Goodbye my friend Mr Scott

Yesterday i was sat for five hours in a bizarre hospital, one of those ones with hardly any people, that seems a bit like an empty airport at the end of the world without any planes. I was anxiously waiting for my mother who was having a piece of her nose cut out poor thing! Anyway the operation was a success and my now traumatised mother is at home recovering.
Yet this morning i woke to hear some sad news about an old friend i had never met, never saw and never really new but i will miss him all the same.
For he had been with me for many years, made me smile when i was happy, left a tinge of soul burning on the corner of a summers night with friends and lit a light to guide me home in my darkest of nights.
That man was Gill Scott-Heron who died yesterday at the age of 62.
I usually write about food but for decades this man fed me, nurtured me, helped me to believe in the possibility of a better world, a brighter future, a man whose music was so much more than the sum of its parts.
He made me laugh, made me weep and times made me feel that if other people were buying or listening to his music, then that was a sign that the world still cared. Still cared about injustice and still believed that we could build a brighter future, or in his own words " Beginnings The first minute of a new day"
So everyone out there today is a day to sit back, put the stereo on and say thank you to a mans life that meant as much to many as it has to me.
R.I.P Gill

Meat and Sauce, Eel and green crap and lets not even talk about England part 1

Ok let me start straight off by saying there are people excluded from this oncoming culinary diatribe, They are Firstly and foremost my girlfriends mother Monica Kulig who cooked and fed me like a king before we departed Mielec, wonderful Rosol, huge breakfasts and a magical cheescake. It is also worth Acknowledging a wonderful impromptu spaghetti cooked by Paul after a late arrival on a thursday evening following a madcap trip around Brussels city centre, which during this trip Joanna Kulig(thats her name if any Belgian traffic enforcement officers are reading this) preceeded to break every imaginable traffic laws the good Belgians ever saw fit to pass.
It would also be remiss of me not to mention the wonderful Salmon dish Joanna's aunt Magda made us before we left Brussels. Everyone else get ready this will not be pretty.
The Chech republic, Germany, Belgium, England and Ireland what is going on, did all the decent cooks in these countries leave as we traversed are way through them.
In Germanys case they have an excuse, as at all their service stations they have obviously been concentrating on the installation of machines that sell you a delightful little product called The travel pussy, to waste fruitless hours worring about the standard of food that is available. On arrival in the beautiful  town of Bamberg ready to eat some wonderful Bavarian fayre. We found a lovely little place in the winding streets of this unesco protected haven, Where Joanna ordered a dish that we had got to know well over the preceeding days. It is called something different every time depending on where you order it, allow me translate. It is called a dish of indiscernible meat, accompanied by an indiscernible brown sauce, garnished with an indiscernible splodge masquerading as a dumpling. We both enjoyed this dish the day before in Prague as well lovely.
leaving Germany we crossed the border into Belgium, my tastebuds started to tingle, Belgium famous for its culinary connections with France we would dine like Kings and Queens over the next two days ohh yes. Anyway that was what i told Joanna anyway. She did not appear to be overly interested in my wafflings, as after over 6 hours driving, an extra hour of that driving due to my eccentric directions it became apparent that the Belgians were so eco conscious that they had eliminated the need altogether for a servie station. petrol was low, nature was calling us both more loudly by the minute, then finally after and hour was this a mirage? no indeed we were approaching a petrol station, salvartion, for both the zafira's depleted tank and our swollen bladders.
During this trip the stop at the petrol station was one of my favourite moments in the day. It was a moment that allowed me to show off my male skills, as i had been deemed competent enough be entrusted with the task of "filling the tank". the rest of the trip was a lesson in humilliating emasculation. I couldn't drive, my map reading was not altogether without fault, so an opportunity to stand there posturing with a giant hose in my hand was my alpha male moment. I strode out of the car with purpose approaching the petrol pump, taking the hose in my hand (this is getting worryingly homo erotic) and unscrewed the petrol cap like a seasoned driver, i pulled the trigger like Dirty Harry, nothing happened.
It was at this stage that i found out in Belgium one has to pay before you pump so to speak.
Now starting to feel irritated i ask the cashier why the pump isn't working, the cashier looks at me then in a face all europeans reserve for the English and their primative language skills, slowly explains to me that in Belgium you have to pay first, so how much do i want to put in?
I start to sweat the tank is about half full, i have no idea how much it takes to fill up half a tank, not in Euros or pounds or any other currency. I am going to be found out, he will know within a second that not only do i not know how much petrol i need, but that i do not no how to drive either, that i made us get of at the wrong junction in Rhineland, that i speak none of the languages of any of the countries we have driven through, that if it wasnt for Joanna i would still be waiting for a train in Krakow.
I need to get a grip, i look bernard the cashier dead in they eye and say almost flippantly 80 euros, he doesn't bat an eye, i hand over the money march back outside, glare at Joanna and start to fill up the tank, then disaster, after about 30 euros its full. Unable to cope with the humilliation i shout at Joanna, go to the toilet and refuse to eat the sandwich she has bought, Dejected and emasculated i head back to the car, we don't speak till Brussels.....

Hello slugs hello Henley

I need to think of something contoversial to say don't i?
That always gets a blog going well.

Like my cat pepina's bedroom romp with premier league star, at local henley conservative club conference.

Or captain of phyllis court croquet team takes out super injunction against Canadian goose!!

1988

In the July of 1988, as an 11 year old boy, I went to spend the summer with my father in the hills that tower above the walled city of Lucca in Tuscany. I did this every summer, but I had never been to this house before. It was outside a tiny hamlet called Matraia, about thirty minutes’ drive from Lucca. As we arrived I was stunned at how secluded the house was, It was a mile down a dry dusty track, surrounded by nothing  other than the exotic sights, sounds and smells of the Italian countryside. This was not the kind of place I associated with my father; the truth is looked forward to our summers together with a mixture of excitement and abject terror. I usually spent my holidays visiting him, somewhere in Italy where in a relatively short space of time my father had manage to attain a level of notoriety, that it would take a lesser rogue a lifetime of outrageous behaviour to achieve. It was safe to say wherever I visited him, there was always a plentiful supply of local bars and cafes, filled with locals, who took great joy in recanting stories of my father’s exploits to me (sometimes fabricated).  Making him seem to me, more like some sort of antihero straight out of the pages of Kerouac, than a man I would recognise as my father.

I Loved and hated these holidays by equal measure, I admired loved and hated him in what was an equally confusing way for an 11 year old boy. Yet here we were arriving  that summer, down this little dirt track in a similarly coloured and decrepit Opel Kadett, to this old white washed house, in the middle of nowhere. This time there was no new girlfriend to greet us, just a motley crew of dogs and cats, loitering by the house.

It took me at least a couple of days to adjust to this change of scene and establish the cause of this sea change in the chosen location for our summer. The cause was, that my father had quit drinking, I didn’t really understand why the need for the geographical change of location and this new found desire to somewhat distance himself from the world around him, until many years later I myself became a recovering alcoholic (a story for another time) .

There are a number of things that I remember still so clearly about that holiday. The first was that my father had taken to getting up every morning at five o’clock to play the saxophone that, for the entire holiday made me wake up with a feeling of terror, that I expect could only be replicated by the onset of Armageddon. This habit of his became so irksome that during these early morning intrusions into my sleep, I started to pine for the father I knew much better who would have still been soundly sleeping, possibly on the floor of the kitchen, after another night that would have been destined to go down in the annals of history, amongst the regulars of some small provincial Italian bar. The second memory of that holiday, that is still as clear in my mind, as the waters of those streams around the house that my father and I explored that summer, was that as a child it was the most wonderful holiday I ever spent with him. The last thing that stayed with me from that holiday was that it was the start of what has become a lifelong fascination with food.

Every morning at about 10:30 we would jump in that muddy brown car and drive, windows wound right down to the local bar/shop/post office in Matraia, I still love and search for the smell that blew up my nostrils as we drove down that dusky track, the smell of that Italian summer all those years ago. The smell of the coffee my father had when we finally settled ourselves at a table in the tiny garden behind that bar. And the smells and tastes of the bread, the ham, melon, tomatoes and olive oil that I knew was to come. It was a breakfast or a light lunch depending on what time you rise, that in the twenty four years that has passed since has yet to be matched. It was the summer that my senses  first awoke.

Recipe for The Roasted Duck della Rio

Ok so your team fought valiantly in the Grande Finale, now it is time to feed those hearts and minds and world weary mountain bellys and what better than a roasted duck to suckle on.
First take a trip to waitrosio have a walk round, then Aye caramba the duck is on a speciale offerta, you dive down like Alvarez the Rio Grande goalkeeper and safely deliver the duck into your basketa. Now go forth and pick up some Charlotta potatoes, a pack of spring greens a head of garlico and 2 shallots. Now turn in a beautiful pirouette like the wonderful midfielder Milanetto and delicately pluck out 50 grammes of root ginger.

One Duckio or a duckio crown.
1 bag of charlotte tatties
2 shallots
50 grammes of giner
some spring greens
garlic.
some cammomile flowers or tea bags if not.
honey

Now run home as fast as those little legs will carry you and your beating heart.
Fire up the Forno oven to about 190
take the Duck place in a roasting pan with love.
with a knife score the fat on top of el grande duck in a criss cross fashion
smother with cammomila and honey like a wet dusting from paradiso.
now take the potatoes and put in the pan around the duck with a knob of butter and about 25ml of water.
Put this heady mix into the oven.
After about 45 minutes of roasting turn down to 160 the skin should be getting nice and crispio now on the duck.
during this 45 minutes feel free to play some pro evo, meditate up in the mountains or become amorous with the one you love, remember this is your time not just the ducks.
Now roast for another 20 minutes.
then take out the duck and wrap in foil and leave to rest for 20 mins. carry on roasting your charlottes though, you want them as tanned as soft mountain leather óle.
Now grab your springy greens and chop finely, slice some garlic and shallot and ginger, put on a pan atop of your aunties old Andulsian stove and sweat them down like Keith.
now add the spring greens and a some butter and a splash of stock.
cook these for about 15 mins on a medium heat.
now grab spome bowls invite the village throw some potatoes and greens in the bowl, slice the duck run to the village square eat and make merry, for one night we are the greatest team ever to come from the mountains
VIVA RIO GRANDE

The Roasted Duck for the grande finale

Following tiny Rio Grandes miraculous journey to the coppa della magico finale yesterday, i had the huge honour bestowed upon me, to come up with a fitting celebratory dish to honour the Rio Grande players on their magnificent feat of defying the odds and reaching the final where they valiantly fought deep into exta time before finally being overcome by the galacticos deep into stoppage time. The villagers tears of sadness at this cruel defeat were interspersed with tears of pride and shouts of óle Rio Grande.
After the match the villagers decked out in their finery attented a wonderful evening with the now much feted players of this tiny mountain team and we dined and sang and danced deep into the night.
On a limited budget of a few pesos i managed to produce a dish that was soulful yet celebratory, rich yet pure like the hearts of these proud men.

The Roasted Duck

Spot on my computer

Thought someone in the indian ocean was following me, but it was a spot on my computer, pepina dribble probably

instructions for Risotto per Rio

Ok sit back and listen carefully and you will have a risotto that will make you feel as if you are soaring above the mountains of Rio Grande like the mythical Golden condor of el torro gonzales.

Fist visit Dona Dominga the greengrocer, ask her for some nice mushrooms and asparagus, some shallots and some garlic.

Now in front of your ancient Andulisian stove. heat up the chicken stock, home made is best but an instant one from el supermarketo will do fine. about 550ml.

Now on a medium heat add some olive oil to a pan sweat down the shallots and garlic from Dona Dominga then add the rice with a knobio of butter. it is important to seal the rice for a few minutes otherwise your risotto will be as chalky as the Rio Grande chalk pits that Acosta's father toiled in for decades.
now a splash of white wine ole you have steam, keep stirring and start to add the stock a ladelful atr a time.

Meanwhile in a frying pan sweat down the mushrooms with some shallots and a little olive oil. cook for a good 15 minutes on a medium heat until they are as cripsy on the outside as a deep fried goat. you do not want a soggy mushroom. at the end add the chorizo to the mushrooms when they are both nice and crispio take of the heat and set aside.
cook the asparagus until al dente in the stock and set aside then slice lengthways.
keep adding the stock and stirring until the risotto is abouyt 5 minutes away from being ready, it should still taste a little al dente.
At this point add Dona domingas mushrooms and the crispy chorizo from velasquez the butcher.
now you are approaching the end.
when the risotto tastes ready add the asparagus another knob of butter the chopped basil and parsley that you also purchased at Dona Domingas, the parmesan give it a good stir. take of the heat and stir for another minute.
Spoon it into bowls. and be transportes to
Rio Grande óle

A Recipe For Rio Grande

High up in the latin american mountains somewhere, there is a tiny village, with a football team of poets, artists gardeners, cooks, miners and artisans. That team is Rio Grande, they play a mythical brand of football that could only be calle óle football. The village is a simple one, like its team simple yet undeniably beautiful like the sunset over montagne Grande. recently their manager octavio danielle oliviero- pepina-kuligio valdes asked me if i could come up with a soulful pre big match meal, to help his beautiful players sustain high levels of artistic creativity for an entire match played at high altitude. This took some considerable thought. After some serious soul searching and a conversation with their midfield player Acosta, who had recently returned from his honeymoon, following the biggest event in the village in many years. As Ascosta was one of two beautiful people taking part in what was Rio Grandes first gay wedding. I finally arrived at a dish that i feel will not only help the team but encompass the beauty of Rio Grande as a place.

I have rather unispiringly called the dish Risotto per Rio

for 4 people.

2 shallots
2 cloves of garlic
100 grammes of mushrooms, wild if you can
75 grammes of smoked chorizo
1 bunch of asparagus
1 pint of chicken stock
a handful of parsley and basil finally chopped
2 handfuls of parmesan
250 grammes vialone nano risotto rice
a big knob of butter
and a splash of albarino if you are feeling flash or any white wine if not.
instructions to follow

hello worms hello soil

This blog needs to make me fabulously wealthy, or wealthy enough to continue my bum like existence.
Wealthy enough to need Super Injuctions maaaaan.

Memphisto soul stew: Hello world hello worms

Memphisto soul stew: Hello world hello worms: "Well maybe cyberspace is a safer place for my sensitive culinary musings. The real world has rejected my dining advances so i am seeking so..."

Hello world hello worms

Well maybe cyberspace is a safer place for my sensitive culinary musings.
The real world has rejected my dining advances so i am seeking solace in a virtual world where my mindless ramblings will be posted for prosterity to be ignored by the masses.

Am happy to share recipes hints and tips and in depth discussions about food and reagge and just about anything that interests us exiles from planet 21st century.