Little Corporals in the Kitchen
The television was left on. An unknown phenomenon in our house where this monster spewing inane programs and distressing distorted news is usually left, black, on its own, gathering dust and occupying valuable space in a small abode. Why don't we get rid of it? For the same reasons that we can't get shot of the 4X4, (difficult to use in a small historic town that was built for donkeys and mules drawn carts), the old-fashioned record player bought through a Sunday magazine and as far as I know has never ground its tooth around the pile of old 78s that are clogging one cupboard, the many compasses that came gratis with any catalogue item you were stupid enough to buy in good faith and let you down in the middle of the forest when it is raining and your windshield is full of holes you never knew were there because you were too busy going through the said naff catalogue, etc..etc.. We keep all those items because like partners, family, cats, dogs, hamsters and various other domestic pests they are there.
I was just coming down the stairs when I caught the image on the dreaded box. He was there, hat akimbo, heavy brows threatening the audience around the world. If it had not been for the phoney chef's hat I would have thought he was one of the dictators of some papayas republics. Bananas republics are totally "have been". They have become upwards mobile and reached the dizzy heights of having their produce sold to Fayed at Harrods for a price a piece that would feed a local farming family for a year.
Reminds me of an old, but to me, funny joke of years ago. A gentleman is in the plush fruit counter at Harrods. He enquires about the price of a punnet of strawberries. A mistake for a start. If you have to ask the price of any item in that emporium it means that you can't afford it. The pinstriped tail coated attendant tells him the price of the strawberries. "What!!??" cried the customer clad in shiny manmade fibre," Do you know what you can do with your strawberries?" The pinstriped attendant drew himself to his full 5ft2. "I am very sorry Sir, but the place has already been taken since last week by a cucumber at 5 Pounds 4 Shillings and 6 Pence."
It shows you how old this old joke is.
In the meantime the hattered baboon on that silly screen was killing his audience:
"When I say BUTTER I mean butter from that Southern hillside of Normandy in the village of XXX-sur-Mer". Dark eyes are drawn to the camera and the eyebrows are getting furry and menacing. A horde of female viewers are reaching for their twenty years old Atlas of the World.
They can't find it. No wonder.
But the Master carries on. "When I say SALT.. (pause) I mean salt from the marshes of Essex.
Where the hell is Essex when you are sitting in front of the TV in the steepest mountains of Northern Greece or the olive groves of Andalusia?
Completely oblivious of his viewers this goon carries on just thinking of the fee he is going to accrue in his bank account.
"When I say LEMONS I mean lemons that are grown on the South western slope of the Bongui-Boungui island North of Barbados". The eyes are growing darker and darker. He now looks like a mug shot of any street gang drunken yob we are going to see later on in what is called the "News".
The pupils dilate. He is sweating and wonders how minutes more of his rubbish is going to win his fee.
He pours a handful of some dark grain in front of the camera and pontificates with a sly smile on his greasy face: "When I mean RICE I mean the seeds of the weeds that grow on the left bank of the Bigi-Bigi river near the source of the Amazon.
The black eyes are getting that glint of madness which is always amplified by the camera. The baboon is in for the kill. "And when I mean WATER I mean water from the Northern slope of the Everest.." Sir Edmund Hilary and Sherpa Tensing are killing themselves laughing in their graves. The yaks are peeing in the stream as they have done for yonks and go to the business of surviving on the treacherous slopes. The label of the mineral water on the screen is shown to its full advantage and the monkey in front of the working bench is calculating how many more times he has to turn this bottle of p..s to earn even more dollars for his Caiman account.
And when he means PARSLEY he means Petroselinum sativum. Flat parsley to you and me. I expected him to finish with the infamous salute.
I can never find the remote control in this house. Even if it jumps in my hand I do not know how to use it. But I know how to pull a plug out even if it is a multiple one that is going to plunge the house into darkness.
Those idiots on the screen should wear a Government Warning on their low foreheads: "DO NOT BELIEVE ME! I AM A FREAK!"
Butter is butter wherever it comes from. Normandy butter was reasonably good until industrial production took over and turned it into little packets of tasteless fat available anywhere in the Western world. We have the most sensational butter in Antequera that comes from free range cows grazing on the rich slopes of the valley de Abdalajis. No, I am not facing a camera. It just happens to be true. Some of us are lucky even if we don't live on the right bank of the Wongy-Wongy river.
Salt is salt whether it comes from Essex or the nearest beach. It is said to be bad for you but so is sex. And likewise it is necessary and sometimes enjoyable. In the old days vegetables and meat were grown and reared properly. The end produce had enough built in natural salt to satisfy the palate. Nowadays you can't expect a celery plant grown in artificial peat and water to give you anything but a stomach ache and a night in the privy.
When you live in any Mediterranean country a lemon is exactly what it is. Probably comes from the garden next door or the grove down the road. Who cares if it should come from Barbados? Years ago I bought an antique travelling writing wallet. Beautiful leather with pewter corners. The object was interesting enough but what I discovered inside was worth more than what I paid for the wallet. There is a letter dated July 1944. Amongst other common niceties there is a poignant note of thanks:" Thank you so much for the lemon. OH! My! We had procured a little flour and sugar and we made a kind of Victoria sponge with the zest. Mary made a big jug of lemonade with half of the juice and we are forever planning what delicacies we can concoct with the other half."
Those ladies did not care where the lemon came from.
To me rice is nutritious fodder. It is bulk in the belly and I believe that a lot of children in the world would be delighted to have this commodity in their guts wherever it came from.
Let's not talk about water. From the tap it is full of bacteria. From a bottle it is full of chemicals. Just try to visit the water bottling plant at Lanjaron in the Alpurrajas and see what happens.
Parsley? Herbs? I have an old cauldron that was used, decades ago to boil the morcilla (black pudding). It is so rusty that the natural drainage is satisfying. I threw some seeds in there years ago. A lot of herbs thrive in the old girl and I will challenge any Latin named weed to have more taste than my humble patch of home-grown leaves.
Do not let those so-called celeb chefs bully you in your own home. Most of them are just that: little powerless corporals who could not make an honest cottage pie in their own kitchen.
JOCELYNE
