Spring is sprung, the grass has risen, I know almost nothing of nuclear fission.
But I know about dinner, breakfast, and lunch, and I know ’tis the season to have a good munch. So let’s pick our green shoots, new nuts, and sweet flowers. Let’s pour out this month into edible hours.
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Here are some of the greatest food pics uploaded to our big joint floppy disc we call The Internet this week.
Sláinte!
“Hey, Ian, are you vegan now?” “Yeah, Dave. Proper vegan, mate.” “What do you do about kebabs?” “Chickpeas, mate. I am balls deep in chickpeas and I’ve never felt better.” “Sound, man. I’m proud of you.”
I genuinely, on an almost daily basis, wonder what is going to happen to all those poor Bolivian salted caramel farmers when this mania for their proud national dish finally slips off the spoon of popular appeal and back into the pine swamps from which it came.
Tickle my pickle and squeeze my cheese, beat my meat and gnaw on my slaw, because it is motherslicing sandwich time.
I had a friend in Year 6, called Tom, who was allowed to cook anything he wanted after school. Anything his imagination, his mother’s stained pine kitchen cabinets, and the family’s grease-stained electric oven could summon. And do you know what we would make? Every day after a sweating, shuddering slog of times tables and irregular verbs? McCain Crinkle Cut Chips, Bachelors Super Noodles with a spoonful of peanut butter or—his pièce de résistance—a bowl of macaroni cheese smothered in Lea & Perrins sauce. That, my friends, is living.
Darling! My stained glass window is finished! I call it “Pork Sunrise.” I think it’s going to change modern glass design for good. We’ll put it up over the east window and get the vicar to bless it at Micklemass.
A seaweed and oyster pizza sounds great until you remember the last time you were walking along Redcar Beach at sunset and, looking down, realised that the shells were bottle tops, the samphire was just a twisted heap of washing line, and all those “jellyfish” were actually salt-encrusted condoms.
The cold smell of potato mould/ the squelch and slap/ Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge/ Through living roots awaken in my head.
Oh Seamus Heaney, you dirty bastard, talk to me like one of your Dublin girls.
Ah mate, I’m sorry somebody threw a load of Johnson’s baby powder and the clippings off the neighbour’s laurel hedge all over your precious, precious cheesecake. Maybe next time, you’ll remember not to leave pudding out to cool on the patio when nan’s visiting, huh?
It’s castration day at the farmer’s market! Bring a rucksack and your best length of string.
When life gives you lemons, throw a shit fit on your mother’s kitchen floor until someone literally unties a bouquet of flowers from the bottom of a lamp post and throws them at your shoulder in a desperate attempt to cheer you up.
