Food, glorious food.

I make no bones about it. I like food. Except for cucumber, that is scientifically proven to be the work of the anti-christ. Fortunately I don't believe in such nonsense so can just about manage it on tuna sarnies.

Anyway.

I was working late this evening, happy in the knowledge that my lovely flatmate had said she'd come up with something foodwise as, unexpectedly, she'd be home tonight. I think she may have forgotten though as when I got in the bacon I mentioned was still languishing at the back of the fridge. And her boyfriend's hat is in the south wing. A coincidence?

A plan was needed.

The trouble with this is that we don't do plans. So as I ticked of the options I realised I had no real option other than to... Make something up. So...

• Take one half packet of streaky bacon
• And the last dirty sausage in the fridge (bratwurst apparently)
• Add half an onion left from last night's stuffed mushrooms
• And some garlic smuggled in from Norfolk by the nearly ex.
• A few iffy mushrooms that I bought some time ago
• 5 or six british spuds. I know this because that's what it says on the wrapper
• A pepper, green in this case
• Beenz
• Lashings of cheez
• And the bottle of wine left over from last night
• Whatever is left on the butter dish
• And cayenne pepper. Obvs.

Slice the spuds thinly, chuck them in a pan, add boiling water, heat for 20 minutes. You know the score. Next. Slice the onion, baconz, dirty sausage, throw the remains of the butter in a pan, melt, chuck in the onions, cackle and add the bacon. When you get bored throw in the pepper (sliced), mushroom (sliced) and cook them for a while. Add the beenz and cook slowly. Oh, missed something off the list, a beef oxo cube. Mix this with about 10cc of hot water, i.e. bugger all and add to the mix with teh beenz.

Allow time to pass. Mostly this involves drinking the wine from last night.

After 20 minutes or so drain the spuds. Ladle the goo from the beenz and dirty sausage pan in to a baking dish, feel annoyed that you still haven't bought a big one (ooh err) so you have to use two dishes. Make the layer thin. Add another layer of goo. And then a final layer of spud. Like a lasagne. Sort of. And top with grated cheese.

Obviously you shouldn't have actually prepared said cheese, and should grate directly on to the dish. Grind some pepper over the top

Next. Wait. Once you've put it all in the oven. Some time later. Maybe 15 minutes or so, switch from oven to grill to crisp the top. Take it out and... Eat.

Shortly after this you will find the urge to write a blog post. At this point your flatmate will appear claiming she has flatmate flu. This is like man flu. But oh so much more dangerous. Offer food, do not be surprised when it is taken.

Post blog.

Two go mad in Temple Place

When we first started this blog it was intended that we would witter blithely about the trials and tribulations of two ladies of a certain age living in East London, hand wringing about the difficulties of finding enough room in the freezer for spirits and generally not taking things too seriously. Trouble is one of them, we'll call her "me" is a lazy mare and has rather neglected the writing of late. And the having adventures. And being way to serious.

Which is why I was persuaded to go to Temple Place to find something interesting and from Cornwall.

I only know of two things that come from Cornwall, ice cream and pasties. Oh, and a two faced lying midget that displeased a number of my friends. But that's another story.

So off to Temple Place I went dreaming of crusty pastry and delicious fillings whilst leaning against a sandcastle as a the warm breeze washes over me. Or not. It was quite warm on the Northern Line. No sand. Plenty of tourists.

I did a thingie some time ago, I tried to find out how long it won't take to get to somewhere in Cornwall using the veritable Google Maps and... It didn't work. Admittedly I was asking it to tell me how to get there using public transport and, apart from a pony and trap combo run by a bloke called Arthurwho had that Merlin in the cab last week, there isn't much. At least not according to Google. Not that this is relevant to the tale as, actually, I'd not bothered to ask Clare where I was going. Ditz.

At least I still know how this Contrary thing works.

Now then, I've never been to Two Temple Place and was so busy eyeing the crenellated madness of it that I failed to notice Inspector Clouseau's style guru hovering outside waiting for me. Oh, I found it! It was at this point Clare explained that she really wanted me to see the building, for once the art and music were actually secondary to the location. If you've never been, you should go, it really is a wonderful place and I'm looking forward to going back when my head is less muzzy.

And then there was the art...

I'll admit it, when I first went in I realised she had finally lost her renowned grasp of the art world, this really was putting the corny in to Cornish. Twee didn't quite cover my initial impression. But I'm not going to put it down because, actually, it wasn't that bad. Trouble was, the first image I looked at I hated. It's not that it was bad, technically it was superb, but it lacked imagination, passion, drama. It looked too... Wrong. And I couldn't put my finger on what exactly. Interestingly, from a distance the image felt almost photo realistic, but still left me with a great feeling of meh. Not good.

But then I wasn't allowing for the context. The exhibition itself was looking at the period, between about 1880 and 1920 when artists discovered the hoary heads and horny hands of gruff Cornishmen before swooning a little and paying them to pose for pictures. To be fair this was also smack bang in the middle of the arts and crafts movement and, sadly this does show in quite a few pictures.

As I meandered the room it became obvious that there were some real gems here. A number of images struck me as being synonymous with the stark motivational pictures of the soviet era. That the subject was semi-enslaved working men wasn't really lost on me. Another image showed the sheer terror of the work with an impossibly steep rail track leading in to the bowels of the earth. This image was quite haunting, not just because of the text explaining that this particular mine had a terrible disaster with a runaway truck, but also because of the sadness of a woman watching the living dead of the menfolk. There was also a pasty.

These gems aside, I still had an issue. None of the pictures were badly done, indeed many had been feted in their day. My problem was this, they just didn't feel right, that magical something that sets the eyes dancing and the heart racing. The apparent drive for almost photo-realism , paradoxically, gave a faux, almost parody, feel. Simply, life was portrayed as too clean.

Whilst Clare has just been raving about the fabulous Clay Pit, for me though the single most impressive image was a simple one, an etching of a woman, bent and laden. A candid view of the raw suffering, a true portrayal of the grim reality of a difficult life. I was stunned.

We spent a little while listening to the live music and chatting about what we'd seen before, inevitably, heading home to Contrary Towers and ponder food. As you do.

Trouble was I still couldn't think of what to eat. Not a good sign. Fortunately my flatmate spends a lot of time thinking about meat so she suggested pork chops. And mash. Oh yes. A quick(ish) scoot around the District Line, a brisk march to the House of Lidl and we were ready with all the essentials, pork chops, brocolli, spud, butter, mustard. And an apple.

It's been quite a while since we last made a meal together so whilst I fiddled with spud (because I look like a potato), Clare did things to the pork, fried the apple and made mustard gravy ready to go with my whipped garlic mash. It was yummy. We might have also had a glass or two of teh winez.
Just to be sociable you understand.

I never did get a pasty. Pfft.






Amongst Heroes is on until the 14th of April 2013 at Two Temple Place.

Fish wives night out

It's been a while since we had a girl's night out and a real giggle. So I had a look round for something really fun and interesting. This can mean a couple of things. It could entail something really new and special, or merely critically acclaimed with red carpets and champagne. Obviously.

So when I told Vicky to expect really bad art and fortify herself with a nice cornish pasty and a pint of cider, she thought I was joking. I wasn't. I'm always deadly serious when it come to art. I'd seen an advert for 'Amongst Heroes: the artist in working Cornwall' at 2 Temple Place. This spectacular venue specialises in exhibiting art from galleries outside London and this is what it said about this exhibition:

‘Amongst Heroes: the artist in working Cornwall’ will explore artistic representations of the Cornish figure at work, primarily between 1880 and 1920. These powerful depictions of working Cornish men and women produced by visiting artists to the region played a significant role in the national development and recognition of Cornwall as a centre for the production of a particular kind of realistic, rural art.

Realistic rural art from 1880s onwards is always guaranteed to provide entertainment in a bad way. Now I appreciate I'm being a little bit unfair here so let me tell you what was going on in my mind. Many of the artists going to Cornwall at this time were establishment and very highly regarded artists, usually working under the auspices of the Royal Academy. This was not going to be cutting edge salon des refuses, modernist painting but good old fashioned Art in the proper, Times of the times, approved manner. I tend to avoid this stuff simply because it doesn't do anything for me but after a continuous diet of new and interesting, it can be quite refreshing to return to the basics and see how it makes you feel. 

Which is why Vicky and I were standing a room full of salty sea dogs, seascapes, pilchards and very heroic women. Feeling all at sea. 

To relieve the large scale paintings, there were models of ships, a large boat and a cabinet of curiosities which I shall return to. Upstairs in the main gallery, there were fishing crafts (net making/mending etc), portraits, metal working, mining and farming themed paintings. Most of these paintings were from various galleries in Cornwall, some from private collection. The paintings, I cannot deny, were well crafted, admirable and picturesque, however, just not speaking to me.

In that first room the items in the cabinet were very striking. Using the new technologies of photography along with newspaper illustration, these small , domestic size black and white images were incredible. The photo portraits of fishwives were immediate and appeared uncontrived, whilst the newspaper series on fishing industry seemed lively and dynamic, incorporating people and operations. It seemed that the new imaging technologies was more appropriate to capturing the business of fishing than the large scale, heavily worked oil paintings. 

The paintings of mining operations upstairs were fascinating and seemed familiar to someone who has seen the modernist art of the futurists, for example, a group who  were obsessed with new technologies. I imaged those artists turning their back on the horse drawn carts and fishing boat vistas, to gleefully capture dirty mining operations and ugly new harbour developments. Some of the photographs of the time seem to speak the language of change far more than the paintings.

© Harold Harvey, Bridgeman Art Library
© The Royal Cornwall Museum, Truro

None the less, there was one chap called Harold Harvey who really stunned me. His portrayal of miners pushing carts was light years away from the foamy sea and nets of fish downstairs. These worker were non specific 'every men' and they speak of a time where men were essentially machines, slaving for the production of stuff which had to be dragged out of the soil. Dangerous, hard, and definitely not picturesque. It also turns out that he was the only Cornish native of this group, wasn't an academician and hated going to London. I wonder if this is why his work has an authenticity?

I'm not suggesting that oil painting is an inappropriate medium to capture scenes of a world which was dying out. Indeed conversations revolved around tales of country grandparents continuing to farm with horses until well into the 1950s. However the world has changed, and many of these farming, mining and fishing scenes have receded into history, along with this style of painting. I find it's hard to like, if not hard to appreciate.It's important to sometimes step out of your comfort zone and just take time to compare painting styles. 

Now where is that cream tea?

Emergency soup

After a long day studying I was hungry. Not bear pit, gut wrenchingly so but definitely in need of sustenance. As I had been in Italy all day mentally, all I could think of was bean and pasta soup, swirled with a good olive oil. So when got home I chopped, simmered and whizzed this all together.

1 large onion
3 hairy parsnips
2 carrots of dubious provenance
Several very dodgy potatoes
Tin butter beans
2 vege stock cubes
Salt and pepper
A spot of oyster sauce
Parsley

Fry off the onion and veggies until soft. Add stock cubes, water and let simmer for as long as it takes for you to speak with your mum (about 45 mins). Add half a tin of deskinned butter beans. And purée taking care not to make baby food, ie leave texture.

Check seasoning. Add handful of macaroni and a bit of milk to loosen the soup. Add the rest of the beans. And cayenne pepper obvs. Gently simmer, stirring to prevent sticking until the pasta is done.

Ladle with a load of the bits into a bowl and swirl with extra virgin oil. Eat whist watching mindless stuff on tv.

Gammon knuckle with sweet sauce and pease pudding

We talk about food a lot here In fact it's definitely in the top 5 topics of conversation, along with technology, the arts, frivolities and the Limehouse Cut coots. Oh the footballers in the park get some attention too but that isn't important right now. We also like to think that we are frugal, economical and sensible in our spending habits which is why we were in Canary Wharf looking at handbags, frocks and sparkly blue shoes. On our way back from Capitalism Waters we stopped off at historic Chrisp Street market for some food bits and some pithy social observation.

The area is extremely diverse and the local butchers demonstrate our community beautifully; five halal to the single traditional English butchers. As befits the Contrary Kitchen, we required either oxtail, pork knuckle or offal, depending on availability, so we opted for the most appropriate vendor. We joined the queue and tried not to giggle as the large gent in front asked for 8 saveloy and 4 faggots...and the tall one was immediately transported to northern dreams of dirty food circa 1970. After spending the princely sum of £5.48 on 6 eggs, a cooked turkey leg and a pork knuckle, we stopped by the co-op for more bits and hungrily staggered home.

I had a vision for my pork and this is the recipe I came up with

1 huge gammon knuckle
2 small onions
scrag end of a droopy celery
5 hairy carrots
1 small bottle of good cider
a handful of chopped prunes, apricots and apple rings
bay leaves, teaspoon of allspice
a good grinding of pepper
a drop of water

Pop everything in the slow cooker for 5 hours and go have a nap and do some reading. Also make some curried open turkey sarnies. Drink ginger beer. Soak the split yellow peas in cold water.

Once the meat is done, cook the drained peas in half the stock and veggies. Add a little more water, pepper, ground cloves to the pan. Simmer till the peas are a pastey consistency which took about an hour, then beat in an egg and turn the mix into a warmed oven proof dish. The one I used was too shallow so it went a little dry - next time I'd use a deeper one so you would have a loaflike texture and the lovely crunchy top. Mine was more like baked polenta.

Remove the meat from the pot, discard skin and bone leaving the pink flesh. Thicken the remaining sauce with a little cornflour and then serve with the pease pudding. Wash down with lashings of sherry or more ginger beer. Or cider.

Mardi Gras, Oh Mercredi Gras aussi

The thing about the food here is that it's Mardi Gras everyday.

We had a splash of pancake mix left, enough to make 3 and a disaster so for stuffed pancake leftovers, I whipped up some extra mix and tossed six perfect little rounds onto a dish. This is how I made the filling:

2 x tubs of corner shop special soft cream cheese (I only used one tub)
1/2 small tub of soured cream
1/2 punnet of finely chopped mushrooms
1/2 pot of fresh grated Parmesan
2 finely chopped spring onions
Squished garlic, black pepper and grating of fresh nutmeg
A couple of nuggets of frozen spinach (from the Ice Age by the looks of them)

I beat these ingredients together and thickened a little with some cornflour to make it gloopy. I left it to look at the pancakes for a bit.

Into my pancake (lazy) pan, I poured a box of sieved tomatoes, added cayenne pepper, plenty of ordinary pepper, a squirt of Daddy's sauce and let it simmer for 5 mins or so.

The ceramic dish went in to the hot oven until it was burny handy, then I ladled a bit of the tomato mix into it so the bottom was covered. Taking the first pancake, I placed an amount down the middle, rolled it up on the thigh of a maiden and placed in the dish. I repeated this 5 more times and then ladled more tomato over the top. Then sprinkled the top with the rest of the Parmesan.

Place in the hot oven until it looks appetising. My goodness that smells good!

Ohayo gozaimasu おはようございます

A long time ago, in another life, I was fortunate enough to be given the opportunity to learn Japanese. The company paid for this and, every week, an ever decreasing set of people would trundle in to a meeting room for an evening of linguistic torture. I chose the title because, right rightly the first phrase I learned as ohayo gozaimasu, good morning, a greeting, part of the delightful formal exchange I would come to love deeply. I loved the logic of the language too. As a software person I appreciated the clarity of overloading phrases in a consistent matter, for instance o genki desu ka, essentially "are you well?" would lose the question and become a confirmation, genki desu, "I am well".

Beautiful.

I enjoyed the times I went to Japan after I was taught a little, it suddenly became a less terrifying place. It's not the people or the place that brings terror, it's the lack of understanding of signs, they tended to be written in a combination of kanji, hiragana or katakana. I could just about translate hiragana, via romaji into to english, things became clear. I began to understand and feel comfortable with this country of deeply civilised people.

Which brings me to the present.

400 years ago this year an English ship landed in Japan and our trading relations creaked in to being, though it was a little tortured at first. However, an englishman was already in Japan, one William Adams. He'd arrived, drifted in really, in 1600. An astonishing tale. Fortunately for Adams he was open minded, keen to learn, explore, challenge and, ultimately, integrate. He is the sort of man that would have been welcome at an Elizabethan Contrary Towers, forsooth.

So what's the connection?

Well, I received a text on Friday from my lovely friend @Feinics11 asking if I'd like attend a matinee performance of Anjin: The Shogun and The English Samurai, being shown at Sadler's Wells. Did I want to go? Duh! As it happened I was double booked, so I had to initially decline. Fortunately though (actually unfortunately as I was looking forward to a meandering day with a friend) I became free so skipped to the DLR and headed for the scary, dark, delights of Islington...

I took garlic, a wooden stake and a silver bullet just in case.

The play was simply astonishing. I haven't enjoyed one quite so much in ages. Not only was it beautifully produced, but it also provided the intellectual challenge of seeing how much Japanese I could actually remember as whilst the English parts were in English, the Japanese were in full on, idiomatic, Japanese. I was in heaven.

This was no Tokugawa Shogunate 'allo 'allo.

Don't get me wrong, if you don't speak or understand a word of Japanese you should still go, it was so well acted you knew exactly what was going on without having to refer to the subtitle screens (Japanese for English, English for Japanese). The story unfolded with a measured, unrelenting throb of culture, politics and unlikely friendships. True there were parts that made me feel deeply uncomfortable as, yes, I believed my European forebears could have been that ignorant and arrogant. It was also interesting to see how the Jesuits were portrayed as they worked to convert the Japanese people to a Papist vision of Catholicism. Fabulous stuff.

Sadly, the play is only on until the 9th of February. If you can get to it then go! You really won't be disappointed.