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.

Barking Mad

For breakfast that morning our quiet espresso moment was rather rudely interrupted by the busy-bodies from further down the hill. They meandered as far as the gates would allow before they discovered the intercom and took it in turns to press the tiny melodic buzzer. Back home in Glasgow it is considered bad form to disturb folk early on a Sunday unless by prior arrangement. I saw no reason to break with that tradition at our carefully chosen holiday citadel in the sun. I'm not a bad neighbour, I am not a bad man, I am however a man that has many acute angles and likes to keep his distance from those living around him. Nodding occasionally at the market or perhaps a fleeting wave as you pass by in the car is acceptable, but I do not welcome neighbourly interaction on a regular thrice daily basis. Surely that is what a holiday get away is all about? I do not have what you might class as a particularly friendly face. I'm too old to pass off the ragged scar tissue on my face as 'possible war collateral'. Wounds gained while defending ones country, keeping the Huns at bay while waving the national flag? No, that's not me. I fought a very different kind of Hun. I fought against bigotry and sectarianism, but am long since retired from retaliation. My broken glass accent betrays which city I am fae and probably answers a lot of unspoken questions as to why and how I look the way in which I do. People outside of my circle tend not to question me about my past. The people closest to me just accept me for the man they know rather than the beast that others often see me as.

As the years have gone by I have grown accustomed to people not ingratiating themselves when it comes to me personally. I am not known for my fondness of strangers. It took three years for me to accept the new postman. I am rarely comfortable with people unfamiliar to me, let alone life's oddities such as the Anglo (you will note I declined to specify the word English out of respect to my southern friends) couple dressed strangely identical and standing at the gates to my wee Shangri-La in the Spanish hills. I prefer peace and solitude to tend my gardens, prepare my own version of recipes gathered, and to be left to ponder not only my navel, but also the delicious blue skies about me. Besides, it had not gone well at the original meet and greet with the new neighbours. To be told that I resembled a 'bank robber' at our first meeting did not sit comfortably with my wife Siobhan for a start. The crinkling up of the noses when I declared which city I was from set back the Scottish-Anglo relationship from our side of the border by at least another century. All in all the chances of us being good friends is as likely as snow in July. We avoided them when we could. So it was with weary steps that I descended the rockery path to greet the matching anoraks now encamped, with arms impatiently folded, by my freshly white-washed entry way. I put on my best not-quite-a-smile-possibly-just-this-side-of-a-I-am-tolerating-you-but-only-just! look about my face as I opened the wooden gates. I was very conscious of the fact that my wife would not approve of me being outwardly rude to our new neighbours. Perhaps she was right, perhaps I should make an effort to actually be nice and polite to the execrable couple who stood so churlish before me.

"Hello hen" was my standard opening line.

"Rita" came back the reply. "Hens are something that lay eggs and festoon a wicker basket during a bar lunch, surely?"

"Right... what can I do for you this early on a Sunday, Rita?"

"Can you keep your dog from barking during the night?"

"I don't have a dog here Rita"

"You must have, it kept us awake every night this week!"

"No hen, we do not have any animals here, certainly no a dog."

"Not hen...Rita! You must have, it barks all night long"

(Deep breath) "No doll, just the two of us here, no dogs, just us"

"Nonsense!"

"Nonsense? Excuse me here doll, but..."

"Please, my wife's name is Rita, not doll not hen, Rita. Be advised, we are going to stop by the other new people who live up the hill and get a petition to stop you barking"

"Away you go then pal, but see me? I never bark, but you be advised, I do bite on the odd occasion, especially when provoked by a couple of wee dafties trumpeting at me on a Sunday morning."

 Silence.... A stone cold lingering silence.

"Right hen, is that you two done then? I'll be away back to my coffee. Thanks for stopping by. You two be sure and keep an eye out for that wee dog, eh?"

"My name is..."

"Aye, that'll be about right doll, cheerio"

Strangely enough, our matching North Face friends fae down the way have no troubled us since the enquiry about the dog that we do not have. Our espresso moments continued unabated long into those precious Sunday mornings and the intercom never rang again before the back of ten. The other new-comers further up the hill do have a dog, a lovely wee thing by the name of Baxter. His owners, a smashing retired couple fae Oxford, called around one lunchtime with flowers and a bottle of wine to apologise about wee Baxter settling in. Not necessary, very nice people who are often to be found at our table enjoying a meal, a glass of wine and our company. Not once have they asked about my face or passed comment on my banking arrangements back home in Glasgow. They aren't to keen on the people further down the hill it seems, something to do with their dog and an early morning intrusion I believe. Och well, sometimes it's just nice to be nice, eh?

Barking Dog Cocktail

3 oz Tequila 

2/3 oz Crème de Bananes (banana liqueur)

Lime Juice

1 oz Vodka 

Garnish: Lime Slice

Fill a highball glass with ice. Add the tequila and banana liqueur. Fill with sweetened lime juice. If it is too sour, add some lemon-lime soda. Add the vodka, garnish with a slice of lime. Serve with friends, throw a wee ball and clap the dog.

A Terrible Beauty

For breakfast that morning we took our fresh dark roasted coffee to a more shady part of the lush green garden. The previous evenings entertainment had well and truly taken its toll inside of my head and I lay stretched fully upon the cool tiles that lined the slate pathway. Peace was upon me in my time of great suffering. And then they came. It was quite a daunting moment. The way in which they just appeared before us in our own garden was intimidating to say the very least. Their leader, a big ugly brute came at us without the slightest sign of fear. I registered the smallest of cries caught in the back of Siobhan's throat as they made a beeline for me as I lay prone and helpless beneath the Spanish sun. An old feeling deep down inside instinctively forced the adrenaline to prepare my body and mind for the imminent pain. I reached for the nearest weapon to hand, a pot of good black coffee splashed an expensive wave of liquid over the closest of the assailants. The effect was wasted, forcing the intruders back only long enough for me to scramble to my feet and take up an indignant stance. Again they came at us in waves, I withstood their advances as Siobhan scrambled to safety.

Romancing tales will have you believe that there is glory in battle, facing the enemy with the sound of military drums beating in rhythm with your own brave heart as you transform into a Hollywood hero while dramatic music fills your brain. In battle there is very little time for bravery. Survival becomes paramount at any cost. Deep in the moment I found myself strangely savouring the feelings of old as I thrashed wildly with my feet and hands. However, there was too many of them. My middle-aged body was being forced back due to the sheer number of the attackers. I began to feel that after all this time I had finally met my match. I looked helplessly around me, grateful at least that no one would see me being taken down by these relentless, fearless intruders as they grew ever more aggressive. And then through the stramash of it all she appeared. Like a beautiful goddess rising from a Celtic mist, she appeared. To hand she brought forth her magnificent weapon of which she took aim and blasted them with a force that devastated them entirely. She had no choice. It was them or me.

Our eyes met in such a way that was terrifying yet intimate at the same time. A man knows every look upon his partners face. Every expression is embedded into his memory for life, it is how men learn to read their wives ever changing moods. I saw regret in her eyes as I was accidentally caught in the line of fire, yet a determination to quell the furor made me proud as I saw the terrible beauty light her extraordinary violet eyes. For the first time in her life she had glimpsed into a world of vengeful fury. She had revelled in her moment of power. There could be no turning back for her now. Minutes later as I dried myself off with a large fluffy towel, I relished the fact that the battle was indeed won at the cost of so many at the feminine hands of so few. Her words rebounded off of my still slightly vodka fuddled mind as she rewound the hose to its original place on the large plastic reel. "Remind me to add ant powder to the list next time we visit the market please James."  "Aye hen, I will, that was a wee bit too close for comfort, eh?"

Chefs Surefire Hangover Cure

1 large spoon of honey
1/2lb red grapes
300ml Vodka
12ml fresh lemon
1/2 pint Irn Bru
Ice
(no ants)

Blend together on max speed. Strain out the debris. Pour into chilled glass. Drink steadily until pain in temples recedes. Nap gently in hammock until sun reaches the yard arm. Resume position with fresh alcoholic drink in hand. Repeat all of the above until you feel better or are too swallied to care. Enjoy.

Lambs To The Slaughter

For breakfast this morning we sat down to poached eggs and bacon on wheat toast served with black tea laced with something old and gold. Joining us at the table was the local priest. Worry yourselves not, tis no the religious fervour that has come about me since my return. No, it is more a condition of which I had to agree to on the purchase of my property that I must maintain the attached graveyard for those relatives wishing to visit their loved ones. Considering that the last poor sowl was laid to rest here in 1703, I haven't been too troubled by those overburdened with flowers. For those of you who are likely to tiptoe around the subject of churchyards, think for a moment about how I felt when we first looked at the ancient headstones and discovered my own full name on four of the markers. I stopped eating takeaway food for nearly a fortnight with the shock of it all.

Now, I am a busy man, so nipping out twice a week with the oul Flymo to keep the grass from licking the edges of poor missus O'Hoolihan's monolith was never gonnae happen. The little singing fella is always too busy entertaining the living down at the bingo hall to assist me in my quest, while my own brood are too busy keeping me in early retirement by laying bricks and building things because I no longer have the desire to do so. There was only one surefire solution open to me. Sheep! Now sheep are stupid animals, they have a brain the size of an Englishman's penis and tend to shuffle about leaving their droppings where people have to tread. I have good solid wooden floors, sheep shite and wood floors do not good bed-fellows make.

I currently have hens, geese, goats and the odd bedraggled llama to keep the place looking aesthetically pleasing to the untrained eye. Of course you lot are more than aware that I am a city boy at heart and I bought the animals only to justify the Range Rover parked in the driveway. The only animal ever to occupy space in that by the way is a wee ass who lives across in Limerick. Even then we put down newspaper on the upholstery. So the whole idea of purchasing a flock of baa-baa's just to munch the grass was the original plan of attack, they ticked all the right boxes and kept the man of god fae my door for twelve months of the year.

I wasn't surprised when he offered to 'lend' me his own small flock to graze freely in the field enclosure as this would kill two birds with one stone. With hindsight a man of the cloth could have used a better phrase, surely? So much for thou shalt not murder a living thing, eh? So, with the deal done the oul fella drops by once a year for his breakfast, a bottle or two of my private stock and a quick swatch over the wall at the condition of the grass. He doesn't preach to me about his boss, I don't necessarily point out that a couple of his flock disjoint themselves and end up laying in my freezer. After all, is it not said that god helps those who help themselves?

Roast Lamb with Parsnip Mash

1 rack of fresh lamb (about 8 chops)
4-5 parsnips (depending on their size)
8 medium potatoes
Fresh horseradish
Scottish Butter
Milk
Salt and pepper to taste

Pre-heat oven to get things started, then heat up a bit of oil in a heavy pot or frying pan. Brown the rack of lamb for a minute or two on all sides, but for the love of all things tasty do not brown the ends. Transfer to an oven-proof dish and cook for around 20 minutes. Vary the cooking time depending on your personal choice of pink or brown meat, but your thermometer should read 120 when it’s done. Unfortunately the auld wooden barometer that hangs in your hallway will not be sufficient for this dish. (Little singing fella please take note) Next step, de-glaze the pan the lamb was browned in by pouring in a bit of the jus, and then returning this mixture to the pot where the jus is simmering. Remove it from the oven and let sit for 10 minutes while you ponder the outcome of your accompaniment of traditional Celtic mash. I would suggest at least three fingers of single malt and a browse of the newspaper while you mentally prepare yourself for the delights of tonight's dinner idea.

Boil a medium-sized saucepan full of water, peel and roughly slice up the parsnips and the potatoes to prepare for boiling. The snips will take slightly longer to boil than the tatties will, so either place them in the boiling water a few minutes before you put the potatoes in, or cut up the snips into smaller pieces than the spuds. Boil for 10-15 minutes or until the largest pieces are tender enough to stick a fork in. Drain the parsnips and potatoes and transfer to a large glass bowl for mashing. Make as you would normal mash, although with a bit less milk since the parsnips tend to take on more water. Peel some of the skin off the fresh horseradish, and using the fine side of the grater, grate about a tablespoon of horseradish into the mash. You might want more than this, or you might find yourself incapable of achieving the one tablespoon because of the agony to your eyes. Stir thoroughly, add salt and pepper to taste before turning out onto a large rectangular dining plate along with fresh minted peas.

The Gathering

 
For breakfast that morning I had delicious black coffee and what I thought was a good idea. Serving up 15kg of prime, plump Mallorcan pig  for a ravenous horde of invited family and friends seemed like a grand idea at the time. Then again so did standing up on the way down the giant water slide in front of the weans. I still have the bruises needless to say. It was never going to be easy and since purchasing professional cooking equipment would have insulted our Glaswegian manliness, not to mention being more expensive than the pig itself, a DIY roasting occasion was deemed the suitable answer. An existing, extra-large BBQ was soon converted and knocked up using sticky-back plastic and oul bottles of washing up liquid. A spit and rotating device procured, a few local bricks were located to prop up the spit and the knees of the rotating thingy drilled to the bricks. The spit knees that is, I haven't drilled the other kind for many years. A stainless steel hotplate (roofing membrane) was wheeled out to heat the cooked pork and extra charcoal was placed in the main BBQ. The prepping of the pig wasn't entirely easy, the spit not going in as perfectly as we had planned. Let's be honest here, how many people are skilled in the art of inserting a thick broom like handle up a pigs rear end, eh? Okay... the English gents out there with your hands up, relax, point taken. Quite literally it would seem.

At this particular moment of writing I should also apportion part of the blame for the poor workmanship on the arrival of many members of our elderly Glesca clan as they had seemingly been practising their swally abilities long before they had even left Glasgow airport. Even my usually top notch craftsmanship fell by the wayside and was somewhat to be desired. Don't blame it on sunshine. Don't blame it on moonlight. Don't blame it on good times. Blame it on the whisky. I digress... The pig was brushed inside with sweet paprika, dark rum and sea salt, filled with sweet red onions, scallions, tatties, bell peppers and sage stuffing before being sewn up using the pull cord from my shorts. Clean ones they were, before you start!  A large batch of basting liquid was prepared, with goose fat, lard, calvados, sweet cider and bay leaves. With all fingers tightly crossed for the contraption to hold together, the pig went over the coals an hour behind schedule. The first barrel was tapped and the gathering had officially begun. The spit and turning device were only originally intended for a few chickens to be placed on it, so the 4 hours of waiting for the pig to cook were slightly nervous ones as our family and guests tucked into the tapas and tequila while the wee beastie cooked slowly in front of them.

The basting and the rotating went well despite the groaning turning device that made us all take bets on when it would give out, but it held up and the pig started to look tantalising only a couple of hours into the cooking. Luckily, Siobhan's mammy and her sisters had arrived a few hours earlier than expected on their broomsticks due to the warm air currents circulating directly behind the flight path, so cranking the spit was their gracious contribution to the day while the menfolk got stuck into the swally. Siobhan's brothers arrived late in the day, they had only decided to leave Belfast behind at the last minute due to the fact that they would be getting a free holiday despite actually having to break bread with the totally unsuitable barbarian their sister (the good looking one) had married some years before. Several hours after their arrival we discovered them indoors watching a Spanish documentary on their hero, Oliver Cromwell. We left them to it. You can take the Protestant out of Northern Ireland, but you cannae take the Norn Irn out of the proddy, eh?

Finally, a good few hours into the roasting, the piggy was done. The skin was a wee bit more blackened than envisaged, but the meat inside was beautifully succulent. The flavour of the basting juices and paprika were just noticeable and it was wonderful tasting it as it fell away fae the bone. Roasted meats are a great comfort food to me. They remind me of much leaner times when, as a child growing up in Drumchapel, the mammy trying to feed us all on a meagre budget, used to borrow next doors meat to make our gravy before passing it around the corner to her sister to do the same. Perfectly cooked pork has a supple squishiness to it, the way you do not have to chew but can ease it apart with your tongue as if it were as soft as stewed peaches. Some parts did come out slightly dry, but we all acknowledged that a many-hour long roast is a very difficult things to pull off when you cannot regulate the heat. The crispiness of the fresh salads and lively pasta on offer complimented the delicious meat and huge piles of wonderful foods on the oaken tables were soon reduced as our guests got stuck in. I played the perfect host and pretended I didn't notice that Siobhan kept topping my glass up with alcohol-free lager as I put carving knife to steel and honed a keen edge on the blade.

Ahh, all those heady Friday nights in Glasgow came flooding back...

All in all, everyone had a good time without any squabbling, even though we had more guests than actual beds we still got a smile or two out of the Belfast eejits boys and the craic was indeed mighty. Siobhan's mammy sang a few songs and we kicked up our heels and sang along with her. We had invited a few Spanish friends along, their first time mixing with full blown Glaswegians in fine fettle didn't seem to phase them. Although, I did see trepidation in their eyes when my uncle Tam explained to Señora Herrera that a true Scot wears nothing beneath his kilt. At the age of 76 I can only add that we were also grateful that he didn't raise his hem line and lower the overall tone. There was already enough meat on offer thank you very much. Kudos to everyone involved and though at times the girls felt slightly sad to be cooking an animal similar to my wee pets at home, I think that we did manage to put it's sacrifice to a very good and tasty use. Now, considering that there was over forty hungry people getting stuck in to the piggy, not one soul went hungry and there was still enough delicious leftovers to make up a wee snack for the following day (see below).

For those of you who do not advocate the taking of pork, my apologies, no insults were / are intended. Trust me, if we could have strung up a cow and had a beef roast we would have done it. Maybe next time we have a wee bash, eh? Do keep in mind that it has only been the last decade or so since we natives of dear oul Glasgow ceased the consumption of human flesh. Or so the red top tabloids would have you believe!  Buen provecho!

 
Porky's Revenge

Extra large roll wraps
3lb fine loose pork
5 large white onions sliced
8 large vine ripened tomato's (chopped)
12 scallions (chopped)
6 Habanero peppers sliced wafer thin
5 red onions finely diced
2 large carrot (grated)
20 fresh button mushrooms (sliced)
4 cloves crushed garlic
1 large thumb of fresh ginger (grated)
A good scoosh of tomato paste
2 tb of soy sauce
1 large handful of fresh garden peas (3 if you have small hands like the little singing fella)
1 heaped tb of cornflour
Paprika and cayenne to taste

Place a wee smidgen of good quality virgin oil in a large wok and place it over a high heat. Stir the pork until brown and sieve thoroughly to remove any grease. Pat it down to ensure that it is free of all fatty deposits then sprinkle with a good pinch of paprika and cayenne. Remove and cover. Add the sliced onions and start to wok fry them turning them over with a slotted spoon all the time. After a couple of minutes add the sliced mushrooms and grated carrot and continue stir frying for a couple more minutes. Next add the garlic, scallions and ginger and allow it to hit the bottom of the wok so it gets a chance to fry a little in the oil. I know that the traditional Spanish method would be to fry the ginger and garlic in the oil from the beginning, but doing it my way works well and allows the flavours of these wonderfully pungent roots to stay more in the forefront of the final taste of the dish. Cook this for a few more minutes while you swally a few glasses of wine.

Add the tomato's, tomato paste, soy sauce and then the peppers and peas. For the love of all things holy, if you are susceptible to excruciating pain then take extreme care not to have too much contact with the divil's own Habanero. The vapours alone will knock out a donkey, so do be careful. Try to keep your donkeys outdoors during the food preparation. Much safer. I am aware this may of course be difficult to do in certain parts of Limerick and a certain wee ass we all know so well. As this bubbles merrily away mix the cornflour with a little water to form a smooth paste and add it to the wok with the meat and mix it through well. The cornflour will thicken it. When the mixture is cooled fill the wraps with the mixture and roll up. Seal the end of the rolls with a little of the cornflour mixed with water. Deep fry until they are crisp and light brown. If you want to make the funky triangle shape that real chefs use in their restaurants then play around until you perfect it. It takes a wee bit of application, but it is worth the effort, especially if you are having guests and want to show off your skills.

Serve up with a crisp salad, plenty of olive oil and a generous helping of mint and lemon juice. A half dozen bottles of chilled white wine will help to put out the flames, but I would also recommend putting a few toilet rolls in the fridge for later on, just in case, eh?

Hasta la Vista Baby

For breakfast this morning I sat behind the wheel of my trusty van in the rain clutching a cardboard coffee cup and feeling a slow trickle of dirty water drip-drip-dripping into my sock. As I wiped the condensation from the windae I took in the depressing view around me. The tipping of rain drenched hats, sporadic as they glance in respect of the long since buried dead of their own. Nearby, at Langfaulds, still the flowers placed almost daily about the faither's grave. The significance of lapsed souls is not lost upon the priest as it was on those who stared fae sheltered doorways with betting slips still to hand as the procession wound its way through Hardgate towards the Milngavie Road. A twinge, a certain sadness, I felt not for the unknown deceased now prone in the black and glass carriage as it passes us by in all its mournful glory. I feel for the loss of a young generation who may never make it away fae these inner dwellings, the concrete schemes and the pish reeking stairwells of Clydebank in general. It is getting ever closer for my time to leave.

Here, behind the scenes, I am making preparation for my own journey. No, not imminent death you morbid bunch of reprobates, that's a long way off yet I hope. Besides, the money (the legal stash as well as my alleged 80s 'acquired' Security van proceeds) are long since written into my will, of which your names are no scribed for fear of my early termination by unknown hands. Oh aye, it happens, believe me. Many an oul fella has been laid to rest while his closest family are already on route to an exotic location to mourn by the side of the Mediterranean with a pina colada and a dusky wee beauty to wipe away the crocodile tears of loss. I often sit at the bar beside the little singing fella as he mentally measures me up for a pine box and takes a crafty swatch at the linings in my wallet.

Well see me? I'm staying one step ahead.

For years I have grafted in deep dirty holes and filthy cellars, building houses and homes for those in England and beyond who have had the advantage of wealth and means to retreat to a weekend abode of which they can frequent when the rat race becomes too much to take. Now it is my turn to sit back, relax with a long cool drink and perhaps tinker with my new sun deck on my latest acquired property.
Majorca has long since been a sanctuary of the mind to many a weary traveller looking for a certain two week period of relaxation and sunshine away fae the drab reality of life. The hardest part is always leaving it behind and returning to civilisation, taking up the shovel, standing behind the mixer and flinging cement and concrete to earn a crust. Well, for me, no more. This time my stay will be extended. No more vacation blues as you arrive at the airport only to see the latest incoming wearing exactly the same smile that you wore only a short fortnight before.

Yes, I shall miss my beloved Glesca a smidgen while I soak up the sun and dip my big toe or two into the Med. The freedom of air to my shorts will liven me up no end as I dream up witty lines to send to my wee gorgeous daisyfae. I shall look at the white band of skin on my wrist and grin as I realise that time is of no importance when you are away on your hols.  Oh aye, I'll be back, just no within a fortnight, so don't wait up. Here's a little taster of what I shall be preparing for masel while I am away. I would no want you wicked mob to starve, eh?

Prueba de Chorizo

1kg fresh, loose chorizo meat
1 large Spanish onion, finely diced
3 large potatoes, or equivalent number of smaller
4-6 cloves of garlic, finely chopped
Olive oil, salt, black pepper, sweet pimenton, fresh parsley


Scrub the tatties well, as  it is always best to cook them without peeling them. Once they’re perfectly clean on the outside, cut them into cubes of about 1-2cm and dry. In a heavy based pan, heat enough olive oil to cover the potatoes. If you have a frier, that would work even better. Obviously you can substitute the olive oil for any other type of frying oil, but it has to be said that the olive oil will give a better taste. Rather than using the highest quality extra virgin stuff, you can use a cheaper, lighter variety, either virgin, or just olive oil, as it’s technically referred to in Spain. If you can’t find either of these, you can mix the extra virgin stuff with a lighter oil of your choice, vegetable works well.
Once the oil is hot, add the diced potatoes and turn the heat down to a simmer. For the love of all things holy you don’t want to boil the potatoes in the oil, like you do when making a tortilla, but you don’t just want to sear them on the outside either – something in between works well.

While the spuds get going, pour a large slug of white wine and guzzle, add the loose chorizo meat to another saucepan and add just enough water to cover. Cook the meat in the water until it changes from a predominantly red colour to a brownish-grey. At this point, most of the water will have boiled off, but if there is any left, just discard. To the meat, add the chopped onion, garlic and a few good glugs of olive oil and fry the whole lot on a medium heat until you get a deep brown colour. Refill your glass, this recipe prepared in a hot kitchen will require a minimum of 3 bottles of wine consumed by the chef and his wife. At this point, the potatoes should be more or less done. Remove the heat, drain the oil and add them to the meat mixture. Add a handful of chopped parsley, a pinch of pimentón, a few teaspoons of fresh cream, a few generous turns of black pepper and salt to taste. Fry for a minute or so more and you’re done.

Enjoy, I shall bring you each back a sombrero and a wee stuffed burro for your sideboard.

Séimí Fergal Bradaigh

For breakfast this morning I took a roll and sausage with the eldest of the sons. He explained his anguish after a recent chance meeting in a bar with a young fella by the name of McDonough who had asked him the history of our own family name. The son was both saddened yet indignant as we sat and drank the breakfast tea as he began to tell me of the mans questions about me and the story of his own oul fella and his McDonough name. It stirred a momentary glow of bitter hatred within me, of which I have long since tried to put aside. I no longer look in the mirror and see a resentful man. These days I prefer peace to fragmented bone. But auld wounds still run as deep as the scars that forever line my face to remind me of what I once was. I reminded him of the blog entry below I revealed some years ago, of which some of you may remember.



McDonough was his name, but he also masqueraded under the name of Flanagan to be associated with the heroes of an earlier time. A big man he was, both in name and of stature. He had the most determined of walks, and would make a show of the defiance by way of his stride. No working man on the docks of Glasgow had time for Flanagan. Not even when he was in the company of money and the drink was about him. A protestant man he was, and loud with it, although his chest bore no symbols of Ulster or the red hand. When he took to striding down the dock at the back of two, many a man would tremble behind his piece and cheese and tremble the jar of the warm Barry tea.

“Move that feckin jay-ket, can you’se no see that ah’m an important man in need of a seat?” he would cry.

If the owner of the coat was slow to move, Flanagan would reach down and toss it into the waters murky depths out of sheer spite.

“You’ll no need to be telt the twice again!” he would proclaim to all those before him.

Many eyes would flash with the anger of it all, but Flanagan was a union man and no to be crossed by those who relied on the Friday shilling to keep their families warm. It was the Saturday after the funeral of the first born son, which saw my faither sitting alone on the bitterly cold dock with his auld mash of tea by his side. A small space had been cleared by the men, who although they could not utter the soft words of comfort to a bereaved man of Glasgow, could muster a show of respect by leaving him be. It was then that Flanagan chose to make his imposing entrance. He stood in front of the faither and pointed at the small brown keepsake of a shoe fae the boy who had been lost to the terrible cough. It was his only remembrance of such a wee life taken so young.

“Move that, or fish it back oot” came Flanagan’s harrying cry. “Whit is it, a wee dolly shoe eh?” said the man who had little thought for anyone but his self.

The faither rose, the great bull of a man that he was, the look of the divil came about his face as he stood square before him, a great blackness reaching out fae his eyes as he gripped the protestant man firmly by his coat.

“I pity you Flanagan” said the faither. "The very inside of you is cold, and you will never feel the love or the warmth of childer. My first born is only just laid to rest, and yet the love he leaves inside of my soul will always stay with me. You have no one, and will always remain an empty shell of a man to the end. Turn away and be gone, take this heed and wear it well, for I cannae guarantee what the rage will do to a dog such as you.”

But McDonough who was also Flanagan, did not heed the warning of my faither and was brutally pitched over the side by the very same men who could no find the words for a bereaved man of the docks. Let no talk of religion, nor the softness of words stand between men born of poverty and Glasgow’s proud men of the shipyards. No a word was said between the two for more than the passing of ten years, until the morning Flanagan was cold and present at his own wake. It was a sparse congregation that stood and watched my faither enter the protestant kirk and approach the man who could find no happiness even under two names.

“Now I can finally forgive you” said the faither, as he placed a blackened and torn welder’s glove atop the casket lid. “Now you fully understand the pain of loss, but sadly it is your own. Pray that no man will ever ask you to move this glove.”

His words were vague to those few who stood before the casket, but some eyes smiled. There were those in attendance who remembered back to that bitterly cold day on the dock.



No recipes this day from masel. Instead, I journey spiritually to the place where my oul fella now lays. I like to believe that he made me and the sons the men we are this day. For you da, the very words you used to sing when we were all feart back when men died of the poverty, drink and the blackness of their own sin.

Dreaming in the night,
I saw a land where no-one had to fight,
Waking in your dawn,
I saw you crying in the morning light,
sleeping where the falcons fly,
They twist and turn all in your air-blue sky,
Living on your western shore,
Saw summer sunsets, I asked for more,
I stood by your Atlantic sea,
And I sang a song for Ireland

Table For Three

For breakfast this morning I had some explaining to do. She took it all in, but I could see by her eyes that she would probably continue to give me the silent routine for the rest of the day. My past has a habit of revisiting me in the most unlikely of places. I should have known by the insecure little steps he took as he approached our table clutching the chilled bottle of wine so firmly by the neck in his proferred soggy palm. Our eyes met in a mid-mouthful moment of recognition. Siobhan had just asked my opinion on which movie had the worst of endings. He stammered a nonsensical greeting of stuttering fluffiness. I had once adjusted his kneecap and three of his toes over an unpaid debt and then given his wife the money for a taxi to Gartnavel hospital. I have always been one for the manners. He had invented a gimmicky device which had been sold via door to door catalogues. The kind you came home to find laying wet and soggy within their unsealed clear plastic wrapping beside your door. The kind you left, unopened. He was now broke, balding, divorced and living with his mother in a small house on one of the cities moderate housing schemes.

I could see Siobhan was trying very hard not to stare at the way in which his brown toupée didn't quite meet what was left of his oyster grey thatch. I admired the way she lip-synced her way perfectly through the full fifteen minutes of his success story monologue while remaining agog at his field of carefully coiffured hair. I'm always wary of be-wigged strangers you haven't seen in twenty years pouring out their hearts as you politely endeavour to carry on eating your Wiener Schnitzel. It took him a while, but eventually he trotted out the obligatory faux pas for the inconvenience he had caused me back in the day. The silence was nearly as loud as the original scream when I had altered his shoe size and trouser length forever. I took my final look around at the elegant decor of my favourite restaurant as I decided the size of the tip. I would miss the fayre, I would miss the ambiance, but most of all I would miss the taste of those delicious veal cutlets I had grown so fond of. I left him a twenty. As I helped Siobhan on with her coat I couldn't help but think that the answer to the movie question may have been 'Kismet'.

Wiener Schnitzel

8 slices brown bread
small cup of mixed flour
2 large fresh free range eggs
2 tbsp full fat milk
sea salt and freshly ground black pepper
4 veal cutlets (scaloppini) patted dry and flattened evenly
55g of unsalted Scottish butter
lemon wedges

In a food processor, pulse the bread into fine crumbs. Put them into a shallow bowl, covered. Put the flour into a shallow bowl or a lipped plate. Break the eggs into another bowl and whisk with the milk, season with salt and pepper to taste.

To bread the cutlets:

Dredge a cutlet in the flour, shaking off the excess, then dip it into the eggs and coat evenly with the breadcrumbs. Set aside on a piece of waxed paper or baking sheet. Continue with the remaining cutlets. Heat the butter in a non stick skillet over a medium heat. Pour yourself a large glass of chilled white wine. You deserve it for getting this far without making any mistakes.(I saw you drop a wee bit of shell into the bowl. Fish it out and I'll pretend I never saw it)

While the butter is still foaming add the breaded cutlets and cook, swirling the skillet in a tight circle until golden brown and cooked all the way through. I usually do 2 minutes for the first side. Turn the meat using wooden tongs and cook for 1 minute to crisp the breading. Transfer the cutlets onto plates, sprinkle with the lemon wedges and serve with fluffy mash and minted peas. Alternatively, serve with potato salad, chunky bread and fresh rocket. Enjoy.

Mayan Over Matter

For breakfast this morning we munched on wheat toast spread thickly with raw honey straight from the hive. Tiny pools of Scottish butter bubbled to the surface as I passed a hot flame across the honey glaze. Black coffee, bitter and dark as only real coffee can be, complimented the definitive flavours that tangoed upon our tongues. Together, as a family, we devoured the morning papers for more news of the impending doom that awaits us next week. Just like all rational people living in the 21st century, my own personal religion stems from an interpretation of a single set of tablets discovered in the 1960s at the archaeological site of Tortuguero in the Mexican state of Tabasco. I would be foolish to ignore the warnings by leading Epigraphists who say the prophecy foretells the beginning of a new era, The world as we know it... is doomed. Before the cock has crowed three times we shall join the rag-tag brigade of intelligent human beings scurrying to the uppermost peak of  Pic de Bugarach where we will be greeted by Bono, Sarah Palin and no doubt Elvis Presley, as we await salvation by way of an alien space craft. I hope they serve lunch.

I might not go. I still have a side door to hang on the garage, not to mention the bottles of red wine vinegar that I am supposed to be preparing on Friday for Missus O'Flaherty at number 63. She doesn't get out much, not with her varicose veins and this cold weather an all. Besides, who would feed the llamas, collect the eggs from my chickens and milk the goats in my absence? Not bloody Bono, that's for sure. Perhaps I'll just give this decades doomsday prediction a miss. Maybe join the bandwagon on the next one. Isn't the next worlds end due in a phone box somewhere in California at the hand of Colin Farrell and a plague of sniper trained locusts or something? It might be my tired oul eyes, but I could swear that the new postman is Samuel L Jackson and in his sack he is delivering hundreds of snakes. I'm starting to lose track, too much Fox News and egg nog seems to have scrambled my memory. I must also give the more stronger of Gorgonzola cheese a miss at bedtime, the dreams are becoming more lucid with every bite of the cracker.

Just in case the Mayans do get it right and after receiving a synchronising ray coming from the epicentre of the galaxy, a ray that will originate a gigantic radiant flaming that will bring the destruction of the planet through cataclysm to a fiery burning end, I have to get this secret off my chest. I am responsible for the disappearance of Jimmy Hoffa, his body is entombed within the concrete column at Giants Stadium. I also shot JR, but that was just for fun. I also kidnapped Shergar, he lives on in my barn, we ride him every Sunday, the grand weans love him. I also have a secret wee twin brother who goes by the name of Map. We were separated at birth after my da threw him in the river tied up in a sack (obvious reasons) and sure enough, a movie was based on our life story. The actors of course being Danny De Vito and Arnold Muscledlump. I am sure you can figure out exactly who played who! However, for those of you not planning on making the trip to Bugarach next week, I thought I might occupy your time with a winter warmer to put a smile back on your face. Enjoy.

Apocalypse Pie

675g (1 1/2 lb) diced braising steak

sea salt and freshly ground pepper

2 heaped teaspoons of plain flour

olive oil (good stuff please)

1 red onion, peeled and diced

1 carrot, peeled and diced

4 sticks of celery, diced

1 small handful of fresh herbs (rosemary, thyme, bay leaf)

1 (500ml) bottle of Guinness

4 chopped tomatoes

1 (500g) packet of puff pastry (if you are a heathen or just plain lazy)

1 free range egg, beaten

 

 

Season your beef well with the salt and pepper to taste, sprinkle with flour and toss around until coated. I use a plastic bag, it works better than anything else.

Heat 2 to 3 glugs of olive oil in a large casserole type pot and fry your meat until well browned.

Add the onion and fry for one more minute, then add celery, carrots and herbs. Cook for a further 5 minutes then pour in your Guinness.

Add the tomatoes; bring to the boil. Stir well, then simmer for 2 hours or until the meat is tender.

The sauce should be nice and thick with an intensely tasty flavour. If not, why not? Season with salt and pepper.

To make the pie, preheat the oven to 190 degrees/gas mark 5.

Put the meat filling into a large baking dish.

Roll out the pastry and place over your baking dish, making sure it is slightly bigger than the circumference of the dish.

Brush the rims of your dish with beaten egg, then place the pastry on top of the dish, squashing the extra pastry on the outside of the dish to secure. Lightly score the top of the pastry in a criss-cross fashion and brush with more egg. If you're in the mood you can add fancy oak leaves or a lattice.

Place on a baking tray (to catch the drips of pure goodness) and bake in the middle of the preheated oven for 45 minutes until golden and bubbling.

 

Serve with thick gravy, mashed tatties and mint peas. Do serve a good bottle of red wine with the meal to be sure of reaching food heaven. Don't forget... the last slice is for me.

 

See you in the new world on Thursday, or maybe not....

Paint It Black

For breakfast that morning we consumed nearly our own body weight in fried eggs, beef sausages, bacon, mushrooms and enough toast to keep a small country's wheat farmers in profit for a whole year. The English chef prepared the food exactly as we like it, tasty, non greasy, full of flavour and with just the right amount of seasoning in the black pud. He must surely have Scottish blood...  Our beverage of choice was of course good old fashioned PG Tips, several pots of it in fact. I do believe the hotel may soon expunge the 'eat-as-much-as-you-like' policy later today after our departure. Sitting in the dining room was also a welcome respite from the rain after four continuous days of inclement English weather. At least it made the city look cleaner.

That night we took in a truly legendary performance by the Rolling Stones. Words cannot do justice to the entertainment provided by Mr Jagger and co. Needless to say they were sensational, the lyrics to each track still continue to buzz through my head as we speak. It was well worth the trudge through the rubbish strewn streets of England's grim capital to see such iconic members of quite possibly the worlds most successful band. Nice to see the city of London got into the mood by painting everything in sight - black! Och well, it was worth the journey just to see that there is still life in many an oul dog over the age of 40. They definitely chalked one up for the auld wans, make no mistake about it!

We began our week away with a sumptuous meal in a fabulous fish restaurant in the west end. Each course just got better and better until the pièce de résistance itself arrived positively packed with all sorts of amazingly fresh fish. This dish approaches perfection - creamy seafood chowder. If a food utopia truly exists, this fantastic tasting course is what they would serve on an hourly basis. After our second helping (and fourth bottle of wine) I requested a copy of the recipe from a very friendly waiter who had worked his way towards a well earned tip. The fact that he was originally fae Scotland may have influenced me a tad.

I was delighted that the chef, an extremely amiable guy fae Amerikay, (NYC to be exact) came to the table towards the end of the evening and thanked us for our praise. He very kindly assisted us in putting away another few bottles of wine before we introduced him to some proper man size measures of 30 year old Whyte & Mackay prior to helping him back in the direction of the kitchen. So much for Jack Daniels being the daddy, eh? My thanks to him for sharing his own slant on his grandmothers original recipe. My apologies to his fellow countrymen for allowing him to believe that a New Yorker could keep pace with a Glaswegian when it comes to putting away the swally. All that whooping and hollering fae him to start with, but when it came down to the nitty-gritty he drooped quicker than the stars and stripes in heavy rain.

Do try the recipe for yourself, and also do spare a thought for our friendly American chef and his extremely unsociable hangover. Strangely enough, when we called in this evening for our farewell meal we were surprised to hear that he was STILL off work due to a blinding headache.

"I say can you see...."  In Cory's case, seemingly not.

Cory Finkle's Seafood Chowder

1 tbsp olive oil

1 teaspoon butter

2 medium yellow onions, chopped (about 2 cups)

1/2 cup dry white wine

3 large waxy potatoes, peeled, cut into 3/4-inch cubes

2 cups oyster stock (fresh for the love of all things fishy)

1 bay leaf

1 tbsp fresh thyme, or 1 teaspoon dried thyme

1/2 teaspoon sea salt

1/4 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper

1 teaspoon of cayenne

1 1/2 to 2 lbs cod, or other firm white fish, pin bones removed, fillets cut into 2-inch pieces

1 1/2 cups fresh clotted cream

2 tbsp chopped fresh parsley

12 mussels

large handful fresh peeled prawns

12 oysters (fresh, steamed in their shells first, add the juices)

4 rashers smoked bacon, grilled then finely diced

1/4 cup of sweet corn (cooked first in butter)

Heat oil and butter in the bottom of a large pot (6-qt) on medium heat. Add the onions and cook until softened, about 5 minutes. Add the wine and turn up the heat, cook, uncovered until the wine reduces by half. (If not using wine, add 1/4 cup of water with the oyster juice.)

Add the potatoes, oyster juice, bay leaf, thyme, salt and pepper, and spice. (The potatoes should be just barely covered with the liquid in the pot. If not, add water so that they are.) Bring to a simmer, then lower the heat to medium and cook, covered, until the potatoes are almost done, about 10-15 minutes. In a separate pot, heat the cream until steamy (not boiling).

Add the fish to the pot of potatoes and slowly for the love of Jaysus add the heated cream. Return to the stove. Cook on low heat, uncovered, until the fish is just cooked through, about 10 minutes. Keep your eye on the heat! If you are using straight heavy cream you should be more easily able to avoid curdling, even if the soup starts to boil. But if you are substituting light cream, half and half, or milk, the mixture will likely curdle if it gets near boiling point. Keep the temperature so that it barely gets steamy, but not simmering. When the fish is just cooked through, remove from heat.
Mix in the parsley and bacon. The flavours will improve if the dish rests in the pot 30 minutes before serving. Serve with white wine and whisky.