Saturday

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.

51 comments:

  1. I wouldn't straight away assume that people aren't interested in an account of those sectarian barriers you mention, and which seem the very blood and bone of Glasgwegian life. Even after several years and hundreds of frequent visits, I'm still learning the codes, sartorial, linguistic and otherwise, which you have to deploy in order to be a neutral. As an Enlgishman I don't understand it, except in a superficial historical way. So there'd be at least one person interested in that.

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    1. Looby, a starting point of interest would be best illustrated by those Scots who insist that the actual national flag is blue with a white cross. Ask any nationalist as to why the Union Jack does not include Wales within its design and they would be stumped. Ask any R*ngers fan which way up the same flag should be flown and you will be greeted by the same blank look. It's not only thick bands that flutter in the breeze, eh?

      Codes, linguistic and sartorial intellect comes fae those who are tall enough to see over the invisible barriers. Glaswegian life is unlike any other country in the world. Just a shame that religion and bent politics keeps us well and truly in the past. Would I change it? Och no.

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    2. Chef no one outside of Glasgow will fathom your reply to Looby or get the humour. Its an insider joke wasted on the outsiders correct?

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  2. never forget who you really are and where you came fae

    i very important thing to remember, sugar. here's to you and the missus, and to all who've gone ahead! xoxoxo

    p.s. we posted pics of the rabbit feast, but he didn't include the recipe. too long to type out he said.

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    Replies
    1. Our roots keep us firmly on the ground eh hen? Without them we might get too big for our own good and fall at the first passing storm. Wise thoughts doll.

      Too long to type out means in real speak that he wants to keep the recipe guarded. I can understand that, good for him!

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  3. I like that recipe as it's one I personally used for a long time, with similar results. :)

    I have the most wonderful mental image of you and your lovely lady, although the eye color was the icing on the cake. :)

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    1. Ah now Hope, tis a funny thing about my good lady's eyes, they change colour depending on her mood. Our daughters, all though they have Irish parents, have extremely Glaswegian eyes about them both. Intense, somewhat hard when provoked, but deep and soft and very blue.

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  4. Anniversary, Mr Files?
    Sounds like the best recipe and one that even a rubbish cook like me could master.
    Sx

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    1. Actually no hen, it's just our general reluctance to accept that Scotland is a haven of misery of late, the weather, the economy and the pending gloom just make us ache for our Spanish hideaway in the sun.

      You're no a rubbish cook doll, I've heard that your wee fishy treat has men queuing up at the door.

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  5. That my dear Chef, is the VERY best recipe you have posted here.
    Enjoy basking (not baking) in the glorious sunshine .....
    xxx

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    1. I'm definitely a baker hen, I go brown quite easily these days, but inside I'm still the same soft doughy loafer.

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  6. Chignon: a knot of hair that is worn at the back of the head and especially at the nape of the neck. Ah.

    You improve my vocabulary and my outlook on life. Feel free to invoice me for services rendered.

    And where is the little singing fella? Do you know? He no longer writes to us.

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    Replies
    1. Sir, you helped me realise that it is okay to discuss our shared love of the arts in public. Remind me to show you my own wee art collection one of these days.

      As for the little singing fella, he has a few personal tribal issues he is currently wrestling with. My thoughts and support are with him.

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    2. Thank you for your support, I shall wear it always.

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    3. Just no with your showbiz troosers though, eh?

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  7. Is é do chairdeas a dhéanann an fear.

    Mind herself, you found the treasure.

    See ya soon.

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    Replies
    1. Let me tell you this, that empty bar stool next to me down at The Drum & Monkey is hard to take in. I miss having my wee pal spilling his ginger pop all over my clean shoes on a Friday night.

      By the way, I've settled your bar tab (again) in your absence. Shall I just add it to the interest I am about to hike in regard to your unpaid debts?

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    2. Aye, whatever....

      Nice flute btw! Sharp.

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    3. No as sharp as the hatchet concealed beneath the vented flap though.

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    4. Not to mention the black pudding in yer pocket!

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    5. A man has to have more than one talent up his sleeve, eh?

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  8. Never forget who you are, or where you came from... keeps us grounded! Don't forget the bourbon basting sauce! Safe, happy travels.

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    1. How can I forget the bourbon? You spilled most of it down my shirt while you were undressing me the last time we met in my dirtiest of (secret) fantasies.

      Did I just say that out loud? Och well...

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    2. What? You are a horrible man! How dare you imagine me spilling the bourbon! Bad, bad, Chef! Off to punish you thoroughly...

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    3. Oh dear Lord, there really is a Ghod.

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  9. I arrive here to find that you have transformed ordinary toast into the loveliest and most romantic thing in the world!

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    Replies
    1. Ahh well now Leah, it is simple to croon sweet words when the audience contains one of life's most romantic of souls.

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  10. Commandments 3,4,6 - The implications involving long walks with a shovel speaks volumes about the type of person you actually are.

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    1. Hmmm... took me a while to delete the other nonsensical blather that you dribbled this night Pew. I feel like I am going over old ground again here, but 3, how can I take in vain the name of someone who never existed? 4, is that not a wee bit confusing considering you left your comment on the seventh day?

      As for 6, thank your god that I am a reformed man these days and that you never have to accompany me on a midnight jaunt with me carrying a shovel and you your own personal bag of lime.

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  11. Malley sends his regards to Jim, says he remembers your mother and her sister Mary when he worked at Ballantynes. Drumchapel folk have hearts as big as their thirsts I am told.

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    1. Tony, if it is the same Malley who stropped the malt at Ballantines in Dumbarton, then later on at Auchentoshan in Clydebank, tell him I was asking for him. Malley played his tin whistle and banged his spoons when I was a wean back in the day. He must be at least 80 by now?

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    2. I asked him, it is him, he told me a few tales about you and your pals. Remind me NEVER to owe you money!!!

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    3. Is that right? Listen Tony, if Malley himself told me it was raining I'd still look out of the windie masel. The auld goat, always was a one for the blether.

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  12. Cheesey feet and toast? That's like a tangy welsh rabbit.

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    1. Ahh well now Tina, rarebit or rabbit, depending on your education and where you are fae, has different local ingredients. In Glesca we prefer a tasty red cheddar with mustard and gammon, sometimes accompanied and topped by a good fresh fried egg.

      In east London, where you stay, I believe the cheesy, tangy shite containing rough oul rabbit is called 'KFC'. I do enjoy my wee trysts with you over the difference between that slavering plague pit you call home and the beauty of Scotland. I'm surprised you haven't yet mastered the art of Lithuanian cookery as yet. You always were a wiz at knocking up a trough of sour apples and cabbage farts on a whim.

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  13. •*´¨`*•.¸¸.•*´¨`*•.¸¸.•*´¨`*•.¸¸.•*´¨`*•.¸¸.•
    ::: (\_(\ ...*...*...*...*...*...*...*...*...
    *: (=' :') :: Have A Happy Easter Chef! :::::::::
    •.. (,('')('')¤...*...*...*...*...*...*...*...
    ¸.•*´¨`*•.¸¸.•*´¨`*•.¸¸.•*´¨`*•.¸¸.•*´¨`*•.¸

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  14. Ah now Missy, when I see your artistic work above I cannae help but wonder just how much deeper the ocean would be without your sister sponges.

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  15. I've always had trouble with that recipe Sir, the first part mainly...glad that some of us have it right my friend... and what can one do with Pew? really? saw a quote from the President of the League of Catlicks here in the states, he was incensed that people were calling it kiddie-fiddling, he screamed that most of these boys were post-pubescent, which i guess somehow in his twisted mind made it okay, never has there been a more sick and twisted jumble of nutjobs as those in funny hats burning incense and compiling gold, all while asking for more dosh and watching the poor starve, strange lot dem...

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    1. It was an arranged marriage Kono. I arranged for her to sit next to me on the school bus on the proviso that I wouldn't steal her boyfriends lunch money. He lost out in every way I am afraid to say.

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  16. i'm Hungry Now......:)

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  17. OOh love the recipe of
    1 good woman
    1 large portion of man
    1 warm country
    1 big bag of dreams
    .....what about the wee bairns....do they ruin the recipe or just make it overflow the edges of the serving dish??

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    1. Emma, the childer are now grown and have weans of their own. Now their own daddy can afford to take time away fae the business and let them oversee their inheritance while Chef and Mrs Chef run around the sand dunes behaving like teenagers.

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  18. Oh noooooo! Not flippin' Spain again!

    I'm not sure about the good woman but that recipe has been a favourite here for many years and there is no substitute alas.
    So happy for you.

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    1. Pat, if you could see the flowers blooming in my front garden over the way you would understand the attraction. A panoramic view of the Med, golden sands and a sky that would make a reverend blush. In fact, come on over for a free holiday any time you like hen. Map's just returned and is as red as a lobsters rear end.

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    2. I don't even want to begin to think about your white bits. I have visions of opening a tin of Argentinian corned beef and seeing your wee face on the tin.

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  19. I had to laugh reading this over. Um, I DID have the nerve to substitute a good MAN in my version of your recipe. Hope you don't mind.

    Dad's eyes would change from a blue to a green according to what he wore. Kid brother has eyes so blue the whites of them seem blue. I have green of a shade the rest of my green eyed kin don't have. Which is fine with me. It goes with the freckles. ;)

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    1. You can tell a lot by a persons eyes hen. For instance, if a person only has one eye in the middle of their forehead, you know you are talking to someone fae Limerick. If you have a conversation and look deeply into two brown eyes then you know you are talking to a couple of Limerick twins.

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    2. One summer evening drunk to hell
      I stood there nearly lifeless
      An old man in the corner sang
      Where the water lilies grow
      And on the jukebox Johnny sang
      About a thing called love
      And it's how are you kid and what's your name
      And how would you bloody know?
      In blood and death 'neath a screaming sky
      I lay down on the ground
      And the arms and legs of other men
      Were scattered all around
      Some cursed, some prayed, some prayed then cursed
      Then prayed and bled some more
      And the only thing that I could see
      Was a pair of brown eyes that was looking at me
      But when we got back, labeled parts one to three
      There was no pair of brown eyes waiting for me

      And a rovin' a rovin' a rovin' I'll go
      For a pair of brown eyes

      I looked at him he looked at me
      All I could do was hate him
      While Ray and Philomena sang
      Of my elusive dream
      I saw the streams, the rolling hills
      Where his brown eyes were waiting
      And I thought about a pair of brown eyes
      That waited once for me
      So drunk to hell I left the place
      Sometimes crawling sometimes walking
      A hungry sound came across the breeze
      So I gave the walls a talking
      And I heard the sounds of long ago
      From the old canal
      And the birds were whistling in the trees
      Where the wind was gently laughing

      And a rovin' a rovin' a rovin' I'll go
      For a pair of brown eyes

      Shane MacGowan.

      Delete
  20. I was fortunate enough to have been his company on a few occasions when he gave a jaw dropping rendition of the above. Pure genius in more ways than one.

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Thank you, the chef is currently preparing an answer for you in the kitchen. Do help yourself to more bread.