Determination and change. (Part 2)

Recipes, like any stories, are subject to variation in and of the telling. I record these efforts at substitution so as not to forget the basic principles. It would be useful to think that this is the setting of an intention in amber. Hence my choice of a 60's style for the picture elements. Umbers, ochres and caramels are comfort colours. Suited to the need for the assurance of end of austerity when first employed, This palette a reminder of softer times. Packed with oils and greases and sugars, my mother's recipe books were as warming as the Raeburn stove they curled upon. Here's to the spirits of Marguerita Patten, Elizabeth David and Jane Grigson.

So, intent on removing as many lipids as possible, I set about exploring covered frying. During the process of change, My utensil drawer has rearranged itself. Ironically, I no longer avoid the frying pans and wok. I fry more but 'Fry' less as it were.
Similarly, my initial attempts at releasing flavour were helped along by my continued dependence on oil. Gradually, I have relinquished my grip on 1-Cal Spray. It still remains a useful adjunct but I use far less now. I am confident that, if tested by Sainsburys, many of my dishes would be marketed as 'Fat Free'.
It is, for example, easy to arrive at 'Fried Onions' (I tend to use Shallots as they are some of the more successful survivors of the dreadful summer) using only tiny additions of water as the vegetables sweat.

The absence of the almost immediate caramelisation that arises from frying in oil allows for the slower, more deliberate tempering of flavours through careful use of the liquids and sugars already locked into vegetables themselves. Here, I have used the onions with peppers and herbs as a base for Paprika Chicken.

Skinning the Shallots is best done warm. I pour boiling water onto them and allow to cool to benign temperature before cutting off the root end and slipping the flesh out of the skins. This is a very satisfactory exercise. Each onion pops out with a small leaf end intact. No cutting required. No tears.

The onions then go into a warm saute pan or frying pan with lid and given an occasional shake over moderate heat. At the first hint of hissing and whiff of onion, I add a small quantity of water. Only a tablespoon or so. This will disappear quickly but, as it does so, it starts the process of self steaming/ sauteing that will continue to caramelisation in time.

As the onions take on a little colour, I add more liquid in the form of any additional veg you may want to incorporate. Here, Red Peppers cut into strips. The lid goes back on and confidence increases. Still no spray required.

Soon, the dish is complete. This, with the addition of fresh herbs, salt and pepper is an excellent accompaniment to whatever.

I went on to reduce it further in this instance. Continue cooking until the onions are soft. The peppers will long since have given up the ghost. Add dried herbs towards the end of this process and slosh in a tin of tomatoes. Tomato puree will thicken even more but it also lends acidity so, unless this is tempered by a fruit I am careful with it. Stir over low heat until roughly smooth.

Chicken breasts, skin removed are placed in a bag with a tablespoon or so of Paprika, a teaspoon of Chilli and a pinch of salt. Shake well and leave to absorb for a few minutes. Here, a choice. Either a quick spray of oil onto a grill pan or the use of the mighty Mushroom (more of his later). Here, I used oil but again, keeping the heat down, the chicken browns and cooks without fuss. You are left with no oil to drain and all flavour intact.

I serve this with plain boiled rice.

Donald McKechnie

Donald belonged in tar.
Black brown wellington top boots
with boot socks, grimed round and
welded to his once dress trousers
tied with twine. Brown baler twine.
He rolled from boot to boot, a shovel
shouldered as a boy's carved rifle good
for nothing more than propping as he cut twist.
I swear his right the thicker wrist
a knife with a curved blade blunt from all the
pigtail shag. He turned his hand
Plugging a gap in pegged teeth.
Donald walked. A roll and twist and halt in left or right
He mended holes in roads with grit left by the lorry boys.
One good eye and that eye not good enough
he turned his look to look at me,
A look from straight beneath the hill. A look that curdled sunlight.
'Now, it is yourself' he'd spit.
'Here, try this now, it's just like liquorice'.

Determination and change (Part 1)

As years advance, I have found a gradual increase in the frequency of monitoring offered by my local Gp services.

Once content to sit and wait for my occasional panicky visits or pleas for compassionate sick notes, they now reach out to me. They have me on alerts for BP monitoring, Peak Flow checks and wellness MOTs for men. There is no escape from my external conscience. I should know. I used to be part of that myself. Issuing offers of health checks to the unwilling. following up with reminders that felt as paternalistic as they did patronising. All the while I was pretty pleased to be contributing to the smooth running of a few people, even as they resisted our attempts to help.

So, I determined to reduce the level of contact. Active health care provision works. I look after myself better in order to minimise contact with my health care team. If this is arse forwards, so be it. I well remember selling sessions on good eating habits to the homeless by suggesting that they may benefit from my future absence as they replace me with a few vegetables. A pitiful 'Five a Day' as I recall.

Being prone to 'Falling to flesh' is a curse for a Bon Viveur. I am a classic Yo-yo dieter, small successes rewarded by 'Holidays' or 'Rewards' leading to further lapses, as resolve takes a nosedive. This time round, I have made some more logical, selfish decisions. No longer willing to engage myself in a familiar conflict between hunger and seemingly unattainable goals there should be no hunger and there should be no discernible goals (plural). Weight loss should be a constant pleasure rather than a chore. Meals must be shareable with those unconcerned by calorie control. There should be no immediate evidence that food is being manipulated into being inoffensive. Taste and substance should be all.

It helps that one of my principle pleasures is in the cooking and serving of food. It would be terrible to embark on this exercise if I had to learn to love the kitchen. Thankfully, experimentation and good teaching have left a rich legacy of cheerful enthusiasm. Musing on this, I found myself recalling early influences. My mother's utter abandon where butter was concerned as well as her unconventionally forward thinking health conscious approach. She was hopeless with chips but understood dairy as if it were hard wired into her arteries. 'Never cook vegetables in more water than you wash them in' and 'Don't worry, I'll sling some Lurpack into it' were her mantras. Conversely, her easy attitude to children's likes and dislikes encouraged my pocket money purchase of frozen peas or mixed vegetables instead of sweets and I was weaned on adult leftovers. Broccoli and Broad Beans were family members. Nothing was out of bounds, singly or in combination. I could bake bread by the time I was tall enough to knead and was happiest with a recipe book propped up as I ate breakfast.

There were few around to comment or criticise, (this came sharply to the fore later, when at senior school and suddenly talking an alien language to other hungry boarders in the small hours, of which more in a separate entry) our meals would certainly have been considered 'exotic' or 'different'. My father too, ventured worldwide for inspiration. Fried eggs came laced with garlic and vinegar, finished with nut brown butter and flipped happily onto tomato sauce puddles as Huevos en Salsa Negra. Curries offered just this side of tolerably hot to the juvenile tongue. Soups served with a substantial handful of porridge oats. Lentils and herbs as a main course. This was home cooking. All the while, 1960's school dinners and friends teatime invites were pretty mundane stuff. Some a blessed, bland relief but most, an unfinished work in progress, halted at 'Boil' or 'Fry' and served with duty not with pleasure.

This was all very well as a foundation for culinary adventure but not great for this boy as he approaches late middle age with a drawer full of trousers that fail to meet themselves around the way. This joyful exuberance must be replaced with a bit of science but no less risk. Ways round must be found. I had to reinvent my systems and forget the fats.

Simply saying..

In an interview on Revelation TV, Professor Dawkins is invited to comment on the presenting pastor's own moment of revelation.

He describes a variety of somatic phenomena including, hypersensitivity to colours and sounds, an impression of invulnerability in combination with insignificance and euphoria. These are apparently his principle reasons for belief in God.
Whilst always having been a Christian, he chose his professional pathway at this point.
In countering Dawkins' gentle suggestion that there may be more than one explanation for these issues, none of which need be paranormal, the pastor responds;

'I am just a simple man Richard.. Not an Intellectual like yourself'.

More in the spirit of a rant than a blog entry I must address this pastor and all others I have heard make such ill considered statements. Claiming 'Simplicity' has no virtue. We are all 'Simple men', the more for taking a reasoned approach when discussing such matters.

A step by step, evidenced based enquiry is a much simpler process than fitting a God into the gaps in your knowledge. I have no need of a god since the gaps I have in my understanding are simply filled by learning.

 How refreshing it is to sometimes stumble upon believers who are willing to consider alternatives to magical thinking and assumption. They exist in numbers. Their variety as great as any philosophically minded people.

We share the potential for intellectual inquiry, please try not to substitute assumption for understanding.  Education is not scary when you open your mind and religion is no substitute for intellect and cultural experience. No need to fear. Celebrate your cerebral self!

Palletable

Those who follow my Twitter feed will by now be fed up to the molars with posts about my conversions. Apologies to you all..
In a similar vein to the Woodstore from a Packing Crate post, I include Pallet to Table. Our house is now surrounded and perfused by the reclaimed. I make no apology for this.

 

I was enthused about this conversion, to the extent that I didn't stop to think about a 'step by step' Photo Story. Rest assured, the beat up character of the table ably reflects the beat up nature of the source materials. I hardly had to make any mistakes at all!

Poenoia

Turn out the light and close the curtains Mabel.
Take off the candle from the kitchen table.
Inform the dog and cat we want no fuss
best lock them in the scullery 'till it's just us.
We want no visitors, we need no help
and still that dog lest he lets out a yelp.
The cat may scratch, so best we pull her claws
and tie the socks on him, on all his paws.
Best tack some carpet to the doors
no, wait, that's leaving none for on the floors.
We're best sat here and not go out again
and don't you breathe until I count to ten.
No wait, you breathed, I need to count to ten again.

An older document reprinted without apology.. Musings on a dream with some footnotes..

A very proper dream.

Here is a new place.  I am sitting in a large auditorium.  I am in the gods, looking down a steeply raked group of seats towards a small bright screen below.  It is showing a film but I am unable to make out which one.  The seats are covered in red velour or velvet and there are shining brass safety rails separating the seating blocks.  Just in front of the screen two larger seat groups are turned to face the audience.  There are couples in these seats , smiling at our view of the screen and obviously enjoying their experience of our enjoyment.

I am aware of a number of important facts about my presence.  I am to be given a present or award.  I am careful not to betray my knowledge of this, as one may be, given info about a surprise birthday party.

I have a briefcase on my lap.  It has a loose cover of leather and no amount of effort can replace it properly once opened.

The film has become live action.  The cast are now live and approaching audience members.  Everyone is having a good time.  I am happier than I have been for a long, long time.

A very tall, well built, good looking woman, appearing to be of Mediterranean origin with dark thick hair and tanned complexion, climbs up the rake towards me.  She is wearing an upper face mask and headdress.  It appears to be of Mayan or Egyptian design, bird like, dark, painted.

She speaks,  “Come on, Me-mon. Follow me now.”  I pause, simply to ask myself where she had got my name but understanding completely who she means and who I am.  We walk down the steps to a blood red curtain covering an exit.

Outside, in the pre dawn light.  I see a smooth grass area.  Just too small to be a field and too large for a lawn.  There is the hint of sunlight coming purely from the low horizon and, for the present, it is blocked by the bulk of a titanic mountain.  This is remarkable in its placement and material.  This is no more or less than a vast boulder, pale stone but rising sharply to a peak straight out of the grass and without plant life upon its sides.   I am forced to turn a full ninety degrees in either direction before I lose sight of this monument.

I turn to face the inhabitant of this place.  I know who I am to see.  Walking towards me, another woman.  Older than my guide and yet equally beautiful.  She has long, thick grey or light blonde hair ornately plaited and twisted about her head and an oval symmetry to her face.  Her frame is draped in (and wears) a ground kissing dress made from raw silk or cotton.  Unbleached and thick, it is decorated with barely discernible designs quilted and smocked into the breast and hip panels.  A wide loose rope of the same material somehow informs the dress which way to fall whilst also supporting the woman’s right hand.  Her left hand keeps time with her walk and loosely grips the knotted end of her belt.

The sun breaks cover, a shaft of light hits the ground just in front of me.  A sound like no sound ever heard happens from all around and from within me.  My local companion looks straight at me and tears begin to fall.  Rain from her lower eyelids.  Her tear ducts are almost visible.  There is no reddening of her skin or eyes.  The sound becomes  (not louder) clearer.  More important, my companion is recognisable now as my mother.  She has no name, but I have.  It is not Richard.  I put my arm around her.  I am aware of the height  difference as my shoulder measures the extra space that the angle of my arm demands.  I begin to cry too.  This is a mutual outpouring of grief but no grief is felt.  We are vessels for emotions, courier passengers on an aqueduct of sorrow.  The music rises and moves with us as we walk away from the mountain.  As we depart, it seems more understandable and recognisable as a kind of ensemble, mostly brass, Gamelan perhaps.  I feel very much at peace.

An older man appears.  He has the calm and reason of a Buddha whilst also seeming mischievous.  He wears robes of a similar cloth to my female companion but in a darker colour.  I am impressed by how similar to the colour of heather or lichen they are.  It is on the tip of my tongue to suggest that he has used roots or moss to dye his cloth but feel unwilling to talk, for fear of breaking the very tangible peace of this place.  The man indicates that I lie on a curved wooden couch.  It is upholstered in the same red cloth as the seats in the auditorium.  There is a soft filling to it, more accommodating than feathers but definitely organic.  Moss perhaps.

The older man speaks, I hear his voice internally.  He has a statement about my reason for being in this place.  I was right.  By this time I had forgotten the surprise that I had anticipated earlier and I was gifted with a powerful regeneration of this impression as he talks.

“Here’,  he holds out a sheaf of papers, ‘I believe you will grow to love this place..” I examine the gift.  It is a brochure or prospectus of sorts.  “Go here.  It is easily found”.  He turns away from his new task of covering me up with the same rough cloth and addresses my newly arrived son Nathan. He is delighted by a book of tear-off vouchers for amusement rides.

Nathan shows me how to use the vouchers he has been given.  Each one corresponds to an area on the prospectus.  An area delineated by faint, sepia ink.  The legend on the front cover describes the opportunities available within the place.  We are offered access to other times and other places, a kind of temporal and cultural theme park, like a museum but infinite in its scope and possibilities.  And driven by dreams.  As the place begins to fade and become unstable, we are deciding where we should go….

Here are a few thoughts about this one.  I am often struck by the clarity and apparent meaning in my dreams but this seemed somehow different.  It lacked that definable, manipulable quality that other lucid dreams I have experienced have had.  I was in the presence of other people to a far greater extent.  I was a welcome guest in the place.  In my exploration of the symbolics or meaning of this experience, I started with Brewers Dictionary Of Phrase And Fable, looking for my Dream Name.

Me-Mon or Meh-Moon. The Mediterranean woman who became my guide was unequivocal.  This was my name.  I felt no surprise at her usage and would have looked around to see who she meant if she had used Richard.

From Brewer:

Memnon Prince of the Ethiopians, who went to the assistance of his uncle Priam, and was slain by Achilles. His mother Eos was inconsolable for his death, and wept for him every morning.  The Greeks used to call the statue of Amenophis III., in Thebes, that of Memnon. This image, when first struck by the rays of the rising sun, is said to have produced a sound like the snapping asunder of a chord. Poetically, when Eos (morning) kisses her son at daybreak, the hero acknowledges the salutation with a musical murmur. The word is the Egyptian mei-amun, beloved of Ammon.  I think that the key words and phrases here are:

·         Inconsolable

·         Wept for him every morning

·         struck by the rays of the rising sun

·         sound like the snapping asunder of a chord

·         Egyptian

·         mei-amun

·         musical murmur

Over the last few days, I have been considering a couple of items in the news.  In particular, the discovery of a ring of stones in Egypt, two thousand years older than the Great Pyramid of Cheops and of significant astrological importance.  Also, the sunken lake in Antarctica, a possible time capsule.  Remarkable in this era of intrusion and desecration because the scientists who have found it are unwilling to explore it.  They are worried that their examination will become contamination.  I am very much encouraged by this and it has forced many thoughts about our rights as temporal explorers. As a child, in my first school, I was often left alone by my teacher.  She was confident that, so long as I was reading, I was learning.  The material she had to offer me was mostly Victorian and Edwardian text of an “improving” nature.  I feasted on the Greek and Roman Myths.  My favourites included Achilles and Oedipus.  Agamemnon and Clytemnestra.  The Laocoon, Prometheus, Pandora. I believe that I have been privileged to meet Eos and inhabit the same space as Memnon.  I have no idea why this should happen.  I am very glad that it has.  I would prefer not to look too closely.  I think that this is somehow important.  That is enough . More understanding will come in time, I am sure.