The Bells Have Made Me Deaf

One major problem with living alone, after not previously living alone, is trying to get used to making home cooked things small enough for just one to consume in one sitting. Even after a second helping I’ve hardly made a dent in it. I now have two choices. Have it for breakfast dinner and tea for the entire weekend or fill the freezer with it and hope it tastes as nice nuked from frozen.

I’m having a digestive break aided by a large glass of wine, before I attempt dessert. It’ll give me time to ponder why lovely green limes seem to stay green in the supermarket but soon as you get them home then they turn yellow within hours. It’s one of lifes mysteries!

This was also the day the heating oil ran out. Why does it always happen at a weekend when you have to wait until Monday to stick an order in. I’m tempted not to bother at the price… it’s spring after all. Things should be warming up any day now.

This evening the local shop had acquired a selection of ice cream flavours from Glastry Farm. Well, at least four flavours, which is an improvement on just one choice and still a sad lack of whiskey flavour. One of the four being the surplus of Rhubarb and Ginger that no-one but I was brave enough to try. To be fair, the Rhubarb and Ginger stuff did start to grow on me and I managed to finish the tub without too much more gurning about it’s unusualness. This time I played safe and went for Vanilla Bean. Just as I suspected… it’s delicious… so delicious that it comes close to Borza’s ice cream (which is alas no longer in existance) so delicious that I may have to eat the whole thing myself. Fat pig that I am.

While grocery shopping this evening I couldn’t resist trying a new product from Glastry Farm. Rhubarb and Ginger ice-cream. I’ve had rhubarb and ginger jam and quite enjoyed it. I’ve had stem ginger ice-cream and loved it. With that, I thought I’d give it a try.

“Unusual combination and Unusually Delicious”. Yep they got that half right. It was pretty unusual and possibly the most disgusting flavour of ice-cream I have ever tasted. However, I lived to tell the tale and actually finished the helping. Far too much ginger giving it a sickly sweet perfume taste and I can only assume that the pinkish colour must have been the rhubarb which was sadly absent from the flavour or maybe it was just smothered out of recognition by the ginger. The texture of the actual ice-cream was wonderful. On those grounds alone, I would risk another purchase, provided they stick to an edible flavour in future. It seems that so far, Rhubarb and Ginger is all they’ve managed since that was the one and only choice in the shop.

I think everybody should buy it just for the experience. I don’t see why I should suffer alone!

I have just almost put out my left eye while eating that dangerous stuff, spaghetti, Brit style. Under normal circumstances it’s perfectly harmless and safe enough to give to children. Brit Style is another matter. While I did not personally name this method of pasta consumption, I can see how those sarcastic Yanks may well be justified in attributing the style to these islands. Not only are we smart enough to eat it without the aid of a spoon (strictly for twirling) but where else would you find the vacuum power in a race, to simply sink their face in it and suck it off the plate. Only the stupidest bravest participate without the protection of goggles.

In the last few days, the unmistakable stench of ammonia rich chicken shit has been getting right up my nose. I am not aware of any battery houses in the immediate area although they may well exist. I can only assume that somewhere has been doing a clean out of the chicken house and the mess has been spread on a neighbouring field. Of all the slurry type stuff that’s spread on fields, chicken is possibly the worst imaginable smell. Chickens should be free range for this reason alone in order that a mountain of excrement does not build up in any one place.

It takes me back to the days of working in a Greek egg factory in intense heat and dust with that same stench in my nostrils. Each and every day the cages had to be patrolled to check for dead hens and more often than not, rigor mortis had set in requiring the breaking of wings and legs in order to get them out of the tiny cage they shared with four others. I can only imagine the stress this must have caused the ones still alive. Rows upon rows of cages built over a pit with a huge scoop thing that trundled the shit the length of the house and out a door at the end where it plopped nicely into a waiting truck. Until the scoop moved the stuff, the birds had no choice but to breathe in the fumes. When they layed an egg it rolled out of the cage and onto a conveyor belt from which the eggs were packed twice a day.

What a horrible way to produce food.

I’ve watched a couple of the latest Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall series, The River Cottage Treatment, with avid interest. It’s almost cruel to educate some people as to the source of their food since they don’t tend to associate little bouncing lambs with those supermarket chops wrapped in cling film. The outcome of making them aware of the connection seems to have a mostly positive result in making all (them and us watching) more conscious of what we pick up in the supermarket.

Processed foods are something I’m dead set against but like everyone else, fall into the convenience trap because I can’t be bothered to cook. I blame that lethargy on the processed food but until the energy is found to break out of the cycle, on and on it goes.

I want to break free… I want to break free

While in England, I picked up yet another Indian cook book with great intentions of filling the freezer with home made convenience dinners (minus all those nasty additives) but as yet all I’ve done is leaf through the pages while producing excessive amounts of saliva. Come Sunday I’m going to do something in thick creamy coconut sauce (probably chicken because chicken is all I’ve got!). Coconut sauce is one of those exotic things that turns any old hen into a bit of a dish. Who knows what it would do to the rooster.

I ran out of real tea a few days ago and having not been next nor near a shop since, I’ve been making do with the Twinings Earl Grey that was lurking in the larder. While I adore the bergamot flavour, the grey lustre of the brew is entirely unappealing. This morning I decided to remedy the lack of colour by using 4 bags instead of the usual two and giving it a good five minutes to infuse into something that may resemble tea. On pouring, the 4 bags had certainly changed the colour. It was dark grey instead of light grey. I never before realised that the name was actually representative of what was in the pack. I wont be buying any more Twinings tea. Their Earl Grey seems to be mainly made up from dust off the blending room floor with a touch of aroma just to keep it authentic.

Just gimme a cup of Bells Belfast Brew, none of this pretentious crap.