Monday

Grass Roots




The usual ragtag bunch of boys scuttled rusty crablike from the few remaining rundown housing scheme hells on any particular Saturday morning. In Drumchapel, fetching various messages for our still somewhat subdued parents after the favoured choice of nefarious poisons was a given. A good nip of oul ginger to balance fog filled hangovers, a puff or two on a borrowed cigarette and straight into an argument over broken promises with the Friday night girls as to who had given who a good dunting the night before over a spilled whisky. Hangovers needed very little fuelling to erupt into controversy over illicit spirits probably stolen fae the cupboard under the stairs at some party. Weekend parties in Glasgow are still ten-a-penny, while stabbings and bitten-off noses were always on offer at two for the price of one. It didn't matter to us, we were tougher than the toughest of old leather boots. Sugared almonds, jostling our way under the turnstiles to watch our Celtic heroes and the aromas of a fish supper was all we kids cared about. It all comes flooding tenderly back clad warmly in caramel dreams and sticky toffee memories of bitter-sweetness.

The beginning of the watery autumn sunlight did little to alleviate the metallic tang of the rusting barbed wire fenced aedificiums that served as my beloved city. Where once proud girders of metal and iron had encircled the girded loins of famous ships in parts of undress, now stood solitary and gazing down, stripped of their prized brass rivets and forlorn against the gentle pale green tile of corporation paintwork. Quiet moments in a silent world, a tired old ghost heaped in bricks and moss tinged stone, nothing stirred other than the early morning corporation buses leaking diesel and the hissing oath fae the drivers as they stumbled through yet another quagmire of fumbled gear changes. The fine rain was soft, if not insistent, just enough to be welcoming without casting ripples in puddles or broad droplets to spoil what promised to be a traditional family day in Glasgow.
We gathered, each in our resplendent wedding finery. A group of unfortunately intertwined families and friends, flawed by both gene and marriage, greeting each other with turpentine kisses and ice fingered handshakes that did nothing to mask the aversion of eyes, the bigoted blindness, the one vision of bitterness that had had such a devastating effect on us all. Religion, the ultimate beast, had cast its evil net over generations of usually sane people. The very crux of religion, allegedly begun with the killing of a holy man on a hill at Golgotha, somewhere near Jerusalem at the hands of others, now reuniting us at the tomb of prosperity that had once more risen from the Drumchapel ashes after the last war.

I ached not surprisingly for the morning taste of alcohol to wash away the complexity of getting through the black crows chapel scenario at the marriage of my niece. All around me stood blistering paint-peeled walls of which many an ancient fitba had been kicked against. I smiled inwardly at the memory that my own childer bring to me when I look back to my childhood days. The delicious waft of chubby little sausages cooking and spitting in the skillet as we scraped tatties from their skins and popped stalks fae fresh mushrooms as we told tales about how they were really tiny tables used by the aos sí in the woods. Gullibility in my children was a joy to behold  in those wonderfully formative years. Shiny pieces of scattered Lego, Matchbox and Hot Wheels cars littered the dining room carpet, crayoned drawings and insane montages of sharks, bikes and Superman covered the fridge and scullery to remind me of the creation of life. I was, for the first time, a huge broad smelly horse that would vault around the hallways with excitedly whooping weans riding my broad back. Wonderful laughter as string tied to loose teeth via the auld oak doorknobs in the once catholic chapel, bounced high amongst the vaulted ceilings and gurgled repeatedly as raspberries blown on exposed bellies completed the mix. So many happy Glasgow family memories. This, as well as sausages, was to remain my only religion.

Glesga Bangers and Mash

Cumberland sausages (long, curled or pork bangers)
2 cloves garlic peeled and finely sliced                           
1 bunch fresh sage (leaves picked)
1 dash of olive oil
1 bunch fresh rosemary (leaves picked)
2 kilogramme's Irish tatties (peeled)
300 ml Scottish milk
120 grams Scottish butter
1 pinch of sea salt
1 pinch of freshly ground black pepper
 medium red onions (peeled and finely chopped)
80 ml balsamic vinegar (or red wine vinegar)               
2 stock cubes (beef or chicken)

If you're using the traditional round Cumberland sausage, tuck the garlic and most of the sage leaves between the layers of sausage. If you're using normal sausages, untwist the links and squeeze the meat through, rolling them into a tight circle and pushing in the garlic and sage as you go. This will give the sausages a delicious flavour. Secure the sausages with a couple of skewers or some sharp rosemary stalks. Place them on an oiled baking tray, drizzle them with olive oil and sprinkle them with rosemary leaves. Cook in the preheated oven for 20 minutes, or until crisp and golden.

43 comments:

  1. Therefore Jesus said to them, "If God were your father, you would love me, for I came out and have come from God. For I haven't come of myself, but he sent me. Why don't you understand my speech? Because you can't hear my word. You are of your father, the devil, and you want to do the desires of your father. He was a murderer from the beginning, and doesn't stand in the truth, because there is no truth in him. When he speaks a lie, he speaks on his own; for he is a liar, and the father of it. But because I tell the truth, you don't believe me. Which of you convicts me of sin? If I tell the truth, why do you not believe me? He who is of God hears the words of God. For this cause you don't hear, because you are not of God."

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Pew oul son, if the great Jock Stein was your da I still would no be able to love you. Surely you should be kneeling and praying on the holy day rather than shouting spite and spouting shite at me?

      Delete
  2. Sugared almonds in your house maybe, but we had to make do with tablet or rhubarb grown behind the steamie in Dalmuir. Sausages however, i'm with you there big yin.

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. So it was you who stole oul missus McKivett's best rhubard fae behind the steamie, eh? I got the blame for that one, when all the while I was busy helping masel fae Duggets veggie patch up by the high hedge.

      Delete
    2. Stole is a tad strong, let's just say she donated it to the weans of Faifley who lived off the Auchinleck Rd. Besides, she got me a tanning after chapping the door and telling the ma about us double dipping the bottles fae Barrs.

      Delete
    3. Do you remember the oul Irish fella with the glass eye who swept the Cochno Rd for the cooncil and would wear his baffies the whole time regardless of weather?

      Delete
    4. Naw, but i do recall the tall polis on his bike who would march us down to the terminus at Faifley and make us pick chewing gum fae the bus seats as they pulled in as a punishment. My ma give me a skelping when she got of the bus one day and thought i was playing up the driver.

      Delete
    5. The tall polis was PC Arbuckle, he was no saint, that's for sure. He went missing over Blackhill way twice a week when his bike was to be seen chained to the railings of the Chinese moneylenders. It wasn't his palm the wee madams up the stair were massaging by all accounts.

      Delete
  3. Jesus but that looks tasty! Room at the table for a wee one?

    I had to sit through two sermons from the black crows this weekend, one of whom I had a run-in with recently. I swear he made the sermon twice as log just to piss me off! Thank feck the pub was nearby! :¬)

    ReplyDelete
  4. Och away man, you know you are on a strict vegetable diet, no meat allowed under any circumstances due to your unstable cholesterol level and the condition of your wee scalp. Away now and sit by the scullery door, as soon as the greens are drained I'll make you up a pot of broth for you to take hame. And for the love of all things holy, do not be upsetting the crows on the Sabbath, you know how they love to sit on my roof and drop crap from on high, eh?

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. So that's what was on yer heid, and here's me thinkin' ya just forgot to rub in the factor 50 again! :¬)

      Delete
    2. See me son? I've lost three layers of skin fae mah heid since I went across the water. I don't suit hats so Siobhan has been massaging my skin with all her fancy lady creams. I have to admit that I look and smell like a right genteelman amongst the flotsam of Glesga this weekend.

      Delete
    3. Hahahaha! Some might say you've been spending too much time in the company of showbiz folk! :¬)

      Delete
    4. I can't picture the big yin in a top hat somehow pal.

      Delete
  5. Aye, come to think of it there was a Krankie's tribute act and the young fella fae the X Factor who were entertaining the tourists at my local in Playa de Muro midweek. Jimmy Krankie said to remind you that you still owe him/her a tenner.

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Me? Owe money? Musta been someone else pal! :¬)

      Delete
    2. Aye, you being of both sound character and financial standing, eh?

      Delete
  6. I used to be a dog called Candy... although I did have a go at being a horse.
    Fried eggs, bacon and fresh white bread was the fare.
    Qx

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. It all becomes clear... a silly sweet mare. Come, sit, feast at my table dear red. I'll whip something up for you using only the ingredients above to your satisfaction.

      Delete
  7. Good to see you worshiping at the alter of humanity vs. the church of fear.

    I right/clicked "aedificiums" to try and educate myself and got admonished for stealing. So I remain in blissful ignorance.

    ReplyDelete
  8. Allow me sir. Aedificium - Something that is built, as for human habitation; a structure.

    Twice this week I have passed beneath the giant arch of my local chapel on different occasions. Apart from a slight creak in the giant timbers that clad the doorway I did not notice the ceiling caving in upon me. Does this mean that I might be right and pewsnotter might be wrong?

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Thanks--I was going to ask about "aedificiums" as well.

      And also for the recipe. The sausages round here are very good--we are six miles from the border with Cumberland and people take pride in them (and treat the pigs well, which all goes together in my book).

      Delete
    2. My personal ingredients for Cumberland links are good lean pork, minced chittlings, ground sage, black pepper and nutmeg, plus one very small pinch of sulphur dioxide.

      The piggies must be free range!

      Delete
    3. i had to look up 'dunting'. i was fully prepared to knock over your whisky and get a proper one...

      Delete
    4. Dearest Daisy, I'm thinking more of a bang than a dunt where you are concerned. And by golly you deserve a big one!

      Delete
  9. Ah, I've missed the weekly Chef and Maurcheen show. :)

    And now I'm hungry. Back to work for me.

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. The Chef and Maureen show has an original cast and is filmed before a live studio audience every Friday night at the bar in Durty Nellies bar in Bunratty, Co. Clare.

      You can't miss us, one of us is short and drinks ginger beer, sings badly out of tune when he has alky-hole and has to be taken home and put to bed. The other one is of course me.

      Delete
  10. You are the wearer of the evil eye.

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Actually no, black trousers, crisp white shirt and black polished shoes that would blind a nun in the fog.

      Delete
    2. 'You are the wearer of the evil eye'? I feel a song comin' on, step back everybody! :¬)

      Delete
    3. You know I'm not one for bling.

      Delete
    4. those polished shoes really do provide a nice reflection, eh?

      Delete
    5. Aye, so much more convenient than a palmcorder in a shopping bag one tends to find.

      Delete
  11. I was going to turn my nose up at the gravy - I never - despite my background took to dousing everything in glutinous gravy but your onion gravy with the rest of your dish has me salivating in an unladylike fashion. Yum!

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. It is entirely natural that you feel that gravy in general is beneath you dearest Patricia. When one is born a lady of substance it is hard to take up the habits of the lower classes associated with the rapscallions fae 'up north'. Besides, it would only taint the silver spoon in such an eloquent mouth.

      You are welcome at my table anytime, we can compare silver, crystal and the china between courses.

      Delete
  12. No Scottish butter, no Scottish milk...having to make my own sausages....but the onion gravy will cover a multitude of sins, even those of Pewfodder.

    ReplyDelete
  13. Helen, perhaps gravy is Ghod's way of covering up the very essence of things missing in a persons life?

    I have heard that pork is the flesh of the divil, however the Bible - Part II, as written by Mr Pewfodder has yet to confirm it.

    ReplyDelete
  14. the memories sneak up on me - i'll hear small children laughing, or see them horsing around with parents and i'm right back there with my little critters again. been a tough week in that regard, as my 'baby' has made a life altering decision, and is off into a challenging, and potentially dangerous world. all i will see is a small boy, wearing combat boots that are far too big...

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. If he has half the gumption of his mother then I would suggest it is others who may be in grave danger hen.

      Delete
  15. swet mary sunshine, sugar, but you do make me swoon over your tasty fare. ;) (Aedificium 4 years of latin have finally paid off!) xoxoxoxo

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. My dearest Savannah, is it not yourself that constantly tempts me with your fine cuisine?

      As for the Latin, it is surely the language of the poets. Indulgēre, intellegēns.

      Delete
  16. We may speak about a place where there are no tears, no death, no fear, no night; but those are just the benefits of heaven. The beauty of heaven is seeing God.

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Real beauty is seeing a newborn calf being nurtured by its mother, a circling kestrel hunting amongst a backlit sky or the firm buttocks of a beautiful woman as she rides a pale horse.

      Tears, death and night, they come to us all eventually. Of that I am certain. Heaven, on the other hand, is akin to fables and hope amongst the simple minded.

      Delete

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