Now I’m not religious, but I’m not impressed by a newspaper that chose Easter Sunday of all days to attack food banks. Apparently someone in this “Christian” newspaper hasn’t actually read the New Testament (and neither has our Glorious Prime Minister, whose inherited £8million personal fortune will have to be scrunched up rreeeaaallll small to go through the eye of a needle).
By the way, the local Tangleton food bank did a lot to assist local victims of the 2013/14 Winter Floods (around 50-60 local families in total). Who presumably only had their properties destroyed by rising groundwater from one of the wettest winters on record as they were too feckless and stupid to buy or rent homes built on 12 foot bloody stilts, in an estate that has no history of this type, level and intensity of flooding.
And the kickback… 😉
In the summer, the Cockneys used to travel from the East End of London to Kent, “the Garden of England”, to pick hops for the brewing industry. This was their summer holiday, in the days before disposable income and cheap flights. My father recalled serving them beer out of a trough, mug after mug after mug in quick succession. He grew up in rural Kent, surrounded by fields and allotments. People grew, picked, pickled, bottled, stored, and could only have been spurred on in this by World War 2 and the food rationing that followed, lasting years after the War itself had ended. When my paternal grandmother died, a comfortably well-off upper working-class woman at that point, with a well-maintained terraced house and a smart new car, the walk-in larder of the house was full of tins, most of them out-of-date. Even with the post-war plenty she kept a surplus safely on-hand, until it became beyond her ability to manage the stored supplies.
I have bits and pieces of her kitchen still, inherited after she died. I was going to university, having not lived independently before, and so it seemed a shame to get rid of the spare plates and pans, when I could get good use out of them. Twenty years later some of them have survived; two good metal saucepans, apparently indestructible despite my slow learning-curve as a cook. Some items of cutlery. Some plates and bowls with a sailing yacht motif (my grandfather was in the Navy and loved to sail). And a small white china dish, which my parents suggested I take as it “would be good to cook one-person dishes in”.
Two bleedin’ decades I have lugged this bloody dish around the country, and I finally cooked something today for which it was perfect, because I have limited fridge/freezer space so didn’t want to cook more than I could eat tonight, and as I wasn’t sure I could get the dish right (aubergines!!), I didn’t want to cook excess food that I might just end up filing directly into the bin.
Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you Melanzane Alla Parmigiana, for One
Sorry, this is a long ‘un.
Dropping round my sister’s last night to watch the season finale of Two Broke Girls + the new season of Strictly Come Dancing (only the finest cultural experiences for us!), I found out she’d laid her hands on some cheap steak, and had knocked together a bernaise sauce to go with it plus some oven chips. I’d only had a bit of toast for dinner so prevailed upon her to do me some chips for one of the jewels in the British culinary crown – the chip butty. To which, instead of mayo, ketchup or brown sauce, I added some of the bernaise sauce. I’m not sure if this means I’m leaving the working class and joining the middle class, or leaving the middle class and joining the working class, but either way it soaked up some vodka and made up for the shocking lack of hummus. I recommend….. 😉