Monday, September 08, 2008
A complaint followed by pigs' hearts
The complaint is directed at the designers of blogs. I don't know how typical this one is, but it does not read quite right. That is to say the entries are arranged in a push down stack and one reads from the top. So, fair enough, one always get the last entry first. But one moves from the end of one entry to the beginning of the one before which is a discontinuity. It should be that the beginning of one entry flows into the end of the one before, rather than the beginning of the one before. And then, in a book, one can say 'see above' or 'see below' and it is perfectly clear what one means. Not quite the same here. I suppose one is stuck with this in an entry orientated format. Not the same in Pepys's day.
The pigs' hearts had been languishing in our freezer for some time and the BH thought that their time was up. Prepared much in the same way as cows' kidneys but with some key variations. Maybe the most important was that they were cooked for around 6 hours rather than around 2. Then there were no carraway seeds. Maybe I should try with them in. But there was the left over gravy from the Sussex Pie - which appeared to contain a good deal of sludge from the bottle of that famous mushroom ketchup from Mr Watkins. All turned out very well, excellent texture (an aspect of food I am rather fussy about) served with white cabbage and easy-cook brown rice. The extra chewiness of the rice went well with the rather bland flavour of the hearts - compared with kidneys that is. One is rather reminded of squid - all chew and no flavour.
I was then moved to ponder about tomatoes. For the purposes of hearts, kidneys and the like, I am firmly of the belief that one should use fresh tomatoes rather than tinned ones. I have trained myself to detect a tinned tomato at a hundred yards. There is a sort of metallic taste about them which is a complete giveaway. But the pondering is more about the dislike itself. From where did it come? I have trained myself to both detect and dislike tinned tomatoes but I suspect that the dislike has little to do with appearance, taste or texture - although it is true that I do find chopped cooked fresh tomato visually more attractive than the tinned equivalent. The dislike comes from elsewhere. Perhaps I had a meal, very bad for some other reason, which involved tinned tomatoes? Perhaps MIL habitually cooked with them?
From the deconstruction of taste, we move onto the mouldering of authors. I start with Lawrence Durrell - an author I believe my mother made much of and whom I believe to be well thought of in literary circles. But I go to the local library to discover there is exactly one book by either Durrell brother in the whole Surrey libarary system. And that appeared to be some kind of a picture book. Off to Waterstones - trying both the small and the large Epsom branches - where neither brother has any presence at all. Any they really sinking with so little trace? Their fame has hardly outlasted their headstones - assuming they were the sort of people to have them.
Then this week's TLS has an interesting peice about a poet with a nom-de-plume of Cornwall. Hugely more successful in his day than his contemporary Keats. And now the tables are turned (not that I read poetry) and while I have heard of Keats, I had never heard of Cornwall. But it does seem that Cornwall did honestly strive to promote his rival.
It all goes to show that gloria mundi do indeed transit - even supposing you are lucky enough to get hold of them in the first place.
On a more cheerful note, the DT has redeemed itself by unearthing another bunch of nannies. It seems that farmers are no longer allowed to harvest their wheat when they please. First, they have to consult the regulations concerning the passage of heavy machinery over wet ground. This because heavy machinery can do serious damage to the structure of wet soil. Now this may well be so, but I do not think the government has any business issuing regulations about such matters - which are private between a farmer and his land. The government can issue as much advice as they can afford (although as a voter, I might complain about that too), but regulations are quite another matter. I wonder if there are on-the-spot fixed penalty notices? Does the evidence of a policeman have to be backed up by two signed affidavits by two materials' scientists? Perhaps (following up the DT exposee of local councils recruiting children to shop people who drop litter), new labour could train special pigs to shop farmers? Or badgers could escape culling if they were to demonstrate zeal in this matter? Or we could exile Harriet Harman to the country with a pair of pink wellies? The DT did not mention a wet ground transit authority (WGTA sounds rather well) but maybe that will come. Or maybe the DT, careless about truth as it is, has mistaken advice for regulation?
Lastly, I myself spotted a threatening looking green van in Garrett Lane sporting the description 'WASTE ENFORCEMENT'. It all reminds me of the closing days of the Austrian empire, as decribed in Svejk, as, amongst other things, drowning in a sea of pettifogging (an interesting word which has been around since the mid 16th century. The fog bit of uncertain origin) rules, regulations and regulators.
The pigs' hearts had been languishing in our freezer for some time and the BH thought that their time was up. Prepared much in the same way as cows' kidneys but with some key variations. Maybe the most important was that they were cooked for around 6 hours rather than around 2. Then there were no carraway seeds. Maybe I should try with them in. But there was the left over gravy from the Sussex Pie - which appeared to contain a good deal of sludge from the bottle of that famous mushroom ketchup from Mr Watkins. All turned out very well, excellent texture (an aspect of food I am rather fussy about) served with white cabbage and easy-cook brown rice. The extra chewiness of the rice went well with the rather bland flavour of the hearts - compared with kidneys that is. One is rather reminded of squid - all chew and no flavour.
I was then moved to ponder about tomatoes. For the purposes of hearts, kidneys and the like, I am firmly of the belief that one should use fresh tomatoes rather than tinned ones. I have trained myself to detect a tinned tomato at a hundred yards. There is a sort of metallic taste about them which is a complete giveaway. But the pondering is more about the dislike itself. From where did it come? I have trained myself to both detect and dislike tinned tomatoes but I suspect that the dislike has little to do with appearance, taste or texture - although it is true that I do find chopped cooked fresh tomato visually more attractive than the tinned equivalent. The dislike comes from elsewhere. Perhaps I had a meal, very bad for some other reason, which involved tinned tomatoes? Perhaps MIL habitually cooked with them?
From the deconstruction of taste, we move onto the mouldering of authors. I start with Lawrence Durrell - an author I believe my mother made much of and whom I believe to be well thought of in literary circles. But I go to the local library to discover there is exactly one book by either Durrell brother in the whole Surrey libarary system. And that appeared to be some kind of a picture book. Off to Waterstones - trying both the small and the large Epsom branches - where neither brother has any presence at all. Any they really sinking with so little trace? Their fame has hardly outlasted their headstones - assuming they were the sort of people to have them.
Then this week's TLS has an interesting peice about a poet with a nom-de-plume of Cornwall. Hugely more successful in his day than his contemporary Keats. And now the tables are turned (not that I read poetry) and while I have heard of Keats, I had never heard of Cornwall. But it does seem that Cornwall did honestly strive to promote his rival.
It all goes to show that gloria mundi do indeed transit - even supposing you are lucky enough to get hold of them in the first place.
On a more cheerful note, the DT has redeemed itself by unearthing another bunch of nannies. It seems that farmers are no longer allowed to harvest their wheat when they please. First, they have to consult the regulations concerning the passage of heavy machinery over wet ground. This because heavy machinery can do serious damage to the structure of wet soil. Now this may well be so, but I do not think the government has any business issuing regulations about such matters - which are private between a farmer and his land. The government can issue as much advice as they can afford (although as a voter, I might complain about that too), but regulations are quite another matter. I wonder if there are on-the-spot fixed penalty notices? Does the evidence of a policeman have to be backed up by two signed affidavits by two materials' scientists? Perhaps (following up the DT exposee of local councils recruiting children to shop people who drop litter), new labour could train special pigs to shop farmers? Or badgers could escape culling if they were to demonstrate zeal in this matter? Or we could exile Harriet Harman to the country with a pair of pink wellies? The DT did not mention a wet ground transit authority (WGTA sounds rather well) but maybe that will come. Or maybe the DT, careless about truth as it is, has mistaken advice for regulation?
Lastly, I myself spotted a threatening looking green van in Garrett Lane sporting the description 'WASTE ENFORCEMENT'. It all reminds me of the closing days of the Austrian empire, as decribed in Svejk, as, amongst other things, drowning in a sea of pettifogging (an interesting word which has been around since the mid 16th century. The fog bit of uncertain origin) rules, regulations and regulators.
# posted by Jim @ 6:02 AM 
