A LEAF FROM ABRAHAM'S COOKBOOK

Since we are on the subject of food, I have to give you a recipe. First because it was kindly requested by one of my very esteemed readers, and I would never do anything to antagonise either of them ;-), but also because it seems no one can seriously call themselves a blogger if you haven't shared the benefits of your culinary creativity with some strangers.

Before we start, I have to warn you that I have chosen a recipe that may test your skills. Not your cooking skills, it is dead easy to prepare, but your shopping skills: some of the ingredients might not be that easy to find, depending on where you live. Of course, you are free to replace some of them, or even all, by a substitute of your choice. But if you do replace them all, well, it's probably an entirely different dish you'll make, and more seriously, my many experiments with this recipe have shown me that the combination I'm giving you below is probably the best one.

GRATIN DE POISSONS A LA LYONNAISE

Ingredients (for 6 people):

• 600g of fish fillets, fresh or frozen.
  The original recipe calls for coley, although any white fish is suitable, as is salmon. Avoid fish with a meaty texture, like tuna.
  
• 150g of scallops, without the coral.
  Very small scallops are best. If using bigger ones, cut them in pieces about the diameter of a 50p coin.
  
• a packet of 6 small quenelles, or 4 bigger ones.
  Quenelles are a kind of soft pasta/dumpling made with eggs, a speciality of the city of Lyon in France. They are the shape and size of a sausage, and can be flavoured by adding chicken, veal or pike to the mix. Here, use the non-flavoured type (in the UK, you can buy those online). But whatever you do, buy fresh quenelles. The tinned variety are just pieces of sponge in a dubious sauce.
  
• 150g of button mushrooms, brushed, sliced. Cans of mushrooms are fine.
  
• 150g of crème fraiche
  
• 150ml of single cream (thick)
  
• a small piece of butter
  
• salt and pepper to taste
  

Poach the fish in water until its texture becomes very soft. Dry it on a clean towel or kitchen paper, then flake it thoroughly using a fork (or your fingers: it works even better). Express as much water from the flakes as you can: you don't want that water to come out at cooking time.
Unless you are using mushrooms from a can, melt half of the butter in a frying pan and cook the button mushrooms on low heat. They must be cooked through, but not too soft.
Melt the other half of the butter in another frying pan, and cook the scallops also on low heat, 5 minutes covered, then 5 minutes uncovered, to avoid searing or frying them. They must be cooked through and have gained that slightly meatier texture.
Poach the quenelles in water (preferably done last) until they have expanded. Then dry them briefly and cut them in slices about as thick as your little finger.
Put all the cooked ingredients in a large bowl along with the two types of cream, mix thoroughly and season to your taste. Then transfer to a gratin dish (shallow oven-proof dish) and put the whole thing in a medium-hot oven for about 20 to 30 minutes (the top must just start to turn brown).
Enjoy, as a (rather copious) main dish with some green salad on the side, or as a starter for about 10 people.

Here is what the result must look like, more or less (like most "cuisine bourgeoise", the emphasis is on taste rather than presentation):

This is a dish that my mother used to make on Sundays for the whole family, or when we had guests. Believe it or not, it was only meant as a starter, with a full roast and a cake to follow. Looking back, I think her philosophy for these Sunday lunches was: if at the end of the meal, anybody at the table is still physically able to eat, or indeed to breathe, she has failed as a hostess. Let me reassure you, she rarely ever failed...

Wow, my very first recipe published on my blog. I feel such a domestic God, now! Just call me Marty Stewart...

EDIBLE

I can't believe that I have been blogging for a month, and we haven't yet talked seriously about food. As you can see from my profile, I have a keen interest in good food. I know, it usually means "I am a fatty". I was going to protest "Not in this case!", but what's the point? You'll have to wait until I decide to publish a photo of myself - in a decade or two. Anyway, it's not good food I want to discuss today, but its opposite. You see, yesterday was Burns night...

For those of my esteemed reader who don't live in the UK, Robert "Rabbie" Burns is Scotland's national poet, and on his birthday, 25th January, Scots celebrate their Scottishness (I mean, even more than usual) with a traditional supper that has to include their national dish, haggis: a refined delicacy composed of sheep's heart, liver and lungs, minced together with oatmeal, suet and spices, and boiled for three hours in the sheep's stomach. Mmm... They even have a poem dedicated to this culinary chef-d'œuvre, written by Burns of course, in which he celebrates the superiority of that fare over effete French and Italian cuisine. Scots have never been afraid of controversy.

I know some would recoil in horror at the evocation of such a dish, but I am made of sterner stuff. In fact, being always eager for new experiences, culinary or otherwise, I have been able to sample from what would seem to some of you the shopping list for Hell's dinner parties: rabbit, octopus, snails, frogs, crocodile, python, cow's udder, lamb's brain, duck gizzard, chicken feet, fish eggs, swallow's nest...

Not feeling queasy yet? Good. Have you ever watched one of these reality shows where people are stranded in the jungle without food or a roof over their head, then made to eat the most disgusting stuff under pain of elimination and, Heaven forbid, immediate repatriation? Well, now you can recreate that lovely feeling in the comfort of your own home. A few years ago, some department stores in the UK started to sell an interesting range of dry goods, from which you can see a sample below:

The funny part of it is that although this, err, food, is probably the very last resort of some Amazonian tribe when they run out of fish eyes, here in London it costs significantly more than the same weight of prime quality steak. Oh, and if you wonder what it tastes like, the toasted ants are quite dry, with an earthy flavour, but not much worse than say, roasted pistachios. As for the Mopani worms, it's a bit more chewy and definitely an acquired taste.

Well, I won't detain you any longer, it's nearly time for dinner. Bon appétit!

AFTER THE FUNERAL

I have thankfully only a limited experience of funerals, but from what I have seen so far, both in person and on the silver screen, they always take place in gloomy weather, or preferably even under pouring rain; and I had the impression that there was an unspoken agreement between the Good Lord and his finest creation, that when any of them would be laid to rest, He would make sure that their immediate surroundings would appear to be in mourning too.

Apparently, my deceased relative was not party to that agreement because, although it was raining heavily when my plane landed, on the day of the burial, the sky was crisp and blue, and there was not a cloud in sight. I might have wondered at this oversight of the Almighty - after all, He is supposed to be all-seeing and all-knowing - but I couldn't help thinking it was actually quite fitting. The point of funeral services is to assist mourners along in the grieving process, to help them express their pain so they can free themselves from it, or at least learn to deal with it. Whether it is the meeting of friends and family, sometimes not seen in a long time, whether it is the rituals of religions, most of which see death more as a change than as a conclusion, whether it is the common reminiscing over cherished or half-forgotten memories, everything that helps us make peace with our loss, accept it and look beyond the painful feelings, has to be welcome. And so, maybe, the sun finally emerging in a pristine sky after days of torrential rain can play a role too. At least, I think it did for me.

I'd like to be able to say that, thanks to all that, I am in just as good a mood as I was before learning of my bereavement. But today, it was pouring again, there was not one parking place left at the gym, and someone stole my towel at the swimming pool. Barack has let us down already!

SOMBRE MOOD...

What a difference a couple of days make! I have just been told of a bereavement in my family, so I'm afraid I will be unable to provide you your fix of moods for a few days. I dare say you'll bear that deprivation better than I do mine...

GOOD MOOD!

There are days when you feel that the world is smiling at you. Or maybe it's you who are smiling, and the world is only smiling back. But the sky is bright blue, the sun is shining, there are lots of people at the gym and yet you manage to find a great parking place close to the door, on the way back that nice lady stops to let your car in, and when you wave to thank her, she waves back...

I have been told it's the Barack Obama effect. Apparently, he is going to beat the credit crunch, solve world hunger, and usher in a new golden age. Well, good luck to him, and thanks. He has already made my day, and I feel in a really good mood. Here's wishing that you're all feeling the same.

MY FIFTEEN MINUTES

This morning, a nice-looking girl accosted me in the street, and I didn't even have my foldable boxes with me! Of course, she was holding a mike in her hand, and she had with her a man pointing a professional-size video camera at me, so the likelyhood that she stopped me to make some romantic overtures was fairly remote, unless they were shooting the pilot of some strange new reality show.
(I'm starting to sound like I am looking for romance every time I set foot out of the house, aren't I? I swear it is not the case!)

Anyway, I was thinking she must be covering some burning news topic, and wanted to ask my opinion about it as the proverbial, well, man in the street. I must admit I was looking forward to being interviewed. First because, as my friends would undoubtedly tell you, I have a certain propensity to give my opinion, even when nobody is asking. And also because, having extensive experience of appearing on television, I don't feel as awkward in front of a camera as some novices would. Or so I choose to believe.
(Didn't I mention that I have appeared many times on television, in several countries - not that I take undue pride in it, of course -? Well, I guess it's a story for another day...)

Unfortunately, to my great disappointment, it turned out that the lady was making a survey about the impact of some advertising campaign, on beer of all subjects. The camera was only there to record what I said in more detail for the marketing executives to study. I must now make a very painful confession, in fact an unforgivable one for someone who lives in the UK, and which will probably cost me the respect of my male readership: I don't drink beer. I have tried, mind you, as it is such a social handicap in the English-speaking world, but I just don't like the taste of the thing. So I keep on embarassing my friends in restaurants and pubs by ordering soft drinks and sweet wines, "sissy drinks" as one of them (a woman!) quite bluntly put it.

As you can imagine, having for once no opinion on the subject, and being very unlikely to have noticed the campaign (especially as that one, quite uncharacteristically, did not make a large use of lightly-clad models), I was not a prime subject for the survey. I was therefore quickly dismissed by my interviewer, and that was the end of it.

So I guess that if I want to become famous, I have to hang all my hopes on this blog again. I'm counting on you!

© Bahia de Banderas News

THE LATEST GEAR

I did a spot of shopping today (did I mention that I like food shopping?), and not for the first time, I was the object of a lot of female attention at the checkout. You're probably expecting now that I am going to boast about the effect of the gym, or of the new coat, or maybe about my boyish good looks, wit and charm. Well, I am sure all those had some influence, but the ladies' attention was more particularly focused on the foldable plastic crate that I use to carry my purchases back home.

Thank God, I am not one of those scarily organised persons whose whole life is neatly stacked into little boxes (I wish I were sometimes!). But I have lived in Germany for a while, and although I have been assured that they don't actually shoot on the spot people who needlessly use plastic bags for their shopping, I have never beeen willing to put that to the test. So ever since, even after moving to the UK (they can get to you anywhere), every time I go to the supermarket, I have been bringing with me one of these.

This may look like an ordinary foldable plastic box to you, but this model, reinforced with metal pins, is specially imported from Germany: the puny British version just doesn't compare in terms of sturdiness and durability.

In the end, my status as a hero of nature conservation and practical living was short-lived and both women went back to their own shopping. Still, my friends were right: if you want the girls to notice you, nothing like buying the latest German import...

FLYING AWAY

I had some family staying with me over the week-end, and today I drove them back to the airport to catch their plane. Being at the airport, or on the platform of a railway station on such occasions brings up conflicting emotions in me. Of course, there are the farewells and the sadness of the separation (luckily it will not be too long in that instance). But when you look around you, there is also all the bustle of annoyingly tanned people in summer clothes, coming back from holidays in the sun, the calling of exotic destinations on loudspeakers, the planes taking off for their journey across the oceans; more than enough to send you dreaming of different skies, faraway places, and all that discovering you could be doing. The French have a saying: "partir, c'est mourir un peu" (to leave is to die a little). But to me, being left behind is the worse fate.

Talking about painful separations, the Christmas tree has finally found its resting place on the common. It obviously did not want to leave, because it left about half its needles on the floor as I tried to force it through the doors of the house. In the end though, its resistance was of no avail, and it is there now at the top of a heap, probably cursing my ingratitude. So many partings...

SKIN DEEP

I had decided not to go to the gym this morning, so I thought I would stop at a nearby park to take some pictures in the frozen morning light: these 365 photos don't just take themselves, you know!

As I was looking at the bark of a gnarled old tree, thinking it might make a good subject, a man standing next to me, and whom I had failed to notice, tried to engage in a conversation. Now, I am not a totally asocial person, I even have some friends, but I must admit I was not entirely thrilled by that fellow's overtures: it was early (and I am not a morning person), it was very cold, I was in a bit of a hurry... More crucially, the man had all the signs of the tramp: unkempt hair, bushy beard, scruffy clothes, skin not unlike that bark in texture, the cherry on the cake being a rather unpleasant smell coupled with a poor sense of personal space.

Needing no further encouragement than my occasional monosyllabic responses, he entered in a somewhat one-sided discussion about photography. Surprisingly, he was able to recognise instantly the brand and model of my camera. He then listed the three cameras that he personally owned (I must confess to some incredulity at that mention), and offered to show me his latest acquisition. He obviously took my lack of answer as an assent, because he opened a very battered pouch to reveal what turned out to be a brand new compact camera of the lastest model. And the photos he had taken, which he showed me very spontaneously, weren't half bad either; in fact, I am not sure that what you have seen of my production is to the same standard. We ended up comparing notes on indoor photography, and he even gave me a couple of tips on how to use my new flash.

Going back to my car, I tried to convince myself (without much success I must say) that he was some eccentric professional photographer just back from a week-long nature shoot, where he had no access to running water. The fact is, if he was a tramp, he was a very well-equipped and gifted one. But what worries me most is what he may be saying about me in his blog right now...

WHERE ARE YOU?

I was watching the news while having my breakfast this morning, and I came across a report on a fascinating gadget. It looks very much like a wristwatch, and it has all the features of a digital one, but it also contains a tiny GPS receptor inside which allows its position - and that of whoever is wearing it - to be tracked in real time. An additional feature prevents removal unless you have the required electronic key. But the most interesting detail is that the gadget is not meant to be worn by convicts, or cattle, but by children!

The chief executive of the company that manufactures the devices said, apparently without a trace of irony, that they were meant to "give children their freedom and parents peace of mind". Did I hear "Big Brother" and "doublethink"?

Not only does that device curtail children's freedom, but they will probably see it as a challenge. If you tell a feisty, but otherwise well-behaved child that he is punished and has to stay in his room, chances are that he will do it, albeit begrudgingly. If you lock him up, he will probably jump out of the window. Besides, a resourceful kid will find a way to get rid of the bracelet, and attach it to a nearby pigeon. Should make for some interesting location readings (it's apparently accurate to about 10m).

As for peace of mind, please let's not fool ourselves! If you are the type of person who feels the need to be informed of your child's location every moment of the day, you will never know peace of mind. Even if you manage to control your child, you'll be suspecting your employees, your lover, your accountant...

So, a word to the wise. If your somewhat jealous lover just offered you for Christmas a rather gaudy digital watch, you'd better be on your best behaviour. Or find a good locksmith.

BIRTH ANNOUNCEMENT

Moods is happy to announce the arrival of its little brother (sister?), My 365 sides. The birth went very well, although it came a bit later than expected. You can visit the new-born there.

The idea behind this new blog is not mine (you may have heard of "Project 365"), but the principle behind it is quite simple: I will post for every day of 2009 a photo I have taken myself, this year, preferably on the day of the post (although I may stretch that last rule depending on the availability of subjects, my workload, or even my, err, mood). The photos on My 365 side may have a -tenuous - link with the post on this blog, but then again, they may not.

The hope is that by the end of the year, I will have improved my photographic skills, or that at least I will have a somewhat whimsical record of the passed twelve months. It may even help you, dear reader, to form a better impression of me and my life, although how high that comes on your priority list I am not quite sure.

In any case, since a picture is worth a thousand words, this blog should give you plenty of reading. Especially as I can't promise I won't add a few words of my own from time to time.

MENS SANA IN CORPORE SANO

I go, not always regularly, to a gym (I started before January 1st, honest!). A very pleasant place admittedly, with a swimming pool, tennis courts, a big lounge with very confortable sofas and an Internet café, the works. Even so, I have always wondered at the underlying business concept of gym clubs. It basically relies on customers to pay hefty sums of money, month in, month out, for the privilege of putting themselves through hell in the company of other sweating, grunting people. I must say it doesn't sound like a winning proposition to me...

If you look at it in detail however, it's actually quite clever. For instance, they have in my gym a crèche, where working-out mothers can leave their progeny while they complete their masochistic ritual. It's amazing what kind of torture parents are willing to endure in order to get a couple of hours of child-free respite!

There are also other, subtler ways to build up the loyalty of customers. One of them occured to me this morning, as I was in the changing-room. Like most people, when you go to the gym, your goal is probably to shed a few pounds and reach a reasonable level of fitness: maybe enough not to be laughed off the field in the next Accounting vs IT grudge match, or for the parents mentioned earlier, enough to catch Junior when he decides that dog on the other side of the road looks cute.

In any case, there comes a time when you think that you are closing in on that goal, and you feel half-reconciled with the reflection you see in the mirror (especially that one closer to the swimming pool which is always half fogged-up). That is usually the moment when some obscenely fit so-and-so walks by nonchalantly, all bulging pectorals, rippling abs and tight behind (not that you look in detail - whether they welcome your attention or not, staring at other men in the changing room is a lose-lose situation). Coincidentally, that is also the moment when, resisting the urge to kick that foggy mirror, you decide you'll probably renew that yearly subscription.

© Sports eBooks

So, I might regale you in the coming months with some more anecdotes from the gym, because it looks like I'll be in there for the long run (no pun intended)!

AFTER THE PARTY

There is a moment at the end of a party when the music has stopped, the guests are gone, the adrenaline rush has ebbed away, and all that is left to remind you of the fun you had is your living room looking not unlike the plain of Waterloo after the battle. With you in the middle of it, feeling a bit forlorn, and if you are inclined to melancholy, indulging maybe in some reflection on the fleeting nature of human pleasures.

That is how I have always felt about the first days of January. As a child, I viewed the period around Christmas as nothing short of magical. The run up to it, with all those hours spent pouring over toys catalogues, lost in the delicious agony of choice, and scrambling to finish my letter to Santa Claus in time (the post was apparently more effective in those days, and you could send a letter to the North Pole in less than a day!). Then the wonderful ritual of the Decoration Of The Tree, which turned an ordinary, dull, green tree into a gliterring, multicolored symbol of Christmas, the beacon that was going to guide Santa to us. The extent of my assistance was limited to hanging a few sparklers at the end, and making sure I stayed well away from the most fragile accessories, but I looked at the finished article very much as the result of my decorative skills. There was the dinner on Christmas eve, the best meal of the year since you could gorge up on delicious child-friendly finger food and then just sample at will further delicacies in the adult plates, only to be carried half-asleep into your bed just before midnight. And at last came Christmas morning, the high point of the whole year, made ten times more pleasurable by the build-up of expectation. The foot of the Christmas tree was buried in piles of presents that took ages to unwrap; though they were never exactly the ones in the catalogue (Santa must have had a different version), they never disappointed.

The remainder of the holidays was pleasant enough, mostly a blur of invitations, luncheons and grown-up discussions in the background while I was playing with my new favourite toy, or engrossed in some new book. But I knew at the back of my mind that the best had already come and gone, and that we were just gently rolling out to the dreaded moment when everybody would have to go back to school or to work. That moment was heralded, on the first Sunday of the year, by another ritual: just before taking the decorations from the tree, we would light the sparklers and the candles on it (yes, live candle: how we never started the year with a real bonfire I will never know), to get a last view of all its splendours. With the last of those sparklers out, went the lights of Christmas for that year.

I may have grown up since then (not everyone would agree with this statement), but I can't help feeling a slight pang when I see the lights being taken down in the streets, and I realise that the Christmas tree will soon join the heap of its brethren on the nearby common, stripped of its baubles and waiting to be taken to the shredder. But hey, the year is brand new, there will be lots of parties, and there's always Christmas next year!

OF SALES AND TALL PEOPLE

I must have been encouraged by my surgical prowesses earlier on, because I have attempted today another heroic feat, namely to go and buy a new coat in London during the sales. Contrary to many of my gender, I actually like shopping for clothes (or food - or books - well, you get the idea). But to do that during the first Saturday of the January sales seems needlessly reckless: the crowd, the noise, the cold, the ruthless fights for discounted designer clothes... Most sane men would rather remove a cast using nothing but their teeth.

Well, in the end, it was all very civilised. As I would have known if I was of the gentler sex, most of the sales had begun just after Boxing Day, and all the items worth fighting ruthlessly for were long gone. As were unfortunately all large sizes for gentlemen's coats. Have you ever noticed how a large number of short men are impeccably dressed? You might have rather ungenerously thought that they were compensating for their small size in order to catch the eye of the ladies. Okay, that's what I rather ungenerously thought. But the truth is that they are the only ones who can find any clothes that fit them, especially during sales. Clothes for taller men, already scarce in normal times, seem to vanish when sales are on.

I am not far from thinking that it's part of a huge plot by short people to achieve world domination and start a race of dapper dwarves. How else do you explain the high number of world leaders, past and present, who are of short stature: Napoleon, Berlusconi, Sarkozy, Medvedev, Kim Jong Il?... Don't say you haven't been warned!

Anyway, to cut a long story, I mean, to cut to the chase, I did get the coat I was looking for, although the lady had to get my size from the back room, probably from some secret stash. And it seems to fit rather well. What do you think?

WITHOUT A BANG

© طاھر

There was a great fireworks display on the banks of the Thames two days ago to celebrate the New Year. I must confess the child in me is still fascinated by this kind of shows. There is something in these flowers of light, blossoming into the night in perfect synchronisation, and then fading away to be replaced by one even more beautiful, that strikes a chord in me.

However, my appreciation of pyrotechnics does not extend to the firecrackers that some retarded adolescents like to explode until the small hours every night, for about a week after New Year. These tend to wake up the grumpy old man in me instead; sometimes quite literally, at about three in the morning. On those occasions, I try to while away my moments of wakefulness by devising punishments I would like to inflict on the offenders (okay, I may be a bit harsh there, but in my defence, it takes some doing to wake me up at that time of night).

Well, the women of Naples have proved more creative than me. They are so fed up by the accidents provoked every year by illegal fireworks and firecrackers, that they have decided to withhold sex unless their partners (apparently, like weapons, it's a male thing) promise to clean up their act. So, gentlemen, what about spending New Year's eve in Naples next year? With all these women going without sex, you might get lucky. And if you don't, at least you'll sleep well...

A GOOD START

I hope you won't be disappointed, but after yesterday morning's surgical and culinary activity, there were no further larger-than-life exploits to report. Unless of course you count the ingestion of impressive amounts of very rich food to celebrate the passing of the year (which is threatening to make some of us larger than life), but that is hardly an uncommon occurrence in this house.

Which brings me nicely to the subject of New Year resolutions. Don't worry, I am not going to bore you by listing mine here. In fact, were I to have made such resolutions, I would not be too keen to shout about them on my blog: the last thing I want is to record publicly not only my current weaknesses, few as they may be, but my subsequent inability to amend them. You might say I am being a bit negative, but who am I to go against years of accumulated experience by would-be self-improvers all over the world?

The whole concept of New Year resolutions seems a bit strange to me. Does that day have some magical power to increase people's strength of will? Because on this occasion, they hope to achieve not just one, but most of the changes that have resisted their efforts the year before. If you absolutely have to be a better person, I don't see why it has to start on a calendar year. Nor should it necessarily be all in one go: not only does it seem more manageable to tackle your bad habits one at a time, but you should leave those around you some time to adapt to the new improved you!

But hey, what do I know? My own record in the field of self-improvement is best described as, err, patchy. So, maybe you can come back a year from now, and rub my nose (figuratively) in your slim waist, your stone-hard abs and your smoke-free breath. I will still have the last laugh, though. Because then, what resolutions can you possibly make for the following year?

Well, whether this year is one of relentless self-improvement, or just enough effort not to actually become a worse person, I hope it is your best so far.

© Bill Watterson