Walking through the tulips
Despite the popular belief Christmas is not statistically the best time for suicides. Apparently the right moment for making a ripe old nuisance of yourself is in the spring. It might be said though that before T.S. Eliot's publication of the Wasteland springtime was rather benign just as 5pm was an ordinary hour of the day until Ernest Hemingway made it a tragic time of the afternoon. Until publication of the book that boring hour in the afternoon was devoted, at least in U.K., to drinking that equally boring cup of tea.
Tea is like cocoa or Horlicks: a sad drink for old people with no teeth in their mouths. Now, not only do they have to cope with the idea of their own mortality but they have to drag the fate of a few brave bulls as well. Enough to make you hurl yourself over a bridge in a spring afternoon. Like the servant of a family in Paris, long time ago, who staged and succeeded in her suicide in March by digging up some old cobbles from some back street and carrying them in a bag until she reached the famous Pont-Neuf bridge over the Seine. There she carefully attached the paving stones around her waist and in the early hours of a spring day jumped over the side.
That kind of achievement needs careful planning, strong physical health and mental determination. And that is without perusing through Federico Garcia Lorca poetry.
All that sap rising, new growth showing its strength wherever you look does not stop us from celebrating the resurgence of life by killing the very symbol of born-again nature. We kill the lamb. That poor little defenceless gorgeous baby is doomed to be sacrificed on the altars of a few religions and some pagan rituals banquet benches. I always wondered how many people tucking in their EU leg of lamb and industrially made mint sauce at Easter would relish the idea of the born-again being rinsed in the blood of the lamb. Not quite the same powerful implication if drenched with a can of Campbell's tomato soup. But more practical. Try not to think of this at night. At 3am nothing is manageable.
We are not vegetarians. I could not face life without the occasional rabbit (in cider and mustard), pheasant (with redcurrant jelly), and an Iberico piece of pork (carefully roasted with a dribble of honey from our sierras). But as soon as nature starts frolicking like a drunken goddess and the earth moves under the push of new growth it is the time to refresh our vitality with what comes out of the rich loam we have in most part of Andalusia. My favourite is the spring onion and I shall give you a recipe for a spring soup in a moment because I remember an incident just after the war that nearly combined vegetable, flowers, the dreaded autumn time, the hope for spring and suicides.
One very dark night in October my younger sister was sent by my grandmother to the outer shed to pick up some onions for the stew. The battery in the house torch was flat. Incidentally I have never in my life picked up a torch in case of dire need and found a full battery. I must have an aura that immediately affects the chemicals and as soon as I am in relative proximity of that life saving device the battery pukes its power into cyberspace and I am left in the dark. So my sister, who did not yet know that she had an IQ far too high for her own good but to compensate had an eyesight as bad as a mole in the sunshine, set forth in pitch dark trying to follow the garden path. In spring this would be lined up with tulips that were my grandfather's hobby, especially those called parakeets that I hated (and still do) because they seemed to be the result of atrocious and devious tortures from the Dutch growers. But I suppose that if you live in such flat environment you have got to find something to amuse yourself with and after all there is a limit to what you can do with cows.
So, there was the brain of the century in the shed and grabbing an apron full of what felt like onions. There were evil spirits in that shed and they were always waiting for the right moment to grab our hair and shriek in our ears. So she did not hang around and ran back to the kitchen where she was told to peel, chop and add the onions to the casserole on the old fashioned range. I was older and doing homework. In my gran's eyes the activity was sacro-saint. This sanctity did not make me a Prime Minister but it saved me from the impending disaster.
We all sat down to diner at the round table that was inconveniently placed under the stairs. It was impossible to sit straight and I blame the arrangement for the general state of bad backs in the whole family.
My grandfather frowned, chewing pensively. "Something tastes funny." I thought so too but had not yet refined the outspoken trait that was going to be the bane of my life. "It's a wild rabbit that Albert brought in this morning," said grandmother." "Nothing to do with the rabbit! It's the onions! Who got them?" Brain of France started whimpering. The truth came out. There was not going to be any tiptoeing through the tulips the following spring. Murder and suicide were expertly adverted from the table. We finished the casserole, parakeets and all although I would not recommend it for a treat.
In our mild Andalusia spring when the new onions can be bought from the market for a few centimos then is the time to try one of my favourite soups:
Tea is like cocoa or Horlicks: a sad drink for old people with no teeth in their mouths. Now, not only do they have to cope with the idea of their own mortality but they have to drag the fate of a few brave bulls as well. Enough to make you hurl yourself over a bridge in a spring afternoon. Like the servant of a family in Paris, long time ago, who staged and succeeded in her suicide in March by digging up some old cobbles from some back street and carrying them in a bag until she reached the famous Pont-Neuf bridge over the Seine. There she carefully attached the paving stones around her waist and in the early hours of a spring day jumped over the side.
That kind of achievement needs careful planning, strong physical health and mental determination. And that is without perusing through Federico Garcia Lorca poetry.
All that sap rising, new growth showing its strength wherever you look does not stop us from celebrating the resurgence of life by killing the very symbol of born-again nature. We kill the lamb. That poor little defenceless gorgeous baby is doomed to be sacrificed on the altars of a few religions and some pagan rituals banquet benches. I always wondered how many people tucking in their EU leg of lamb and industrially made mint sauce at Easter would relish the idea of the born-again being rinsed in the blood of the lamb. Not quite the same powerful implication if drenched with a can of Campbell's tomato soup. But more practical. Try not to think of this at night. At 3am nothing is manageable.
We are not vegetarians. I could not face life without the occasional rabbit (in cider and mustard), pheasant (with redcurrant jelly), and an Iberico piece of pork (carefully roasted with a dribble of honey from our sierras). But as soon as nature starts frolicking like a drunken goddess and the earth moves under the push of new growth it is the time to refresh our vitality with what comes out of the rich loam we have in most part of Andalusia. My favourite is the spring onion and I shall give you a recipe for a spring soup in a moment because I remember an incident just after the war that nearly combined vegetable, flowers, the dreaded autumn time, the hope for spring and suicides.
One very dark night in October my younger sister was sent by my grandmother to the outer shed to pick up some onions for the stew. The battery in the house torch was flat. Incidentally I have never in my life picked up a torch in case of dire need and found a full battery. I must have an aura that immediately affects the chemicals and as soon as I am in relative proximity of that life saving device the battery pukes its power into cyberspace and I am left in the dark. So my sister, who did not yet know that she had an IQ far too high for her own good but to compensate had an eyesight as bad as a mole in the sunshine, set forth in pitch dark trying to follow the garden path. In spring this would be lined up with tulips that were my grandfather's hobby, especially those called parakeets that I hated (and still do) because they seemed to be the result of atrocious and devious tortures from the Dutch growers. But I suppose that if you live in such flat environment you have got to find something to amuse yourself with and after all there is a limit to what you can do with cows.
So, there was the brain of the century in the shed and grabbing an apron full of what felt like onions. There were evil spirits in that shed and they were always waiting for the right moment to grab our hair and shriek in our ears. So she did not hang around and ran back to the kitchen where she was told to peel, chop and add the onions to the casserole on the old fashioned range. I was older and doing homework. In my gran's eyes the activity was sacro-saint. This sanctity did not make me a Prime Minister but it saved me from the impending disaster.
We all sat down to diner at the round table that was inconveniently placed under the stairs. It was impossible to sit straight and I blame the arrangement for the general state of bad backs in the whole family.
My grandfather frowned, chewing pensively. "Something tastes funny." I thought so too but had not yet refined the outspoken trait that was going to be the bane of my life. "It's a wild rabbit that Albert brought in this morning," said grandmother." "Nothing to do with the rabbit! It's the onions! Who got them?" Brain of France started whimpering. The truth came out. There was not going to be any tiptoeing through the tulips the following spring. Murder and suicide were expertly adverted from the table. We finished the casserole, parakeets and all although I would not recommend it for a treat.
In our mild Andalusia spring when the new onions can be bought from the market for a few centimos then is the time to try one of my favourite soups:
The spring onion chowder.
Here it goes:
For 4 to 6 portions
1 generous litre of chicken stock (homemade or made up with 2 cubes and boiling water.
2 tablespoons of creamed coconut
1 tablespoon of mild curry powder
1 small piece of fresh ginger chopped fine or 1 teaspoon of powdered ginger
2 tablespoon of dry Sherry (or dry white wine)
1 teaspoon of sugar
250 GMS of drained sweet corn
2 bunches of spring onions finely sliced including a bit of the green. (Reserve some green for decoration and keep the rest for another soup or a pasta sauce)
100 GMS of peeled prawns (optional)
Salt to taste
6 tablespoons of cream or better sour cream.
Bring the chicken stock to a boil and add the coconut. Stir until dissolved. Add the curry, sugar, sweet corn and sherry. Simmer for 15 minutes. Add the spring onions, the prawns and the salt to taste. Stir in the cream. Ladle into soup bowls with chopped greens for decoration. If the soup looks too thin in the cooking pot add a little corn flour (Maizena) diluted in cold water and bring to a first boil. Then it is ready to serve.
A glass of chilled Manzanilla from Sanlucar near Jerez de la Frontera will go a treat with this sunny chowder. Two glasses might see you tiptoeing through the tulips and there won't be any suicidal thoughts in the air.
A glass of chilled Manzanilla from Sanlucar near Jerez de la Frontera will go a treat with this sunny chowder. Two glasses might see you tiptoeing through the tulips and there won't be any suicidal thoughts in the air.
JOCELYNE
