Saturday

The Paramnesia Contemplations of a Serial Muser



It wasn't the fact that she sat so close in the otherwise empty train carriage that unnerved me. No. It was more to do with the weeping, brim-full bottles of clandestine urine that she had balanced rather precariously at the top of her flimsy array of shopping bags. "It's okay" she said, her blackened fingernails glinting demonically under the flickering of the fluorescent carriage light as they drummed a pizzicato against the glass, "it is my own, I haven't just found it on the platform". I declined her kind offer of a closer inspection of the slightly stained labels, I was quite content to take her at her word. I stood carefully to leave as she enthused once more into yet another quadrumane monologue in which she described the benefits of bottling her own flatulence. It's not that I am a snob when it comes to other peoples urine, far from it. I have often been accused of taking the pish out of a lot of people I come into daily contact with. The little singing fella to name but one. It's just that Harris tweed is a real bugger to dry clean, especially around the leather elbow patches. And then there is that rather awkward moment that occurs when one enters the realm of the dry cleaners and the woman chafferer behind the counter asks your opinion on exactly what kind of fluid may have caused the brownish patch of which she is furiously rubbing with her delicate dactylion probe. My honest reply of "I do believe it may be pish", somehow always manages to turn the corners of her smile neatly upside down. I live in a small Scottish hamlet-like environment, they already talk about me in hushed tones whenever I enter the fishmongers every second Friday.

Earlier today I found myself ensconced in a somewhat rhadamanthe magazine article, thoughtfully arranged on a small but modern coffee table in the dentists waiting room. It detailed perfectly the correct etiquette in which a trans gender gentleman should display himself, possibly an ill turn of phrase all things considered, whilst enjoying cycling a bicycle between France and Switzerland during the month of Lent. My attention was seemingly grasped so much so that the torn faced rixatrix receptionist had to call my name on three occasions before resorting to removing her large posterior from the very small chair and having to physically find me. I have serious doubt that she has ever found herself, legs pumping, clenched buttocks quivering, enjoying a wind in her hair moment, upon a vintage leatherette bicycle saddle in any particular cold climate. A regular visitor and consumer of rhubarb by the look of her complexion, but undoubtedly never a two-wheeled thrill seeker in France. Disappointingly enough, when I returned after my visit with the wapperjawed ultracrepidarian behind the surgical mask, a fellow tooth sufferer, without etiquette of any description I might add, had buggered off with the magazine by all accounts. I doubt now that I shall ever fully understand exactly which side a true gentleman should dress himself during a bicycle blizzard, regardless of missing equipment such as a tool bag and pump.

Tomorrow, I have promised faithfully, that I will go on a scouting party with my good lady in order to select the 'perfect' tree for next months festivities. What, I ask myself, for the love of all things holly, is the point to shopping for an eight foot spruce tree a whole month before the silly season begins? It is not a turkey that we have raised lovingly on organic corn whisky and ripened barley throughout the year. We cannot eat it. It is not a puppy of which we can give back to the shelter on boxing day after it has chewed my slipper and fouled my pulpit. We are not inspecting something that we have invested time and money into in respect of getting a healthy return come the pending visitation of the old gentleman in the red suit. It is a tree. No. Worse than that, it is a tree that stands amidst twenty thousand other trees on the same hillside. They are identical. They do not come with any significant variations. One simply cannot pull up a catalogue on line and say, 'Oh look, that spruce has been nurtured into the shape of a donkey. Let's have that one for the novelty effect and amuse the neighbours.' No. A tree is simply that, a tree. They are tall, green and leave behind a sticky residue that stains the centuries old timber that exists purely to be my sitting room floor. They belong outside on a hillside. They do not travel well. They leave behind pine needles akin to the devils calling cards, that slither between the leather seats of my vehicle and only reappear 6 months later when they are brown and sharp and I am wearing shorts but no underpants. Each year I spend a thousand hours on Christmas eve arranging plastic elfin, sugar striped candy canes, 40 million twinkling lights and many, many, many  age old hand painted wooden toys to each prickly, sap-drenched, rash causing, spike filled twig that threatens to poke out my eye at the tug of every tiresome tiny tindrel of twined tacky tinsel. Then I sit back, exhausted, only to discover my wife has rearranged the whole cursed tree when I have retired to my bed.

What do I really want for Christmas Mr Claus? A clear window view of someone else's tree would be an excellent start!

Chef''s Christmas Brekkie Egg

You will need:
Eggs
Bread
Dark Rum


Slice the bread, press out a small hole using a teacup (a tin mug if you live in Limerick, a gin glass for the Devon region) Place the bread in a hot buttered pan. Break the egg into the holey bread. Lightly fry. Serve with a whisper of smoked streaky bacon and a glass of warm dark rum.

54 comments:

  1. Have you ever thought that you may be on a journey to expunge your previous sins by reaching out to those of the Lord in your own unique way? When you break it down it all becomes more clear. Perhaps your role in modern society is to help those fallen by the wayside and redeem?

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    1. Quite a good comment from you Mr Pew. Tarantism becomes you it would appear. For some I have felt that I have a certain attraction to the many gaberlunzies of society that frequent my path in life. Perhaps you may have stumbled upon the true meaning of life quite by chance. Quite ironic that it is your bosses chief sinner that is, at your own suggestion, apparently showing you the light and the way.

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  2. Or eggy bread as we called it in the more civilised parts of Cambuslang. But then we always had more class and style than those from Drumchapel when it came to making a meal out of anything. Interesting friends you have as train companions. But do you think they will fit in at the Domino on a Wednesday pie and a fight night?

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    1. Eggy breath from you certainly seems to ring a bell or two. Tell me, the more civilised parts of Cambuslang, in between the broken biscuit outlet or the adult bookstore next to the thrift shop by chance?

      I hear that the Domino is seeking new ownership. It shouldn't be too hard to sell considering that it very nearly overlooks the remnants of the now dilapidated R*****s supporters club in dear old Corby. Perhaps a pie, pint and a good belly laugh at the dead parrot brigade?

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  3. Was it not your own paws that had Monsignor McFaul searching for the source of the burst drain in year 4? Short memory as well as short friends I see.

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    1. Mistaken identity on your part sir. I never made it as far as year 4 where education is concerned. Year 3 saw me painting walls in the churchyard, scrumping apples from the Fagan dynasty and generally being a miscreant. Just think, if I had studied harder I might have become more successful in life. Who knew eh?

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  4. Now you're talking Jocko. Fried bread with egg the breakfast of champions.

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    1. You are confused my impoverished friend. My father was known as Jock, but as for me, no, that is not my handle. Too many blows to the head at birth was it? Damn those national health hospitals.

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  5. You misinterpret my words not out of ignorance or malice, but surely a momentary optimism about your calling? Together we have cracked your outer shell.

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    1. No. I misinterpret your words due to the fact that I choose to refuse to believe in something that cannot be proven. Should it come to pass that you are indeed right, then, and only then, will I nod and smile when you lisp the words "I told you so" at me.

      Perhaps it would be simpler for you to accept that you cannot change my thought process Mr Pew. It's later than you think.

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  6. Not yet December and already you are infused with the true Christmas spirit and I don't feel such an outcast.
    Even a faux tree deposits needles - albeit blunt ones.

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  7. A good point dear lady, however viewing a faux tree through the window at Debenhams is much preferred to traipsing the chilly hills of Balquhidder when one could be indoors with a small sherry to hand. I am all for tradition and realism when it comes to the giftmas period, but I also long for the thing to appear as if by magic and then just as quickly disappear a mere 5 days later.

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  8. What drives you if you have no belief? Every man needs a horizon to steer him home.

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  9. Are you seriously that incredulous in regard to what a drives a man without religion?

    Is there any point in producing for you a long list if you are incapable of semi-rational thinking unless you are mistakenly on your knees? Perhaps if you removed the stick from your rear entrance and looked at what you are missing out on, only then would you begin to comprehend that life is about having fun.

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    1. the beauty of atheism? when we do something for someone else who cannot possibly repay us, we are doing it purely to be kind. we do not perform our good deeds as a means to buy our way into a comfortable afterlife.

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    2. I couldn't have put it any better myself.

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  10. *raises one eyebrow in a quizzical manner, somewhat reminiscent of Vivian Leigh in Gone with the Wind, and notes that the first paragraph of this post is but further evidence of the Chef's adoration*

    Meanwhile, I am taken with the thought of a large man in shorts and no underpants.... there would be no rixatrix behaviour on my part if faced with such a vision... I would save my remonstrations for the likes of Mr Pew, who has gone completely off-topic, which is plain rude.
    It is breakfast time... I must find my gin glass immediately.
    Sx

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    1. The Vivien Leigh? Seriously, I was thinking along the lines of Roger Moore with wind would be closer to the mark. My hat comes off to you though Scarlet, lifting the corner of such a monobrow cannot be an easy feat.

      A large man in shorts would no doubt take you, that much is certain. Sadly however, a large man in shorts would also return you once he was witness to your proclivity for battology.

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  11. Why is it that such a big ugly brute who looks as though he has been through 3 world wars, set on fire and put out with a shovel still gets the ladies?!? Life is cruel.

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    1. Are you boasting again Anthony?

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    2. Sadly I have nothing to boast about. I get up, I prepare food while someone else gets rich, meanwhile my girl is halfway around the world enjoying herself. Then I go to bed. Shite huh?

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    3. It must be your lousy personality and the fact that you cannae haud yer drink, eh?

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  12. I am busy with some other cursive at the minute, but will be back another time to whip you with a flourish.
    I am sure you will enjoy it... until then, keep the linen warm my lover whilst I wax both the brow and lyrical.
    Sx

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  13. I await your return from the shopping pilgrimage to Aldi with both baited breath and baited trap my rodent-esque wee pal. Do think of me when you are caressing the dry cured salamis and perusing the large, pure beef meatballs in the deli section.

    I shall sit here and think of nothing but you, as I crank up the security settings at least another notch to 'stalker mode'.

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  14. I am here from Herr Mago. The egg it is to be cooked all the way yes?

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  15. Yes Klauss, the photie shows the egg in its pre-cooked stage. I tend to stick by the rule of only using cage-free and organically-certified eggs if the recipe requires a raw egg to be served.

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  16. Breakfast of champions. I made this just this morning, sans rum. Sprinkle a little shaved romano or parmesan on top for some added depth. Delish. May need to try it with the rum though. Or baconized bourbon. Hmm...

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  17. Speaking of which, I attended a barbecue recently where the chefs delight was a bourbon-bacon infused 1/4 pounder with blue cheese topped with Jack Daniels smoked hickory sauce. I can only describe the taste as 'perfection' in a sesame seed bun. Never before have my taste buds appreciated every ingredient so profusely.

    I ate three...

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  18. Vielen Dank

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  19. Sie sind sehr willkommen Klauss.

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  20. One of the British ladies at my Center once told me she fixed, "Toad in a Hole" for her grandkids. Given my expression, she quickly described the item in today's recipe illustration.

    Only yesterday I commented to someone pointing out a line of plastic Christmas trees which can be snapped into shape each year, "Nope, not for me. Until they outlaw possessing a (once) live tree, that is what we shall have."

    Science claims the sense of smell is most attached to memory. (Unfortunate, I guess, given your first paragraph). The smell of a Christmas tree, intertwined with the aroma of cinnamon and freshly baked cookies are what jump starts my holiday spirit. Tradition is a tree is purchased on the 1st Saturday in December. Hubby puts on the lights, then sits back with an adult beverage of choice as I put on age old ornaments and he hints where I "missed a spot". It brings out the kid in me. My 13 year old nephew, my "assistant Elf" since he could toddle well enough to hand out gifts, has outgrown me and stated last year, "Guess this job will always be yours." As I beamed, thinking it was my Christmas spirit, he added, "You're the only one short enough to get gifts stuffed way back under the tree."

    Ho, ho, ho. :)

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  21. If I am honest Hope, Christmas begins for our family on the eve when we all gather to decorate the tree with sentimental items, some of them over two centuries old. Last year we hoisted an eleven foot tall pine tree in the family room, complete with lights and enough tinsel to choke a horse. It has become tradition that the family come to our house around midnight where we talk about the good times with those no longer with us. Although I am not a believer, I love to see the young ones anticipation. Nothing beats the memories of my brood, wide eyed on Chrissie morning. Now I have the grand childer to spoil as well.

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  22. Christmas is descending here. I took a pre-theater walk last night and NYC is getting all gussied-up like a cheap 10-cent whore. I love the holiday season, but for purely secular reasons. I like the lights, colors and music. I like the tourists. They're all so happy. You can see the city's magic through their eyes.

    I chuckled at the pic. My old-world Italian grandma called that 'egg in a nest.' I make it for people here in New Jersey and their eyes cross. They've never seen anything so clever.

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  23. We share a common interest sir. Siobhan and I love the buzz of the pre-Christmas theatre atmosphere. I do believe that Christmas brings out the best in nearly everyone, both actors and audience.

    My rather uncouth Scottish friend, Mr McFadyen, was correct in the title given to this particular feast. 'Eggy bread'. Simple, but tasty to start the ball rolling on what is usually an extremely long, but very enjoyable day.

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  24. The Xmas season starts a bit later over here, with pointsettiers and nativity scenes, a number of Xmas trees as well.

    Mr. Exile on Pain Street made me smile: in the South Sandwich Islands we also call it "egg-in-a-nest", but we cook it inside a muffin, with a bit of olive oil and heat it in the oven. Enhanced with that bacon slice and glass of warm dark rum + B.E. Earl's parmesan cheese it is indeed the breakfast of champions!

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    1. Hmmm... I'm liking the sound of the muffin idea, I might just give that a bit of try this morning Leni.

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  25. Christmas is upon us in San Jose.

    The streets, already well dressed with the black plastic sheets holding the pirate DVDs, socks, tv remote controls and mobile 'phones origin unknown but well suspected, all ready for flight at the arrival of the municipal police, are now made hazardous by inflatable Santa Claus and reindeers lurking in every second doorway.

    You can do yourself a mischief on those antlers....

    My father's mother, if in exceptional good humour, would make what she called porthole eggs for the children - and the adults who were quick to claim their share...but no alcohol suffered in the elaboration of her recipe.
    She fried the centres too as hats for the egg.

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    1. Ahh the fly pitchers, a well known industry in every major city throughout the globe. We have our fair share in Glesga selling everything from chinese twinkling lights, guaranteed to burn down your house the first time you leave them plugged in, to 'genuine' Rolex' watches for only £10.

      There must be something cathartic when it comes to eggs and bread, served hot and delicious smelling in front of you. I'm yet to find more than a few people who can resist the temptation. The alcohol is a Glasgow tradition to accompany the eggy bread. Or, at least, that's what my oul fella told the mammy back in the day. I've kept it alive in my house, regardless.

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  26. can't imagine going for a ride without a proper pump and toolbag. i like to keep mine in good working order, with frequent maintenance and suitable lubrication, of course.

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    1. May I suggest that we include a regular maintenance schedule, of which I shall personally check your equipment and provide a service whenever possible?

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  27. I've been making eggs in a nest since I was a young girl standing on a chair helping my Mom in the kitchen.
    It's one of my favorite memories I have of her.
    Thanks for taking me back to it dear Chef! xoxoxoxox

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    1. If I have helped to evoke a happy memory for you hen, then my job is done.

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  28. As requested, no comments on the above post. But I will just say that I understand where you are coming from. Something about being raised in Glasgow follows us wherever we end up and that it can lead people to judge us on our accent and not who we are. On a lighter note the soup above looks good. Onion or leek broth?

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  29. Yes Anthony, and so back to the business of muse, shall we?

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  30. Your eggy bread is known as toad in a hole in my family, but we also do the egg in a nest thing, with a slice of bread (buttered both sides) pressed into muffin tins to form little cups, filled with one egg each and then baked in the oven. Cheese (your choice ~ I quite like grated double smoked cheddar on mine) for a melty topping goes over well too. Canadian bacon is a nice side, or a lovely maple flavoured side bacon (my fave). I'll pass on the rum but having some cream whisky added to my hot chocolate wouldn't be amiss at all.

    As for Christmas, I gave up on a real tree years ago, given the cat's propensity for (a) climbing the thing and knocking it over, and (b) whacking the ornaments off just to see them skitter across the floor (or smash, when I still used the beautiful glass ones). I now have a 3' tree with built-in lights and all non-breakable ornaments (plastic, metal or wood) that are permanently attached with the little wire hooks wrapped securely around each branch. It lives in a plastic bag most of the year and is so simple to bring up from the basement, pull out of the back, set on the table and plug in. Voila! My decorating is done.

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    1. You remain my Canadian heroine mainly due to your many salient points listed above. You even spelled the word whisky as it is supposed to be.

      Canadian bacon, I'm yet to try it. Sounds tempting though.

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  31. I drank quite a lot of dark rum (the cheap one with the sailor on the front!) as a youngfella. I was often left with egg on my face.

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    1. All the nice boys love a sailor on their front. You have certainly proven that point my friend, just with your collection of shirts.

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    2. So which one are you, a nice boy or a sailor?

      Sweet sherry? ;-)

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  32. Sweet sherry has a habit of giving me the dry boak. I'd prefer a creamy black pint of Arthur's bitter blackness. Will you join me so?

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  33. Replies
    1. Good, because it is your round and I have one hell of a thirst about me the neet.

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  34. As I've mentioned before in these comments, the black stuff is a bit different here in the states. And most joints serve it much too cold without a proper pour. Finding an ideal pint isn't easy. Yet I persevere.

    Would be interested in your whisky recommendations. A friend tried to get me into Scotch several years ago, and he pushed the Islays especially Lagavulin. But I found the number of distillers and varying styles to be a bit daunting. Irish whiskey was a bit easier to grasp as, at the time, there were far fewer distillers and it was mellower to the palate for the most part. Redbreast eventually became a favorite. Enjoyed it recently. In the end, I decided to get to know bourbon as well as I could and it's been a more-than-pleasant ride. Even if I'm now branching out to American ryes.

    Sigh...so much whisk(e)y, so little time...

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  35. It depends on your palate Mr Earl. A good Scottish whisky, one that you can drink heartily, would be my own favourite brand of Whyte & Mackay. I prefer the taste of the single malt, but they do blended whiskies as well, Dalmore, Jura, and Fettercairn are particularly smooth on the throat. A 12 year old Glenlivet is perhaps a good one to start with. Chase it with a decent pint of Guinness if you can. The problem with Guinness is the fact that it doesn't travel well. Literally, from one side of Dublin to the other even changes the quality. My advice, move to Dublin, preferably within walking distance of the storehouse for tip top pints every time. Watling Street... I have a pal there. I'm sure a discount in rent can be arranged for you sir.

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