The moving finger rants

Large mocha please, full fat milk, four sugars.

Every Saturday morning it's the same order, to the extent that I don't even have to make the order now, because the staff at the coffee stall know me. I just have to walk up to the counter and say, yes please.

I always remember yours, they tell me, because it's so unusual. What? It's a coffee. They have mocha there on the menu. They ask me how many sugars I want and I tell them. They ask me what kind of milk I want, and I tell them that, too. They ask me if I want sprinkles. I tell them nutmeg. How is this special? Specifically, how is this special to a girl (or a boy) who makes coffee all day?

There was a different girl on the stall today. Large mocha please, full fat milk, four sugars. I felt like pushing the boat out a bit today, and got amaretto syrup. She said: That's an epic coffee. Epic? Really?

(Sidenote: quotation from an unrelated message board in reference to Kamikaze Cookery—I'm gonna be Paul for Halloween. He's pretty epic. You're damn right I put that on my CV.)

Later on, after pig sammich, I felt like having another. A smaller one this time. Regular size, no syrup. I admire your fortitude, quoth Coffee Girl, so much caffeine this early. Really? Nobody else has ever had two coffees before two pm?

Or am I simply the only one who's ever ordered a coffee while wearing a big black cloak?

Not trapped in the Cairngorms any more. Was only trapped for a few hours actually, when they'd shut the A9 north and south, Inverness was closed and Aberdeen was shut off—but it was pretty hairy there for a while. We had to sit in the pub in Carrbridge with a log fire and local Cairngorm Brewery ales on tap and wait for the road-status update. It was hell in there, I tell you.

We'd taken a week of J's parents' timeshare and gone to the Lochanhully Woodland Club, a Macdonald (spit) resort a mile up the road from Carrbridge, near Aviemore. Carrbridge is where they have that half-ruined semicircular stone bridge you see in all the Scotland photos. This bridge, in fact:

( Pictures begin here )

Also I got me one of those Flickr things. This is my photo-stream here, and here are all of my photos from last week. What do you think? How am I doing?

Also I seem to have turned thirty years old. When did that happen?

Hello to new readers that I've picked up during my sudden, and inevitably all-too-brief, period of Internet Fame. Hello to regular readers, too, while I'm at it. Hello, regular readers! We know each other already, sometimes even in person, and that's fantastic!

Regular readers will know that I’m a big Doctor Who fan. New readers should probably learn that, pretty damn quickly. Inspired by Emo-Doctor’s amusing whingeing in this comic (and partly by the Tam of Rassilon), I wondered today: what would Time Lords eat at a Time Lord pizza party?

This is the kind of philosophical quandary that plagues me on a frequent basis. I’m deep like that.

Behold: the Pizza of Rassilon.



More information, more glorious deathless pin-sharp prose, and more pictures, at the Kamikaze Cookery site. Those of you who are on Who fora, do feel free to link, blog, whatever. Go ahead.

I feel like I've crossed a nerd threshold of some kind.

Behold, for The Perfect Steak is now available at Kamikaze Cookery dot com.

That is to say, the episode regarding the perfect steak is now available. You can't download the actual steak through the internet. I'm still working on that bit.

Go, watch, comment. Tell your friends. Subscribe to the RSS feed. And come back next week for more.

Apparently it's Scottish Food Fortnight. Nobody told me this, but I live in Scotland and I eat food, so every fortnight is Scottish Food Fortnight as far as I'm concerned. The BBC is putting some journalists on a week-long local diet to celebrate, and apparently the Scottish Government is doing likewise.

Regular readers may recall that I've attempted something similar to this before. And now the Scottish Government is copying me. The very concept of our legislators on a week-long blood-sugar crash fills me with dread. I suppose it's just lucky we don't have the power to declare war.

(The nice journalist informs me that it's not a very strict local diet, intended more as a showcase of excellent Scottish produce. That's all right then.)

Here's the journalists' first day, and here, for comparison, is mine.

With any luck, and focus-group permitting, Kamikaze Cookery should be out in about a month. I would just like to make sure everyone is aware that, despite the BBC's vast resources, we did it first.

Today I was introduced to my new co-presenter on Kamikaze Cookery: Bunty, the Friesian cow.

I've worked with cows before, but that was back at school when I was Theseus to a particularly intransigent Hippolyta. I hear she's engaged now: I pity the guy, whoever he is. This, however, was an actual cow made of beef, and with udders and whatnot.

Fortunately, the fact that Bunty was female and a few years old meant that I didn't have to wrestle with terms like Buttercup is an individual unit of cattle or cattlebeast (but at least there actually is a non-gender-specific term). She was one of my more friendly and forgiving co-stars, but she did have something of a tendency to wander out of shot at inappropriate moments.

By about take four I was sounding impressively knowledgeable about where beef comes from and what you do with it, ably assisted from off-camera by Donna, who's been raising beef cattle since she was a wee slip of a lass and knows a hell of a lot more than I was able to get from Wikipedia. I'm not entirely sure Bunty knew what I was talking about, but she did have a tendency to swish her tail around with more obvious irritation whenever I was pointing out which bits on her were the most tasty.

And then there was the Clarkson Take, because there has to be.

I r srs documentary filmmaker. No, really.

Sunday Times columnist Rachel Johnson doesn't get blogging:

I don’t get blogging. It’s not only that I’m reluctant to write for nothing. There are all those people who ask, Do you blog? at parties (our own sad neutered version of the Do you swing? question), and who warble about wikis and web presence. Still, a few weeks ago I started to write one. It’s very easy - even a middle-aged woman can do it. I wrote about what I was making for supper that night. And food shopping in the Portobello market. Then I checked to see the global response to my debut. Nothing. On my next five posts? Zero comments.

I shall refrain from making any obvious comment, because that would be cheap of me, and after all I am writing for nothing here. It's important for we poor slovenly non-professionals to maintain some dignity.^[0]

Nonetheless, this leads me neatly on to something I actually wanted to talk about.

Saturday was the first Farmers' market since the Fife Diet week that I've had any money (the Fife Diet is expensive). stormsearch and I picked up a cheap gigot roast and a couple of packets of 40p bacon offcuts, and a bunch of organic vegetables. None of it was from Fife. As far as I know it was all from East Lothian, which actually has food in it.

It was a huge relief just to be able to go to stalls and not have to say are you from Fife?, but instead to simply look at produce and pick what I wanted to eat. Everything was still organic, locally-sourced and from small producers, but without any ridiculous artificial restrictions.

Likewise, whenI got into the kitchen it was a huge relief to be able to use stock cubes. I made a random soup with potato and parsnip, and I could add extra stuff like smoked garlic and nutmeg. The result was bloody marvellous, hearty and warming with texture and flavour. Hello, taste buds! Long time no see. You've had a nice holiday, now let's get you back to work.

~

stormsearch and I have been talking about getting a weekly organic box delivered, and doing something like this regularly on the cheap. Bloody hell, I think this might be getting serious afer five years.

~

I've been thinking about Bouvrage, the Fife Diet-approved raspberry drink that was pretty much all I was allowed last week. I don't actually like Bouvrage that much. I'll drink it if it's there, but it's always had this really harsh alkalinity to it that spoils any enjoyment I might otherwise have got.

Last week, though, I really started to develop a taste for it. After a few days with a choice between Bouvrage and tap water, it became delicious nectar, sweet and refreshing. I'd bought five bottles of it for the week, and had one left at the beginning of the post-Diet frenzy of consumption.

Frenzy completed, it's back to the status quo. I've got a bottle of this stuff left. Better drink it before it goes off. Good thing I like Bouvrage these days, huh? I raised the sweet elixir to my lips, and drank... harsh, brackish, regular old-fashioned Bouvrage from the bad old days before I'd learned the value of vegetables.

Hypothesis: my standard, non-Diet blood sugar is so high that Bouvrage doesn't register as sugary. My body chemistry is naturally sweet^[1].

This is because I naturally have a shitty diet high in sugar and saturated fats.

This raises Gastronomic Implications (wbaenfarb). If taste is dependent upon preexisting body chemisty, I won't taste the same things as someone who ordinarily eats a lot of vegetables or is on a different diet. The restaurant experience is partially determined by what I had to eat for the rest of that week.

It seems obvious, but this sort of thing becomes really significant when the tasting menu at the Fat Duck costs £125 a head.

--
[0] Although I should observe that the lassie's blog, rachelsjohnson, has a somewhat unfortunate title that could be read as Rachel S. Johnson or Rachel's Johnson. If it's the latter then I'm not surprised that she's not getting many comments, because that sounds like a really specialist type of blog. The Internet can be a complex place for the traditionally-minded, the mainstream, the professionals.
[1] Just like my personality, then.

The Diet, she is over. After midnight last night I ate a pint of ice cream in under twenty minutes. This morning I had three mocha lattes, just because I could, and this afternoon I am relearning old lessons about overconsumption and the consequences thereof.

21st-century modern conveniences are available to me once again. After shooting at the Farmer's Market today, we went into a coffee shop, sat down and reviewed the footage. I was like a country yokel on his first trip to the big city, gawping wide-eyed at the pretty lights.

xenophanean's post here pretty much sums up my reaction to the Diet. But I'd like to add a few points:

1. It's impractical if you live in a city, or have a job, or don't own a car.
2. It's expensive.
3. It lacks seasonings, spices, and flavourings.
4. It lacks fibre, necessary fats, calcium, and nutrients necessary for moral stability.
5. It probably doesn't actually help save the planet at all.

On the other hand it's taught me a lot about how to be inventive with limited (and often bland) ingredients, how to avoid wastage, and the origins of our dinner. And I'm eating vegetables now, which is probably a good thing.

More details will be available in the episode, coming soon to an Internet near you.

Some of the Hotel guests have given me two slices of artichoke, olive and jalapeno pizza. And I've been nabbing the bar snacks, which have paprika on them. Dis is livin', I tell you. Aaapril in Pareee....

Still indexing from zero. One day to go.

I managed to get hold of real porridge oats, porridge, for the making of. Breakfast this morning cooked in a third of the time and I even managed to eat it all while it was still hot. This was a bonus.

Filming in the pub today involved the consumption of two bottles of Fifeshire elderflower wine. Lunch was just oatcakes with pate and rowan jelly, but I was glad of it. Accidentally ate some mouldy pork as well: threw the rest away.

For dinner, omelette.

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I really like these omelettes. It just goes to show what you can do with high-quality free-range stuff (and cooking fat). I'mma have another one for lunch tomorrow.

In the pub today, we were talking about Fife Diet-approved booze. Listed on the website are Fraoch, Cairn O' Mohr and the Fyfe Brewery. The Fyfe Brewery is in Fife and I'm told it's very good, but they don't seem to supply anywhere except for a couple of pubs in Kirkcaldy. Fraoch are based in Alloa and Cairn O' Mohr are in Perthshire, neither of which are in Fife.

Bouvrage are listed on the Fife Diet Site as well, and they're based in Alloa too. The lady on the Bouvrage stall at the Market on Saturday told us that the raspberries themselves were from Fife. Fine, but if they have to be taken out of the county to be processed and bottled, and then brought back in, how local are they really? And where does the glass come from?

Fraoch and its associated historic ales from Scotland (such as Grozet, which I was drinking on Sunday despite it not being the season for it, because I couldn't get any Fraoch) are made somewhere close to Fife, but I'm fairly sure that the barley and the hops come from Elsewhere—particularly in the case of Grozet, which is a wheat beer and, as we've already established, you can't grow wheat in Fife. But apparently it's allowed on the list because it's a local brewery quite close to Fife.

We know of another type of booze made in Fife, from ingredients that may be from Fife but probably aren't. By the rationale established by the Fife Diet site, it should be permitted also. It may be known to you. Its name is Carlsberg.

Not that I'd drink that shit even if it was allowed on the Diet.

And, now I come to think of it, Smirnoff is made in Fife from ingredients that may or may not come from Fife. So why is one thing allowed and another not?

We've tried to be very strict about consuming only things that can be proven to be from Fife, made in Fife, grown in Fife and sold in Fife. We've also allowed things that are expressly permitted by the Fife Diet website list of approved suppliers. But there doesn't seem to be any reason why some things are excluded and some aren't.

Our Fife Diet, it seems, is better than theirs.

Here are some of the things that have happened, or not happened, this week:

1. I seem to have spent my entire time at work recommending restaurants to guests. Restaurants, I should add, that I'm not allowed to eat at.
2. Can't go to the pub, can't go out for dinner.
3. No coffee in the morning, no valerian at night.

4. stormsearch: Let's go to Oloroso and have cocktails!
   Yr. corresp.: Can't.
   stormsearch: ...Oh.

5. Can't grab a sandwich while I'm out.
6. Can't think fuck it and just get a takeaway this evening.

I'm eating somewhat less than usual and having trouble climbing hills and stairs. Last night I fell asleep in my clothes. Without sugar I'm cranky and irritable—I'm forming a theory on why Mike Small always seems so angry and poorly-spelled on his Fife Diet blog.

Yesterday was hectic: I had a fam trip around Edinburgh all day, as a result of which I had my one permitted non-Diet business lunch. I went a bit mad on chicken curry with chips and rice and a chocolate crispie for dessert. The other guy who had a crispie was trying to convince me that they were unacceptably chewy, but I wasn't complaining. Then I had a market research meeting in the evening.

In between the two appointments I had to do something about dinner. I slapped a venison casserole into the slow cooker with some potatoes and a carrot and a parsnip. Plenty of stock, a little jellied venison stock for luck, and sloshed in a bit of Bouvrage. Ordinarily I have to be in the right mood for venison, but this week I don't have a lot of choice. Then off to debate the finer points of spring water bottle designs for two hours.

At the meeting I asked for water and was given Volvic. It's not from Fife, but I'm refuse to turn into that guy who sends stuff back because it's Not Local Enough, so I drank it.

Back home to a deliciously slow-roasted venison casserole. Only, not.

The potatoes were rock-hard, so I left it in the slow cooker for another hour. Still underdone. Doled out a portion and cooked the fuck out of it in a pan. Still underdone. Microwaved it. Still underdone. Fuck it, I have to eat something, so I added some pureed raspberries (should be redcurrants, but I don't have any of those), steamed some spinach, and got on with it.

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Looks good, huh? Wasn't.

The venison was lovely and tender, and the sauce was a meal in itself. The vegetables, though, were crunchy and raw. The raspberries just added seeds to an already disastrous combination of textures: on the other hand, towards the bottom of the bowl, the extra flavour was quite welcome.

Under normal circumstances, I would have given up about four paragraphs back, got a takeaway, and left the slow cooker on overnight in the hope of rescuing it tomorrow. I don't have that sort of freedom on the Fife Diet, and I was hungry.

Today is Leftovers Day. Porridge for breakfast (chewy, again), soup with gammon for lunch, and more casserole tonight. I'm hoping the extra cooking has redeemed it, but I'm not hopeful.