Thursday, January 08, 2009
Moving on
The cooking business has moved back into regular channels after the tsunami of festal fare. Started off with a visit to Pinnegar's where I was pleased to find that the supply of black and white puddings had been resumed after the rude interuption occasioned by the dioxided pork scare in the Republic of Ireland. So one white pudding, plus some bacon. Then moved onto the main business and settled for a couple of tenderloins of pork - each, I think, a single muscle which lives in life under (as the pig stands) the ribs, next to the backbone. One on each side, each a good sized portion for one. Detached entire from the rack of chops before chopping up the chops. I learn in passing that tenderloin is the piggy equivalent of fillet steak - there being three racks of cow chops lying behind the counter on which to make this teaching point.
Tenderloin stewed for maybe ten minutes in butter. Plus brussells sprouts. Then the novelty, needing to do something with the rather large supply of left over mashed potato, from the day before and the day before that. Now the trouble with left over mashed potato is that, while one does not like to waste food, it tastes stale. It taints the fresh potatoes one might try to hide it in. So on this occasion, coarsely chop some onions and bacon and then cook them in butter until barely cooked. Add with a little milk to the mashed potato and stir in. Press into a dish, so chosen that the potato is about 2 inches thick. Top off with a few slices of bacon, trimmed to cover in a neat way. Bake at 180C for an hour, serve with the other two thirds of the meal. Did very well; a change from our more usual bubble and squeak, not possible on this occasion as we had no left over crinkly cabbage to go with the potato.
Then, well insulated by heavy lunch from the continuing cold (although not so cold as it had been a few hours earlier), set off with FIL to Westminster Abbey for a quick tour. Not too busy, mainly foreign rather than home grown tourists. Found tombs for all kinds of people, including Mary Queen of Scots, but not Mary Tudor. Henry VII did himself very well with the largest coffin in a very fancy chapel, which the verger assured us was not covered in plaster (which is rather what it looked like) but genuine stone. Not sure how or when Mary Queen of Scots got there, having been executed for treason or something, at the very least for reasons of state. But then I am reminded of a snatch from some book in French or about the French, where person A happens to say conversationally that, as far as he knew, none of his ancestors had been executed. Person B follows by observing that this is not really suprising as person A is not really a gentleman. Another angle might be that you get to the abbey by being notorious, not by being good. This is certainly the line taken these days with newspaper obituaries, with all kinds of notorious scum being given space. I am sure this did not happen when I was little. An obit. in a posh newpaper was a serious mark of respect, only accorded to the great and the good.
But the tombs were all a bit of a lottery. In two senses; first, that the size of monument that you can afford for yourself bears only a scant relation to your fame in later years. Buying yourself a big monument might buy you a big future in the world to come but it is no guarantee of a big future in this one. Second, that you might have bought yourself a good spot, but there is no guarantee that someone is not going to park his or her monument in front of yours, once the dust has settled. Or that the bit of the abbey containing your spot is repurposed - perhaps to make the RAF chapel. Perhaps one ought to say recycled in this eco-age. In any event, a right old jumble in some parts of the abbey. Rather like an indoor version of one of those walled outdoor cemetaries you get in Latin countries. Appropriate, given our cooler weather.
On exit we add a further wrinkle to the media coverage of Twelfth Night and the need to take decorations down beforehand. Or onhand. Observing a rather elaborate crib, I foolishly suggested to the lady trustee that perhaps the crib should have come down on Twelfth Night, along with the Christmas Tree in Trafalgar Square. (Not right down, but I think the lights were turned off to mark the occasion). Lady trustee explained that cribs were quite differant from decorations and subject to quite differant regulations. Decorations came down on Epiphany and cribs came down on some other important festival, later in January. But she could not remember the name of this other festival and unusually my Filofax, usually very good at matters of this sort, was silent. So I don't suppose I will ever know.
Tenderloin stewed for maybe ten minutes in butter. Plus brussells sprouts. Then the novelty, needing to do something with the rather large supply of left over mashed potato, from the day before and the day before that. Now the trouble with left over mashed potato is that, while one does not like to waste food, it tastes stale. It taints the fresh potatoes one might try to hide it in. So on this occasion, coarsely chop some onions and bacon and then cook them in butter until barely cooked. Add with a little milk to the mashed potato and stir in. Press into a dish, so chosen that the potato is about 2 inches thick. Top off with a few slices of bacon, trimmed to cover in a neat way. Bake at 180C for an hour, serve with the other two thirds of the meal. Did very well; a change from our more usual bubble and squeak, not possible on this occasion as we had no left over crinkly cabbage to go with the potato.
Then, well insulated by heavy lunch from the continuing cold (although not so cold as it had been a few hours earlier), set off with FIL to Westminster Abbey for a quick tour. Not too busy, mainly foreign rather than home grown tourists. Found tombs for all kinds of people, including Mary Queen of Scots, but not Mary Tudor. Henry VII did himself very well with the largest coffin in a very fancy chapel, which the verger assured us was not covered in plaster (which is rather what it looked like) but genuine stone. Not sure how or when Mary Queen of Scots got there, having been executed for treason or something, at the very least for reasons of state. But then I am reminded of a snatch from some book in French or about the French, where person A happens to say conversationally that, as far as he knew, none of his ancestors had been executed. Person B follows by observing that this is not really suprising as person A is not really a gentleman. Another angle might be that you get to the abbey by being notorious, not by being good. This is certainly the line taken these days with newspaper obituaries, with all kinds of notorious scum being given space. I am sure this did not happen when I was little. An obit. in a posh newpaper was a serious mark of respect, only accorded to the great and the good.
But the tombs were all a bit of a lottery. In two senses; first, that the size of monument that you can afford for yourself bears only a scant relation to your fame in later years. Buying yourself a big monument might buy you a big future in the world to come but it is no guarantee of a big future in this one. Second, that you might have bought yourself a good spot, but there is no guarantee that someone is not going to park his or her monument in front of yours, once the dust has settled. Or that the bit of the abbey containing your spot is repurposed - perhaps to make the RAF chapel. Perhaps one ought to say recycled in this eco-age. In any event, a right old jumble in some parts of the abbey. Rather like an indoor version of one of those walled outdoor cemetaries you get in Latin countries. Appropriate, given our cooler weather.
On exit we add a further wrinkle to the media coverage of Twelfth Night and the need to take decorations down beforehand. Or onhand. Observing a rather elaborate crib, I foolishly suggested to the lady trustee that perhaps the crib should have come down on Twelfth Night, along with the Christmas Tree in Trafalgar Square. (Not right down, but I think the lights were turned off to mark the occasion). Lady trustee explained that cribs were quite differant from decorations and subject to quite differant regulations. Decorations came down on Epiphany and cribs came down on some other important festival, later in January. But she could not remember the name of this other festival and unusually my Filofax, usually very good at matters of this sort, was silent. So I don't suppose I will ever know.
# posted by Jim @ 12:45 AM 
