Coming Out

For breakfast this morning we once again awoke to find our currently lingering house guest snoring loudly on the bathroom floor. Like the staccato bark of gunfire, as it followed the traitorous black and tans as they ran away from the Fianna guns, he chirruped his hoarse nocturnal cough of an alcoholic evening into my tastefully tiled Porcelanosa floor. Floating in a languid pool of what can only be described as a potent mixture of both Indian madras and his own warm tepid pish, he reminded me of an earlier time. Be that as may, my loyalty to him still resisted all attempts to waver. He was there when I decided to pop my cherry and finally come out... I like to cook, there, now the world knows my worst kept secret. Sadly, I received not a single comment (at this point in the current post I reserve the right to manipulate the truth on this subject, because I can!) from the last post suggesting a mode of transport for the wee man himself. Personally I take this as a direct sign from his Ghod that the little singing fella was born to walk. Who am I to intervene with the divine? Instead, we gave him a small gift to provide him with something even closer to his heart. Aye, shoe lifts and a dozen bottles of something warm and gold. Some leopards very rarely change their spots. At least he remembered to keep the receipt for the tax man.

At some point over the next few weeks before we finally say cheerio to the auld ways, I plan to sit down with the Map fella to pen a more intimate post about many unanswered questions. No time like the present for a wee snifter though, eh? I was toying with a few brief lines and a simple farewell to redemption, but then I havered on the edge and transcribed a rough manuscript that would choke a small donkey. No connection to any short singers in Limerick intended. In the end I shall keep my latest thoughts in the image of masel and my pal. Relatively easy going, if not a tad simple. For this first flinty wee increment I have changed no names, dates or places to benefit those who wish not to appear in person. No, I have merely chosen not to include any relevant information in the first place. There may be a wee smidgen of dust about on my kitchen counters that has gathered in the last few weeks, but the knives in the drawer are still nicely honed and sharp.

Complicity is a mask that eventually distorts your face. I've turned left a few times when I should have turned right, but I've never been a man that took anything from anyone that didn't deserve to lose it. As a misguided youth, I believed in taking only from the criminally rich, who had extorted it, usually through violence, from the innocent hard working man, and then repatriating it back to those who deserved a leg up back in the day. Yes, I do mean me. There are many men who once purchased anything that they wanted with their wealth, but sadly, could never afford the high cost of looking a working class man full in the face. They paid my wages until I discovered the love of a good woman. Many healing experts, divination magicians, shaman, catholic human spirit restorers, not to mention religious sorcerers, do-gooders and other devout black crows straight out of the seminary in Rome have attempted to relieve me of my blackened soul by beating the divil from within me. The truth is, I need to keep the pain of my deeds inside of me to remind me why the smell of freshly shovelled earth, honestly toiled, always smells better than the cloying stench of piles of 'acquired' bank notes. They say there are no atheists in foxholes, but that is pure shite, I have shovelled my share of earth on more than just a few.

The old adage is true, behind every successful man is a strong woman. I found mine at the age of eight when herself ridiculed me as I reached out my hand for her brothers lunch money. Hell hath no fury like a belle fae Belfast! I have never loved another woman like it since. The lady herself educated me to the fact that there is no greater taste than that savoured on a Friday night after a hard week amongst those who earned it honestly. The joy of books and culture followed and was soon to be my secret passion, just behind a rather nice peaty forty year old single malt.With that said, the weight of guilt is sometimes far out-weighed by the feel of a large, heavy sports bag full of illicit cash nicely tucked away from a certain adventure in the 1980's. Eventually I found that breaking hearts and hard reputations exceeded the daily grind of breaking bones. Over the last 35 years I have unfortunately suffered the pain of both gunshot and blade. The blood on my own hands often made it increasingly difficult to clean up my past. No greater pain ever befell me more than seeing the hurt lines etched on my good lady's face as I occasionally meandered from my own genuine path of redemption during the final years of my youth. I was never one to heed advice from those riding in Mercedes, when in realty they were more suited to riding the all night bus.

Between us we have raised our children to be both moral and correct. Bad seeds do not always grow to be bad crops. They have escaped the curse of a net, snare, or any other thing that entrapped and entangled simply by being shown the values of not disappointing their father who himself set such poor standards. No infernos or fiery lakes will consume them, nor will they turn to pillars of salt or have their eyes plucked out by Ghod's ravenous ravens sent from the kingdom of heaven. Thankfully they will never have to tap keys to signal the end of a redemption period, nor will they have to bear the burden of bursting into flames when they pass a nun in the street. Hallelujah, eh? It's not always been easy to inculcate into them that what is for them will not go by them, especially as life in your twenties is easier to enjoy with a few notes tucked into your pocket. Life is never going to be a bowl of cherries, that much we can all be sure. It is only when you look back on a life half lived that you realise that redemption, like guilt, is merely a quicksand to the feet for those who spent a happy childhood without shoes.

Chefs Cherry Pie & Cream


For the Cream:
250ml single cream
1 tablespoon caster sugar
The noyau from the centre of two dozen or so cherry stones (see below)

For the pastry:
340g plain flour or "00" type flour from Italy is nice
A pinch of salt
A smidgen of caster sugar
170g very cold unsalted butter cut into 1cm cubes
100ml ice water
egg, lightly whisked with a splash of milk for brushing

For the filling:
500g stoned sour cherries (stones reserved)
150g caster sugar
2 Tbsp corn or potato flour
A pinch of sea salt
1 tsp kirsch (optional)
The noyau from the centre of a dozen cherry stones

For the Chef:
At least a good bottle of malt, poured naked into the glass, absolutely no ice or additives, unless you are born outside of wedlock or outside of Glasgow.

Method:
Butter a 9" pie plate and set aside.
Begin by getting your beautiful sour cherries from a friend or supplier you have found on the west coast of Scotland, taking them home, and quickly pitting or stoning them as they have a very short shelf life. The little hand-held contraptions I prefer, are the German-made cast aluminium ones with a coating that keeps the metal from reacting. They are sturdy and easy to use. Once you have stoned all of the cherries, you can freeze the fruit or use it right away. If you are lucky enough to have a glut of them, use what you need to make a pie, and freeze the rest.

Lay the cherry stones on a baking sheet lined with parchment paper and place them in a 180°C oven for a few minutes to just dry them out. The main purpose of this is so that your hammer or mallet doesn't slip while you are pounding them open. Place the dried stones in a neat row three inches from the edge of a tea towel. Fold the 3" length down over the stones and use a hammer or mallet to give each stone a swift blow. If you have ever mastered the art of swinging a lead pipe in a dark alley, then you will find your skill will finally come in handy once again. Find a rhythm and get cracking. When you have finished, lift the cloth back and carefully select the noyau from the crushed shells. Set about 12 aside for the pie. Take about 24 of them and place in a bowl. Add a tablespoon of fine sugar and crush them up a bit with the back of a spoon. Pour the single cream over this and cover and chill for at least 6 hours. Take the time to enjoy yet another half bottle of the gold.

Now, after your wee nap, make your pastry. Place the flour, salt, sugar and butter cubes into a mixing bowl with the paddle attachment and knock it around for a few minutes to break up the butter. A pie pastry should be shorter than the pastry for a galette, so the butter can be mixed in until it resembles a coarse meal. While the mixer is on, drizzle in the cold water and immediately turn it off when the pastry starts to come together into a ball. You must move quickly at this point, as though the polis are urgently chapping your door. Gather the dough together and then divide it into two. Wrap each ball in cling film and them chill for at least 30 minutes. Meanwhile you can make your cherry filling. Combine all of your ingredients except the noyau and let this sit for a couple of minutes to leech out all the juice from the cherries. Finely chop the noyau.

Preheat your oven to 200° C. The pastry should be ready to roll, so lightly flour a surface and roll to about two - two-and-a-half millimetres thick. Line the pie pan, sprinkle with your chopped noyau, and pour in the filling. Set this in the fridge to chill while you roll out the top half of the pastry. Roll out as above, but using a paring knife, cut one-and-a-half centimetre wide strips. Pull the pie out of the fridge, and arrange in a lattice. Brush with the egg wash, and place in the oven. Bake for about an hour, or until the pastry is golden and the filling is thickly bubbling up through the lattice.
To serve, strain the cream into a jug and pour over hot slices of pie. I always serve mine with a bottle of something fruity and red and most definitely with good friends.

The Little Singing Fella

For breakfast this morning I had the little singing fella firmly on my mind. "An unusual choice of topic around food, Jimmy" you might well be thinking. Aye, you would be right. Thinking back, I suppose it was akin to watching a bucket of pigs being liquidised in glorious Technicolor while sitting down to lunch with the family priest. The piggy's being slightly easier to stomach than the wee man and his gravy moustache, I assure you.

I digress...

As you may or may not be aware, our wee pal had to cut short his midweek tryst to Galway City with his good lady, due to a vehicular meltdown 60 kms away fae the camp site of which he frequents often. Now wee Mháirtín is a kindly oul sowl, a hard working man from good breeding stock, the six fingers on each hand merely emphasis just what a friendly family he is originally fae. He deserves a break away fae all his woes on occasion. He was crestfallen the other night in O'Malleys, so much so he accidentally forgot to slip off his stool and head for the toilet when it was his round. To cheer up the little fella I have decided to put my hand in my pocket and treat him to a new mode of transport. The only dilemma I have is although he is closer to me than some of my brothers, I haven't a wee scoobie as to what sort of transportation I am to buy him.

Ideas please, tell me, what in your opinion would suit him best, keeping in mind his many, many annoying faults and drunken wee ways. The winner will get to meet him in person and hand over the keys. On second thoughts, a better prize would probably be the bucket of liquidised piggy's!

No fancy recipes this time around, for some reason I haven't felt right since breakfast. Instead, a working mans lunch for the ladies to supply to their men this very day.

Worky Mans Grub

Pickled onion
Boiled egg
Pork Pie
Slab of cheddar
Huge dod of bread

Throw the lot in greaseproof paper, sling it in a brown paper bag, leave it on the kitchen table before you go to your beds at night. Job done, on with the daytime soaps that all the ladies enjoy so much.


To be continued on my return......

Revelations, Revamps and Ragu

For breakfast this morning we all sat around a skillet of bacon rashers, square sausage, ripened tomatoes and huge black mushrooms sizzling evenly in the salty goodness of which the bacon had originally arrived. We each tore great white dods of fluffy bread apart as we dipped it into the auld copper pan and tasted the full flavour of the rashers. Nothing follows bacon better than a good strong pot of tea. We indulged ourselves with tea and the family about us as we chatted and turned over the current excitement that has filled our abode rapidly over the last few months. Our task for the morning was to make a list of all the things that we are to bring along for the new place in the sun and the items that would not be suitable and might look out of place. For those that are unaware, it may come as a bit of an oul shock to discover that a devout atheist such as myself would choose to live in a converted chapel. There now, you might possibly know something personal about me at last. I have done for many years since. You do not have to believe in an entity to appreciate fine architecture, vaulted ceilings and solid green oak beams about your head. I'm sure that even Jaysus would appreciate the way in which we have put down the odd rug and thrown a bit of paint about the walls. At this point we should pause for reflection and allow Mr Pewfodder to wipe up the spilled coffee that he has just spat onto his keyboard. Strangely enough my feet are beginning to stiffen, perhaps it is the beginning of me turning into a pillar of salt. Blasphemer Chef! Aye, I'd probably go along with that.

The thing is though, solid oak furniture and the usual customary décor that befits our chapel home does not fit well with open plan Spanish white walls and clean lines, not to mention glass viewing windows facing the Med. Dilemma. Actually no. Siobhan and my daughters have offered to step in and save the day. The list was a waste of time. Everything will remain in situ at this end for our return at Christmas and Hogmanay. Why cart furniture halfway around Europe when you have women in the house prepared to go on ahead and shop till they drop? Aye, that'll be right! Even someone who has taken as many blows to the head as masel is no going to agree with that, eh? No, we are going to go revisit our past. When we moved into our tiny first home as newlyweds we had very little, but we found infinite pleasure hunting for bargains of cast off furniture and hand-me-down knick knacks. Money was extremely hard to come by and there wasn't such a vast array of beautiful items available as there is today. We were happy just being together and sharing the sofa which had been previously owned by my family (since 1756 if the stains were anything to go by) and watching the damp grow mushrooms on the window sill brought us closer together. Lean times they might have been, but happy times indeed, without question. We intend to enjoy many more happy days while we are still fit and able. Meanwhile, here is something enjoyable and tasty to keep yourselves busy in your kitchen as I go about arranging rescue for the little singing fella. It would appear that his VW camper has broken down 30km this side of Galway City and herself is busting for the loo.

He should never have sold his pushbike.


Ragu alla Contadina

3 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil (45 ml)
2 ounces/60g pancetta, finely chopped
1 medium red onion, diced
1 medium stalk celery with leaves, diced
1 small carrot, diced
1 large handful of sweetcorn
4 ounces/125g boneless veal shoulder or round
4 ounces/125g pork loin, trimmed of fat, or 4 ounces/125g mild Italian sausage (made without fennel)
8 ounces/250g beef skirt steak, hanging tender, or boneless chuck blade or chuck centre cut (in order of preference)
1 ounce/30g thinly sliced Prosciutto di Parma
2/3 cup (5 ounces/160ml) dry red wine
1 & 1/2 cups (12 ounces/375ml) chicken or beef stock (homemade if possible)
2 cups (16 ounces/500ml) semi skimmed milk
3 tins plum tomatoes, drained
Salt and freshly ground black pepper to taste

Heat the olive oil in a 12 inch (30cm) skillet (frying pan) over medium-high heat. Have a large saucepan handy to use once browning is complete. Add the pancetta and minced vegetables and sauté, stirring frequently with a wooden spoon, 10 minutes, or until the onions barely begin to colour. Coarsely grind all the meats together, including the prosciutto, in a food processor or meat grinder. Stir into the pan and slowly brown over medium heat. First the meats will give off a liquid and turn dull grey but, as the liquid evaporates, browning will begin. Stir often, scooping under the meats with the wooden spatula. Protect the brown glaze forming on the bottom of the pan by turning the heat down. Cook 15 minutes, or until the meats are a deep brown. Turn the contents of the skillet into a strainer and shake out the fat. Turn them into the saucepan and set over medium heat.

Add the wine to the skillet, lowering the heat so the sauce bubbles quietly. Stir occasionally until the wine has reduced by half, about 3 minutes. Scrape up the brown glaze as the wine bubbles. Then pour the reduced wine into the saucepan and set the skillet aside. At this point myself and the delightful daisyfae usually open the second bottle and swally the contents before continuing.
Stir ½ cup stock into the saucepan and let it bubble slowly, 10 minutes, or until totally evaporated. Repeat with another ½ cup stock. Stir in the last 1/2 cup stock along with the milk. Adjust heat so the liquid bubbles very slowly. Partially cover the pot, and cook 1 hour. Stir frequently to check for sticking. Add the tomatoes, crushing them as they go into the pot. Cook uncovered, at a very slow bubble for another 45 minutes, or until the sauce resembles a thick, meaty stew. Season with sea salt and white pepper. Hopefully, it should look like this.

Divining the Divine

For breakfast this morning we enjoyed fresh sage eggs with smoked salmon, purple onion, capers and cream cheese on a date and oat muffin. The beverage was of course a rather smooth African roast bean coffee we found in a charming wee village in Rockingham. It's Siobhan's favourite, but tends to be limited to special occasions or when I find myself in the dog house. Today however, wasn't a special occasion... say no more, eh? At the end of his rather expensive feng shui tour of our home he had finally concluded and was in the process of returning his incense sticks, divining rods, magnetic compasses and wax paper equations back to the rather neat little velvet lined case laying open on my table. As I escorted him through to the hallway I clasped him firmly by the hand and pumped it professionally until I could hear the bones crack in his greedy huckster fingers.

His pain was most probably profuse, but the real damage was done in the cold unsmiling stare I gave him as my eyes informed him that the surname etched upon the name plate at the front entrance to my gates wasn't just similar to the man he had at some point read about in the newspapers. I walked him courteously to his rented Mercedes parked outside on the gravel of my driveway. He hadn't even bothered to remove the tiny giveaway red dot sticker at the top of the windscreen that signified that the true owner of his rather flash chariot was in fact AVIS rather than Confucius. A small detail, but one that was to cost him not only his fee, but also the ability to fasten his tie or button his jacket with such easy dexterity for at least the next couple of months. His neatly written individual invoice was photocopied with just a blank space for his 'most valued client' name to be inserted at the top for his services.

I gifted him with a dozen of my best hens eggs and discreetly whispered into his rather oddly shaped oriental ear that if he ever contacted my wife again in my absence it would most definitely be done by way of a séance. It was a tough choice, but if pushed I would have to say that he evacuated his bowels a hairs breadth ahead of him clearing the two stone pillars that stand either side of my gateway. For a rental car it was surprisingly pokey.
I smiled graciously up at my wife as she gazed down at me through the first floor window. The warmth in her own smile beamed back at me at the way in which her husband had so warmly accepted this latest stranger into our home without quibble. Since her early retirement from her career wearing a black gown and an extremely expensive array of horse hair wigs, she has embarked upon a journey trying to fill the time enriched void which had appeared suddenly upon her horizon.

A feast of amateur theatre liaisons with the local women's guild had failed to satisfy her need for direction. Too young and far too sensible for arranging Gods flowers in the village church had seen the weekly pastime go to her older, rather tweedy, acquaintance of Mrs McFadden from her chosen charity group. Well, Siobhan calls it her charity group, me, let's just say that the witches of Eastwick are still alive and relocated to the west coast of Scotland in my own humble opinion. Charity begins at home with the distribution of love and maternal instincts to those who need a helping hand in life. Not saving spotted leopards in fly ridden jungles half way around the globe so that some Nigerian prince can wear real animal skinned shoes upon his dirty feet as he spends the hard-conned cash from vulnerable people in Europe. My biggest problem? I voice my opinions sometimes when it would be wiser just to think!

Top tips when dealing with the dark side that is known as faux feng shui, make sure your house has a toilet. This can be placed wherever the feng shui approved plumber says is best. If you're lucky you may already find one in the smaller room of your house. This is good for Chi in the lower intestine and colon. In China they squat over a hole in the dirt, but that's for enlightened people only. Best start slow eh? Tip number two, a bed is good for sleeping in. Chi is strongest in the midnight hours so a bed is essential! A bed can also be used for reading, intimate relations and arguing with your spouse in.  Interestingly enough, feng shui in Scottish Gaelic actually translates to: Put your wife's unused hobby crap in the garage. We start the clear out tomorrow after breakfast, shortly before the little singing fella will call me and tell me that my presence is required and that I must leave immediately. If all goes well, Siobhan should be finished in time to cook my dinner...

Chefs Apology Breakfast

4 large brown hens eggs
4 large brown hens egg whites
1 pinch of ground black pepper
4 scallions, tops only, thinly sliced
1 purple onion
Capers
Fresh sage
Sage
Philly cheese in a tub
2 thick slices of breaded ham
2 ounces quality thinly sliced Scottish smoked salmon (please... not the cheap supermarket stuff, it is not authentic. Ask for salmon taken from the waters of Loch Fyne, no where else.)

       - 1 ounce ounce smoked salmon, thinly sliced      

Added To Shopping List!

Combine eggs, egg whites and pepper in a small bowl. Stir briskly with a fork until well blended.  Heat oil in a non stick skillet over medium-low heat. Add scallions and cook, stirring, until softened, about 30 seconds. Pour the eggs into the pan and cook until they just begin to set, about 10 seconds; stir in salmon. Cook, stirring gently from time to time, until the eggs have thickened into soft, creamy curds, 3 to 5 minutes. Serve immediately onto oven warmed date and oat muffins with crisp, cool purple onion, a slice of ham and a splosh of Philly cheese.

Tilting At Windmills

For breakfast that morning we sat and took in the delicious aroma of freshly fallen rain drying on sun warmed pebbles in a magnificently cobbled presidio square.  With no time constraints, we languidly enjoyed the morning sunshine, a seemingly endless stream of delicious espresso's and perfectly poached eggs in a pleasantly quaint stramash of interestingly ordinary people. I would casually avert my gaze from my now compulsory habit of people watching just long enough to spread rich sunflower butter on to Siobhan's wheat toast. Apart fae the charmingly tall Italian lady with the somewhat alarming Adams apple and the rather manly hands, I could not detect even the slightest soupçon of an anomaly oozing discreetly from the other early morning diners sitting at the tables around us. The fast flowing Spanish accent is on occasion smoother than an exquisite brandy, at times drawing a man in like the all powerful delectable female flower, before erupting vociferously into a bubbling sequence of small volcanic shudders of delightful Mediterranean melee. The female Balearic vowel trickles warmly down a mans back, it leaves his nape damp with lust and an excitable muskiness that protrudes his guilt and forms a veritable ruddiness upon his cheeks.

I chuckled aloud as we took in the somewhat risqué real life metatheatre melodrama between two nearby octogenarians as they sparred playfully with their colourful linguistic tryst. It would seem that the romance begins beneath the morning sun, with the gift of laughter, intelligent conversation and a spot of playful patter over a sumptuous breakfast and then rapidly gathers speed towards a late candlelight supper. My own culture's special skill is sadly subliminal, conquering the smoking ban in public houses with little thought to smudged lipstick and in many cases embracing the coquette's scorn. Encouraging the purchase of wee black cocktail dresses from late night supermarkets and shamelessly embracing the glossy princesses in the TV guide. As a result, Glasgow now has more unromantic men per square mile than your average licensed bookie has leg men. Romance does exist it would seem, but only between the working man and his beloved Friday night pints. It is a romance that will never end in divorce, an intrepid voyage of burnt hops and Dublin's finest water as it cascades down many a torn-faced Glaswegian gullet. A true love lasts, while lust merely exists as long as the beery froth on the inside of a warm glass.

Don't get me wrong here, It's not that I am bitter about the fact that my own loveless culture is pure shite. No, merely a small glimmer of cultural cringe seeping through my brandy-addled pores as I perspire pure alcohol and attempt to practise my woo face before Siobhan glides ever gracefully towards our marital bed. Glasgow people don't as a rule need to advertise our heritage for the same reason Pavarotti didn't need to wear a name tag. We look exactly what we are... Heavies! Unscrupled villains, cattle meat literally hot on the hoof, with the knotty limb of an enormous oak announcing our arrival. Somewhat pale, prone to looking forever fervent, there is something distinctly suspect about the way in which Mother Nature gifted her Celtic men with Rottweiler good looks and physiques large enough to draw green-eyed pangs from a gaggle of Californian youths. How could she omit the one gene that offers up red and white roses, opens doors and allows us to cuddle up with the desirable women folk in our hearts? The tango is a sensual ballroom gallopade, rhythmically significant, that sadly is far too intricate for my large scaffolders feet to indulge, but at the very core of my rhinoceros reel beats the heart of a simple romantic Glaswegian fool.

 If only everything in life was as easy as an 8am poached egg, eh?

Alpaca Case & Be Gone

For breakfast this morning we had toasted teacakes with wild honey and blueberry muffins with gooseberry jam. It was to be a full Scottish fry, however, it would seem that my current squatter house sitter, the little singing fella, was a wee bit peckish in the night. What's a man to do, eh?

No posts for a couple of weeks during my time away, but I do have a favour to ask... I have been given a wee unwanted alpaca to go with the others that we have, but as no one knows her name it is high time we came up with a suitable handle. Perhaps you can come up with a few ideas in my absence? There will be a rather nice prize for the winner!

All I can tell you is that she is bright ginger in colour and lovably dopey. For some reason she also has a dirty patch on her rear end that looks as though she needs a good wash. I'm sure you can guess which name I thought of first, eh Miss Flibbertigibbet?

Back in a few weeks, cheery bye the noo.

The Last Dinosaur

For breakfast this morning she nibbled on a perfectly straight diagonal of brown wheat toast delicately dripping with bubbling hot Scottish butter. Minute droplets of perfectly clarified yellow tear drops of marmalade splashed goodness on to the white china plate so carefully balanced on her knee. I removed her boots and rubbed her toes to encourage the cold away after our early morning walk in the snow covered hills. She smiled, again reassuring me with those mesmerising violet eyes that I have gazed into for so many years. I had rarely seen her looking more radiant than she did sitting there with her hair pulled back in her usual casual Sunday chignon, her face fresh of all makeup, full of the excitement that awaits us both. Her unusual nervous smile took me back to the time when I first met her father in his own home. Looking back it may have been slightly inappropriate for our first conversation to contain the dialogue telling him that I would always be in his daughters life. Up until then he had refused to meet the wayward youth with the severely broken nose and such a colourful Glaswegian background. He was correct in all but one of his assumptions about me. A long comparison of this dichotomous binary grouping of sectarian barriers associated with the hatred between religions, faiths and a man and his birthplace would probably take me a decade to compile and you a moment to click off. I haven't got that long, I'm also surmising that you do not have the inclination to want to read about it either. 

The last few weeks have been swallowed up with the oul wans in the dinosaur graveyard that is, and always will be, my beloved childhood playground of Drumchapel and the memories of loyal pals that once shared its history with me. May they rest in peace. To those who accompanied us on the one way midnight journeys when I carried the shovel, no hard feelings, eh? To my many living friends who made it through the quagmire of our past, I say thanks. No post would ever be complete without a mention of the little singing fella and his unwavering loyalty. Mháirtín, no man could ever wish for a better friend. A fear fíor i measc na bhfear. We leave on Friday for a wee while.

Chefs Best Ever Recipe

1 good woman
1 large portion of man
1 warm country
1 big bag of dreams

Take the man and woman, bond together for 30 years, bind them with love, loyalty and a small amount of personal tragedy. Mix them together until they are inseparable and then allow them to rest together somewhere warm. Bake them under a hot sun until brown.

Underbelly

For breakfast this morning, I found myself standing in a grey concrete wasteland in a rather less salubrious part of Glasgow than I am used to. As I stood negotiating with the three men fanned tightly in front of me, I tried not to notice the way in which they visually sized me up in the same gladiatorial way of which I had once done to others in my youth. All, possibly of Albanian descent, I didn't ask, it had no bearing on the job at hand other than I knew I could not give this particular job to the local boys in case word got out that my sons were involved. We live in a small community, people talk! It had all started five days ago in the back room bar at Colm O'Neills place not far fae Baile a' Chaolais. The sons had got in to a wee bit of bother while collecting a few things for me out in the back of beyond. Things had gotten very dirty, but no harm had been caused and they all managed to get out safely. All that was left was for me to take the initiative and clean things up a little.

The tallest of the Albanians, clad in the usual uniform of hooded sweatshirt, cheap chain store denim and the inevitable obligatory designer label running shoes, seemed to be the only member of the group who understood and spoke the same language as me. As he gazed up I couldn't help but notice that his left eye was glazed over in a a yellowy-white opaque. An oddity that reminded me of a jar of pickled onions, the vinegar, milky in colour due to age, that had stood for most of my childhood in the plate glass window of the oul fish and chip shop in the heart of Drumchapel. A lot of hard men were to be found in Drumchapel, but I do not know the name of any man brave enough to eat fae that jar. More worrying was the fact that it was he who stood there with the gun in his hand. I thought it too rude to ask, with his somewhat hindered eyesight, if he was in fact, the best man for the job.

Eventually, after a one way pigeon-English explanation as to how exactly I wanted the job carried out, the way it was to be done and the way I wanted it to look before payment was made, a somewhat staccato conversation developed between them. 'Onion-eye' related the information of my requirements in the way most eastern Europeans do, much pointing and gesticulation in my direction, flintlock vowels continually spat out and unspeakable words penetrated the air. They wanted more money. I put on my best hard stare and said... no. I turned away to walk back to my car. Onion changed his tone. Money was discussed again. A small increase was agreed, the job was on. I wanted it doing there and then. I was aching to get this whole messy thing put to bed before Siobhan found out and there was hell to pay for not only the sons, but also for me.

The details of what happened next are not important. We are all too familiar with what happens when you put a high powered gun in the hands of an experienced man with the promise of payment on completion and is let loose on someone elses dirty work. The crux of this tale is thus: do not send your sons out to poach collect wild hare and pheasant for a game pie you are thinking of preparing, in your wife's very shiny car, especially when it has been raining and the country roads are bogging with thick brown mud. Otherwise, you too may have to sneak her car out of the garage, before she returns home later this weekend, to get it jet-washed, polished and cleaned (inside and out) by the only nationality that cleans cars perfectly for under £20. I'll say this for Onion and his cohorts, they may have many layers of which we in Glasgow fail to understand, but he did a grand job washing the car, one good eye or not!

Scottish Game Pie

1kg 20g free range pheasant (must be hung for at least one week)
680g fresh wild hare with a lean underbelly (usually found within the Duke of Argyle's private land behind the hidden carp lake out of sight of the castle, shhhh... between us, eh?)
226g carrot
170g celery
170g onion
6 scallions
56g butter
4tbsp vegetable oil
Puff pastry, (Enough to cover the top of your dish!)
4 level tbsp plain flour
3/4 pint Chicken stock
4tbsp decent brandy
1 Bay leaf
1 egg beaten
Salt and white pepper

Preparation is the key with this dish. Using a sharp boning knife, separate the meat from the bones, this should be done with feeling and care. A wee bit of  Debussy - Clair De Lune, always goes down well with me and a glass of something strong. We're not talking a nice little Chablis or 12-year-old single malt, perhaps just a small sniff of brandy to help things along. Put all of your meat into a large pan, sear it quickly and then set aside. Dice the carrots and celery into quarter pieces and chop the onion and scallions roughly.
Heat the oil and butter in a heavy based pan and add the vegetables, cook until lightly brown. Then, lift this out of the pan and set aside in a bowl. Stir the flour and seasoning through the usual home made game pie seasoning of your choice, then add a little at a time in the residual oil. Once all the meat is in the pan, replace the vegetables back into the pan. Add the stock, brandy, bay leaf and gravy browning to the pan. Bring to the boil, cover and simmer for a good hour.
Leave this to cool overnight. It will require a settling period of at least 16 hours before you can proceed further.
For those looking for a quick fix recipe may I ask you to stop reading, collect your things and never return here again. If you carry on for twenty miles or so you will come across a fast food outlet which will happily cater for your philistine needs.
The following day roll out your pastry and cover the top of the pie, Bake, never cook the pie at 200C for 30 mins. Then, lower to 180C for a further 20mins, if necessary then cover with foil. This way you won’t burn the pastry. Serve with thick gravy and new potatoes, garnished with minted garden peas.

The World According To Gym

For breakfast this morning, it was decided that I would deposit and collect my beloved at her weekly women's health class. The hours pass quickly as I make my way towards the majestic marble pillars of 'Womens Health World'. I have never flirted with male yoga, my maleness always protruded, however carefully packed, through my extra layers of cup. I enjoyed running for a few years until I banged my arthritic knee on a cement mixer and consequently dislodged any further desire to travel faster than my own comfortable car. I developed arms with impressive veins that popped in all the right places until my niece asked me if I was in fact Magilla the Gorilla. Further tension loomed when I discovered that increased upper body development could result in ones gentleman sausage losing its girth. I limit myself these days to lifting nothing heavier than a Glaswegian pub landlords heart.

I hover just inside the door that clearly states it is an exit only. The movement of my shoulders alone causes the automatic door to swoooosh and then open and close, open, then close, open... It amuses me for nearly a full moment before I tire of such a childish game and the large woman wearing a medium sized uniform gives me a look as though I have just urinated on the grey corduroy carpet. Perhaps her supervisor has been leaving cryptic notes on her locker door about peculiar stains on the hallway carpets of late. I begin to wonder about the symbolism surrounding the stigma of urine stains and Rorschach tests. I can't decide whether I am an axe murderer or a complex dentist with a smoking beagle fixation. It's hard to say by just looking at the dotted line above what appears to be a map of Croatia. Perhaps if I did urinate discreetly a few centimetres along the top it could actually be a Masonic symbol.


Through the glass viewing window I watch as a rather rotund woman balances herself on some sort of medicine ball. In each hand she has a pair of small silver weights which I estimate to weigh no more than a post-it note. The pink ones, not the insipid yellow ones that remind me of an old Rottweilers teeth. By the look of her double chins I can only assume that she is more accustomed to lifting meat pies to her face than mere silver trinkets. To her side is a paper cup full of what could only be a small gallon of fizzy pop. Diet of course. I could be mistaken, but I could swear she is giving me the eye. Swoooosh, goes the door as I retreat into the safety of the pee stained foyer. Fluuump goes the medicine ball as it throws the cockroach-like creature onto its back. My admirer is replaced by another human replica of a wheelbarrow full of blancmange as the fitness instructor barks and the large woman falters as she peaks the top of the robust medicine ball.

The medium sized uniform to my left has positioned herself adjacent to me through the other side of the automatic door. Her whiskery lips pucker and blow out an inordinate amount of breath as she struggles to persuade her wrinkled shirt back into the overburdened trousers. I am fascinated, but I dare not make a comment in case she mistakes it for romantic interest on my part. I begin to fantasise about how many doughnuts it would take to fill all three of the women immediately in my view. It takes me no more than a minute to decide that the answer to the equation is more than likely unfathomable. Instead I marvel at the way the light through the swooooshing door creates a definitive wave of rainbow colours on the exposed flesh that has begun to glisten on the lower belly of the beached cockroach slurping glucose before me. That ball has seen better days. I am certain I can detect the faint odour of female broken wind.

A new puzzle has befallen me. Trawling through my daily bathroom ritual I try to decipher what density of blade would have to have been scraped down the area between the cockroach's navel and her appendix scar. If I turn my head slightly at an angle I try to reason that it is either dirt or a very lopsided Brazilian that keeps peeking at me from over the top of some very resilient spandex. I try not to think about the probability that it could well be a masochistic vajazzle. For the sake of morality I try to return my thoughts back to the urinary map of Croatia. Swoooosh, the door to the alien craft opens and my friend the uniform steps through and begins to speak to me. It is a moment or two before I realise I have strayed into the club members viewing area only. I nod my head with a cursory final glance at Croatia and step back the few centimetres into the non members section.

It is too late however. The uniform has rearranged itself in a quivering awkwardness beside me and clearly feels that her moment of power has instigated, at the very least, a response in answer to her comment. For the life of me I cannot recall her question. Her withering gaze tells me that between her upper torso and her tattoos, it could well have been connected with penis envy. My own penis is currently struggling to hide itself away behind its two closest companions in case of attack. There are links between my sexual libido and the larger lesbian, but I am unable to categorise a section which teeters between bestiality and a Greek wrestler. I sense she is not a soulful woman. I doubt she has ever purchased a Beatles album. In her eyes I merely pulsate a disgusting bile from my groin shakra. I do what every red blooded male does when confronted with what we call in Glasgow 'the gargoyle come on'. I whistle a happy tuneless tune as I wander gingerly away. Perhaps I'll wait in the car next time.


Chefs Healthy Salad

8 ounces thin asparagus, stem ends snapped off, cut into 2-inch pieces 

1/2 pound sugar snap peas, stemmed 

8 ounces snow peas, stemmed 

2 tablespoons fresh lemon juice

1 tablespoon almond oil, or olive oil

1/4 teaspoon salt

1/4 teaspoon freshly ground pepper

10 chopped scallions

12 ounces boneless, skinless chicken breasts, trimmed

2 teaspoons sesame oil

1 teaspoon salt-free lemon-pepper seasoning

4 whole strawberries, for garnish

Marooned & Naked

For breakfast this morning I devoured tea, raisin cinnamon toast and an interesting article about a new documentary soon to be screened on the Discovery Channel. Ed Stafford, an Englishman, is undertaking an unusual and somewhat extreme survival challenge. He'll be washed up naked and alone on a desert island, south east of Fiji, with only his brain, bare hands, and a camera to keep him alive. He'll take no food, water, clothes, knife or tools. He will be completely naked and marooned for sixty days. Okay, I would definitely ditch the camera and substitute it for a case of good malt, that goes without saying, eh? I mean, there are only so many photies of palm trees you can take!

Call me a smidgen crazy here, but the thought of being alone for the best part of a couple of months on a tropical island, making things by hand, fishing and hunting for food using my wits and wandering around naked wearing little more than a couple of coconut husks on my feet by way of slippers, certainly appeals to my adventurous side. How about you? My only luxuries would be a box of matches, Irn Bru and of course my saucepans. So if you do hear about a large man with two months facial hair, found banging expensive copper saucepans together and what appears to be a python hanging from his waist, don't worry, it's either me or Ed Stafford just doing our thing.

Paradise

1 Wild Boar
Small bunch each of wild sage, parsley, rosemary and marjoram
6 Cloves of wild garlic
6 fresh yams

Preheat your open fire to 200c -  gas 6. (put on more tree bark to get it nice and hot)

If you haven't all ready done so during the thirty or so attempts to kill it with a pointy stick, score the rind with a sharp rock or coral, then rub with sea salt, this will help to make excellent crackling. Do not be tempted to trim any fat at this stage, as the meat cooks this will naturally baste the joint keeping it succulent and moist. Place all the herbs and wild garlic into the centre of the coconut roasting dish  then place the meat on top of the herbs. Roast the meat in the centre of the fire for two hours then turn down the heat by peeing on the outer logs. Allow 40 minutes per kg + 40 minutes a little longer for shoulder or hand joints to ensure they are tender. The boars hands, not yours for heavens sake.

Top, tail and peel the yams, cut into ¼`s then 45 minutes before the meat is done, place into a separate conch shell roasting dish, add enough fat from the roast to coat the yam, season and place into the fire with the joints of meat. When the joints are cooked, remove from the roasting shell, put onto a warm stone and cover, then leave to rest. Pour off any fat from the roasting shell, reserving in a pot, this herb infused boar fat is excellent for roasting yams. Make your gravy by incorporating all the herbs and garlic, then strain into a warmed coconut and serve overlooking the ocean. Do be careful not to drop anything into your lap, especially if you are like me, naked.