Half Dozen of the Other
Corn on the cob is in season at the moment and I have two brown bags in the cupboard full of it. So for lunch I decided to keep it simple and lightly boil a cob, with plenty of butter, salt and pepper waiting in the wings.
But somewhere along the line, after I decided I make a salad to go on the side, the meal turned into cheese and pickle sandwiches. The corn on the cob sat forlornly beside them whilst a few tomatoes and bits of cucumber covered in balsamic vinegar looking on with incomprehension. It made litle sense and I cannot account for my actions.
I sat down to eat. It was turmoil. The sweetcorn held the sandwiches in a headlock whilst rubbing their heads with a clenched fist, the cheese was debagged and drop-kicked into a basketball hoop, and the tomatoes streaked through the whole rotten chaos with its underpants on its head. Somewhere nearby a cup of tea thinned its lips and went cold with impunity. A Mistake has been Made and I grinned weakly in the accusing spotlight.
Which was heartbreaking because the components of the meal were delicious. The sweetcorn was juicy and sweet. The pickle was tangy and moorish. And the balsamic vinegar was mellow and smooth. But put them together in a bear pit and they became a conceptual nightmare surpassed only by a Channel 5 show the other day in which several people were quoting Shakespeare at Brian Blessed from the backseat of the car as he drove erratically around an obstacle course. It was noisy, pointless rubbish and I couldn't look away. Perfect television to eat such car crash cookery by.
There was a reason that my meal went off on such a crooked tangent... ironically because of one of those "wow" moments in cookery. I had buttered some lousy sliced white bread and cut up some average mild cheddar. I had no intention of making sandwiches, but whilst waiting for the corn to cook I opened some Cunningham's sweet pickle and, man alive, this was the best tasting cheese and pickle I could remember. Sandwiches had to be made. I was powerless.
But to hell with it. I had only bought the sweetcorn because I had seen piles of it at Borough Market yesterday priced at one pound for four massive cobs. And the only reason I was there in the first place was for an experiment. An offhand comment I had read that morning about how English eggs taste of nothing led me to down tools and pick up the mighty staff of empirical science, marching proudly north to the market whilst an orchestra sawed out a bombastic refrain. Or, to put it more accurately, I caught the 21 bus to Moorgate and scratched my balls for twenty minutes.
It is notably impossible not to spend swathes of money at a market in which you are surrounded with screamingly fresh produce that actually tastes of something. It is even less possible not to spend swathes of money when so much of it costs a scout troop's worth of first born children, but what the hell...money really can buy you happiness on a warm September afternoon in London Bridge. So once I had the eggs I discovered that a bag of Cox's apples, some plum tomatoes, four sweetcorn cobs and some mushrooms had appeared in my basket.
And the eggs? Their shells are tall, thin and a remarkably pale brown, and their contents are delicious. To begin with I poached one and lay it on buttered toast, like I do so often in the morning. But normally I sprinkle on chilli sauce to make it a decent meal... this time, though, the eggs spoke for themselves. Hell, they sang for themselves. No salt, no pepper, and certainly no ketchup... every bite was a thing of beauty, each time I cut a piece of toast and dipped it in the shockingly yellow yolk a joy forever.
Indeed, and in an ideal world I would never buy a supermarket egg again. But then in an ideal world it would never occur to me to combine sweetcorn with cheese and pickle, so that's my lofty ideals buggered with a barge pole. Still, that simple poached egg was another wow moment... where a veil is taken away and the elusive joy of cookery hits you like a right hook. These moments are rare but like anything they can be teased out of hiding through practice and diligence and by willing to spend a little money in the first place. It is analogous to the moment in a great piece of music which makes the hairs on your neck rise. The planets align, the sun comes out and all is well with the world.
And it now occurs to me that this was supposed to be a post about writing a novel. Well, that's that sketch knackered. Perhaps next time.
But somewhere along the line, after I decided I make a salad to go on the side, the meal turned into cheese and pickle sandwiches. The corn on the cob sat forlornly beside them whilst a few tomatoes and bits of cucumber covered in balsamic vinegar looking on with incomprehension. It made litle sense and I cannot account for my actions.
I sat down to eat. It was turmoil. The sweetcorn held the sandwiches in a headlock whilst rubbing their heads with a clenched fist, the cheese was debagged and drop-kicked into a basketball hoop, and the tomatoes streaked through the whole rotten chaos with its underpants on its head. Somewhere nearby a cup of tea thinned its lips and went cold with impunity. A Mistake has been Made and I grinned weakly in the accusing spotlight.
Which was heartbreaking because the components of the meal were delicious. The sweetcorn was juicy and sweet. The pickle was tangy and moorish. And the balsamic vinegar was mellow and smooth. But put them together in a bear pit and they became a conceptual nightmare surpassed only by a Channel 5 show the other day in which several people were quoting Shakespeare at Brian Blessed from the backseat of the car as he drove erratically around an obstacle course. It was noisy, pointless rubbish and I couldn't look away. Perfect television to eat such car crash cookery by.
There was a reason that my meal went off on such a crooked tangent... ironically because of one of those "wow" moments in cookery. I had buttered some lousy sliced white bread and cut up some average mild cheddar. I had no intention of making sandwiches, but whilst waiting for the corn to cook I opened some Cunningham's sweet pickle and, man alive, this was the best tasting cheese and pickle I could remember. Sandwiches had to be made. I was powerless.
But to hell with it. I had only bought the sweetcorn because I had seen piles of it at Borough Market yesterday priced at one pound for four massive cobs. And the only reason I was there in the first place was for an experiment. An offhand comment I had read that morning about how English eggs taste of nothing led me to down tools and pick up the mighty staff of empirical science, marching proudly north to the market whilst an orchestra sawed out a bombastic refrain. Or, to put it more accurately, I caught the 21 bus to Moorgate and scratched my balls for twenty minutes.
It is notably impossible not to spend swathes of money at a market in which you are surrounded with screamingly fresh produce that actually tastes of something. It is even less possible not to spend swathes of money when so much of it costs a scout troop's worth of first born children, but what the hell...money really can buy you happiness on a warm September afternoon in London Bridge. So once I had the eggs I discovered that a bag of Cox's apples, some plum tomatoes, four sweetcorn cobs and some mushrooms had appeared in my basket.
And the eggs? Their shells are tall, thin and a remarkably pale brown, and their contents are delicious. To begin with I poached one and lay it on buttered toast, like I do so often in the morning. But normally I sprinkle on chilli sauce to make it a decent meal... this time, though, the eggs spoke for themselves. Hell, they sang for themselves. No salt, no pepper, and certainly no ketchup... every bite was a thing of beauty, each time I cut a piece of toast and dipped it in the shockingly yellow yolk a joy forever.
Indeed, and in an ideal world I would never buy a supermarket egg again. But then in an ideal world it would never occur to me to combine sweetcorn with cheese and pickle, so that's my lofty ideals buggered with a barge pole. Still, that simple poached egg was another wow moment... where a veil is taken away and the elusive joy of cookery hits you like a right hook. These moments are rare but like anything they can be teased out of hiding through practice and diligence and by willing to spend a little money in the first place. It is analogous to the moment in a great piece of music which makes the hairs on your neck rise. The planets align, the sun comes out and all is well with the world.
And it now occurs to me that this was supposed to be a post about writing a novel. Well, that's that sketch knackered. Perhaps next time.
posted by Jamie at 2:09 PM
1 Comments:
On the contrary, that makes it some kind of Willy Wonka-style miracle everlasting food. Although second time round it may not taste quite as good.
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