest food: asparagus, boiled and then dressed in virgin oil and lemon juice, seasoned with Maldon Sea Salt, followed by a lemon sole, brushed with a little olive oil and then grilled, then served with lemon and seasoning. Nothing else – and utterly blissful. It left me feeling sublimely satisfied.
I don't know whether it was because I had particularly good ingredients that the meal was so good. But then again, as far as I know, the ingredients were no better than those that I usually buy.
We're so used to cramming a single plate full of food that perhaps we don't even really taste one or two simple things properly. It's that simplicity thing again – but I'm beginning (yes, I know I'm rather slow at this) to understand that the best way to do this is two or three courses, done this way.
It's also remarkable just how much cultural baggage I find I'm carry with regard food. When we were away, I was talking with The Other Half about fish and how he doesn't appear to like having a whole fish on his plate – even when, like plaice or sole, they're really easy to take off the bone.
It emerged that what he doesn't like is having such a fish whole – when his plate is crammed with loads of other things, that makes dealing with the fish more difficult. It also emerged that I give him far too bigger portions of potatoes – he thinks this is another cultural thing, whereby Woman of House gives Man of House more of everything (and particularly the stodge) because Him Man and Needs More Food for His Hard Work. Okay – he didn't actually make the last bit of analysis. But he's right.
And similarly, I have that cultural baggage of 'meat and two veg' (one of which is potatoes) to contend with. Actually, I don't think I'm doing badly on all food fronts – but it's an interesting indication of how difficult it is to really, at foundation level, alter food habits. And of course, once you recognise such things, it's easier again to move forward.
Monday, 19 April 2010
The first asparagus of the season
Asparagus. When you see the first English asparagus, you know that nobody can turn the clock back – winter really is behind us.
I saw the first English asparagus of the season in Waitrose on Friday.
I ate my first English asparagus of the season yesterday. It was gorgeous – and what better an argument for seasonality than the delight of tasting something again for the first time in almost a year?
There are plenty of reasons to eat seasonally – and this is just one: the mass production of food for the developed world by the developing world is costing the latter its water resources.
And it's not just food, but also flowers, as in Kenya, where that industry is feeling the effects of the flight ban due to Icelandic volcanic ash particularly badly.
There is, quite simply, no need for asparagus all year round, imported from Peru. Or flowers – and fine (French) beans – from Kenya all year round.
But it gets dafter yet, with the things that we ourselves can grow – all year round: parsley and watercress, for instance, frequently imported from Israel and the US respectively.
I happened to spot an interesting point in Jamie Oliver's Italy while reading some of it earlier: he believes that one of the reasons that Italians are so healthy (they have, if memory serves, one of the best rates of longevity in the world) is that many of them they do not have the sort of food choices that some of the rest of us do.
Last year, on our last day of our holiday in Collioure, the elderly lady who looked after the house for its owner between paying guests, arrived to run a practised eye over everything before we departed. She'd told us on our arrival that we didn't need to worry about emptying the fridge: she would take anything left and give it to The Poor. Which seemed eminently sensible.
And so there she was, looking in the fridge to see what was left. And not being remotely impressed at seeing strawberries there. "They're out of season," she said, in a voice that made it quite clear that this was not good. "Spanish."
She had more than a point.
I shall binge on asparagus now for the six to eight weeks that British asparagus is available. This year, I'm going to try to be more inventive than ever in the ways I use it.
And then I shall, with a sigh, wave it goodbye until next year. The same will go for strawberries and fresh garden peas and broad beans.
The alternative is insanity – and the taste isn't even as good when something has been airfreighted half way around the globe. How could it be?
I saw the first English asparagus of the season in Waitrose on Friday.
I ate my first English asparagus of the season yesterday. It was gorgeous – and what better an argument for seasonality than the delight of tasting something again for the first time in almost a year?
There are plenty of reasons to eat seasonally – and this is just one: the mass production of food for the developed world by the developing world is costing the latter its water resources.
And it's not just food, but also flowers, as in Kenya, where that industry is feeling the effects of the flight ban due to Icelandic volcanic ash particularly badly.
There is, quite simply, no need for asparagus all year round, imported from Peru. Or flowers – and fine (French) beans – from Kenya all year round.
But it gets dafter yet, with the things that we ourselves can grow – all year round: parsley and watercress, for instance, frequently imported from Israel and the US respectively.
I happened to spot an interesting point in Jamie Oliver's Italy while reading some of it earlier: he believes that one of the reasons that Italians are so healthy (they have, if memory serves, one of the best rates of longevity in the world) is that many of them they do not have the sort of food choices that some of the rest of us do.
Last year, on our last day of our holiday in Collioure, the elderly lady who looked after the house for its owner between paying guests, arrived to run a practised eye over everything before we departed. She'd told us on our arrival that we didn't need to worry about emptying the fridge: she would take anything left and give it to The Poor. Which seemed eminently sensible.
And so there she was, looking in the fridge to see what was left. And not being remotely impressed at seeing strawberries there. "They're out of season," she said, in a voice that made it quite clear that this was not good. "Spanish."
She had more than a point.
I shall binge on asparagus now for the six to eight weeks that British asparagus is available. This year, I'm going to try to be more inventive than ever in the ways I use it.
And then I shall, with a sigh, wave it goodbye until next year. The same will go for strawberries and fresh garden peas and broad beans.
The alternative is insanity – and the taste isn't even as good when something has been airfreighted half way around the globe. How could it be?
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