“What’s for breakfast tomorrow, darling?”
“You should know. You’re cooking it”
“Oh”
I had forgotten that, in a moment of weakness and generosity, I had promised to make her “Queen for the Day” tomorrow. These exceptional occasions are chosen on a random basis (keep ‘em guessing is my motto) and are characterised by me preparing the breakfast for madam and waiting on her every need during the first meal of the day: a role reversal. In this way I try to ensure that she does not feel put upon in the catering department (well, not permanently anyhow).
My breakfast creations have come on since the disastrous fruit mutilations of the past (Blog 38). My simple banana fruit compote is much sought after I believe (it consists of a banana, sliced). My cooked preparations are – dare I say it – improving too, and a goodly range has been tried. The Big Fry Ups are very rare as Jane is not over-fond of fried food, but when they are produced they have been appreciated; my breakfast curry has been politely declined (“For breakfast? You must be mad!”); my loaf-cutting skills are valued and admired (I address the loaf with the bread knife in the same manner as I would a billet of mild steel with a hacksaw); my coddled eggs can be a little runny, but have been received tactfully; I think the low point may have been my kedgeree made with tinned tuna. However, my safest bet, and one which I produced this time, is simple scrambled eggs on wholemeal toast, the salt and pepper grinders placed, just so, on the table within her reach, and the red coffee cup of fresh coffee at her right hand.
It is rare that I produce food other than breakfast, though I have had my moments. I have a limited repertoire for other meals, though I hope that what I do produce is edible. Like most men, I can burn a steak on a barbecue, create a mean chilli con carne, conjure up a curry and boil up what the navy calls “pot mess” (any kind of stew). My yankee succotash is bizarre in name and colouring, yet popular after a long day. But my piece de resistance is bœf stroganoff, a meal not often produced for the simple reason that I use fillet steak and, hence, it is expensive. Bœf stroganoff and twice-baked soufflés are on the menu for Jane’s birthday in eight days time. Before you get too impressed I should point out, for the sake of honesty (and because she sometimes reads this), that the soufflés were prepared by Jane some time ago and currently live in the freezer; I will, however, provide that crucial second bake. In the days after I retired and Jane was still at work, I experimented with the food and had mixed success. Once, I spent the entire day, from 1000 to 1900, preparing and cooking some sort of lamb concoction only for it to end in failure (Jane commented that even she would not have attempted that recipe). At another time, my curried apple soup was rejected by the family and I remember haranguing wife and son as they stirred it around their bowls as if it were something that had leaked from a nuclear power station (such ingratitude). My root vegetable cobbler (a rare branching out into vegetarianism) was also judged a failure and Jane shudders, to this day, at the thought of it. Yes, I can do cooking but, on the whole, it is not my forte or pleasure. I have other talents.
Thinking of cooking pot mess, it was common in steam ships to acquire the raw ingredients (vegetables, meat) by nefarious means from the galley. These would be thrown into a fanny, water would be added, and the whole lot boiled up using a steam drain from one of the steam-driven machines. It is amazing what superheated steam at 450C (850F) can do. Potatoes would be baked by the simple expedient of lying them on the sliding feet of the main turbines. Members of the duty watch other than the Marine Engineering Department would sometimes come below and ask to use the facilities too: ki – a frothy hot chocolate made from shavings of solid chocolate boiled up in water with a steam drain – was very popular. However, outsiders had to be supervised. In one ship, it is said, a seaman came down below and asked to boil up his pot mess. Unfortunately the small bore pipe that he stuck into the fanny was not a steam drain, but a drain to the main engine condenser, which operated at a vacuum. When he opened the cock the drain sucked up his pot mess and deposited the whole lot into the main boiler – apparently peas could be seen bobbing up and down in the boiler gauge glass. This disabled the main propulsion on that shaft, necessitated a major internal clean of the boiler and closed feed system, undoubtedly led to a Board of Enquiry, and guaranteed a fun time for all. No, I do not think he got his pot mess back.
Poor Jane has been in the wars again, this time by trying to emulate Supergirl and attempting to fly. We were on another long walk when, suddenly, she stumbled on a rut and fell, bruising her side, grazing her shin and bending back her fingers. After dusting herself off and receiving my comforting pep talk (“It’s only pain. Lucky you missed that dog turd”) we carried on with the walk but, would you believe it, a few days later, after another walk, she stumbled in the garage and fell over again, this time onto a bag of scrap wood. She is now convinced that she has bruised yet another rib (Blog 43), though I think she has pulled a muscle, which is just as painful. Surprisingly, there is no bruising. Being Jane, she is carrying on life as normal, bustling here and there, talking to plants, digging little holes, baking cakes and only wincing occasionally. Also being typically Jane, she avoids taking painkillers on a regular basis, so that doubles her discomfort. There is something of the puritan in that girl: “suffering is good for the soul” appears to be her motto. The real performance comes when she gets into or out of bed: these evolutions are characterised by grunts, groans and creaks as if the duty part of the watch were hauling up a 27 foot whaler by hand after a particularly good run ashore the night before. Frustratingly, there is not much I can do to help her, other than the occasional shove or heave: it will just have to work itself out. This falling over lark is a little worrying though: perhaps it is symptomatic of the return of her labyrinthitis (Blog 40). Note the term “fell over”, not “had a fall”: a distinct difference that my godson once pointed out. We are not yet old enough to “have a fall”, thank you.
Whenever I ask a young person of my acquaintance, “How are you?”, I often seem to get the reply, “I’m good”. I always feel like saying,
“I was asking about your health, not your behaviour. I’m not Santa Claus”.
Look, buck up. The reply to, “How are you?” is, “I’m well, thank you”.
Similarly, the correct reply to the greeting, “How do you do?” (the correct way to address a stranger for the first time) is another, “How do you do?”; it is not an invitation for you to launch forth with a summary of the state of your haemorrhoids, or to say, “I’m good”
Do try to get these things right. They do matter. Hrrmph.
Now have you ever noticed how useless a first aid box is in an emergency? I had an unfortunate accident during my wood-turning the other day – nothing serious, just a scratch – but what a job I had to stem the blood. My tools are very sharp so I felt nothing at first: just a nick. Then the blood started. At that point I came to realise how hopeless a first aid kit can be. I scrambled to get it open, smearing blood all over the box, then found it contained everything but the small dressing that I actually needed: scissors, Savlon, triangular bandages, burn cream, eye wash all fell out into the sawdust which, with the addition of gore, was beginning to look like an old fashioned butcher shop of my childhood. I finally found some plasters, but couldn’t open the packet because my hands were slippery and I only had one good hand. There was nothing else for it but to wrap my finger in a paper towel and go up to mummy in the house, leaving a trail of blood up the garden path, through the utility room, and over the best part of the kitchen. What a mess! Naturally, I received a damned good telling off for being careless…dangerous to be left on my own…might need to visit the hospital for stitches…Eventually we managed to get it all bound up – it really was just a scratch, but the aftermath and cleaning up was out of all proportion to the original injury. I am not sure what the solution is regarding the value of a first aid box and instant access to something that stems the blood. Boiling pitch would do, I suppose, but that would be a bit drastic. And what is the point of a tube of Savlon – has anyone ever treated a wound with antiseptic cream? I certainly haven’t. And burn cream? Surely the best thing is to just stick the injured bit in running cold water. And plasters: so double wrapped for hygiene that you cannot get at them and, when you do, you find they are time-expired and won’t stick. I think I had better keep to writing for a while.
Things are starting to ease on the virus front here in England, and some year groups of primary school children have returned to school. Apparently only 60% of those children eligible to return have done so; presumably the remaining 40% had been taken by their concerned parents to the Dorsetshire beaches at Durdle Door to soak up the atmosphere, the sunshine and the virus. More significantly for us, we can now entertain people in our back garden up to a maximum of six (including us) provided we keep the usual two metres apart. To celebrate, we had two good friends and neighbours over for lunch yesterday and had a splendid time, the weather continuing to be hot and sunny. The numbers of daily cases and deaths in the UK continue to fall but, looking at the Shacklepin graph and trend curve, I think the gradient may be reducing ie the numbers are not falling as fast as they were. I mention this now, as a marker, so that it cannot be attributed to the current loosening of restrictions, the effect of which will only manifest itself in about two weeks time. Nevertheless, we are entering the asymptote of the curve so things continue to look encouraging. Most things are now available in the supermarkets (except vanilla extract, of all things) and queues are minimal if you go at the right time and get your wife to do the queuing. I was astonished to see a picture in the paper of about half a mile of people queuing for five hours to get into IKEA in Warrington. Just how desperate can you be to buy cheap furniture? Daily deaths from CV19 in the UK stand at 359 as of 3 June. Apparently Melbury has the fewest CV19 deaths in Barsetshire, and the county lies in a region of England that has also recorded the fewest deaths in the country so, in some ways, we are dumb, fat and happy. Well, dumb and fat anyway.
As I write, there is a mass gathering in Hyde Park in London to demonstrate that “Black Lives Matter”. British policemen have been attacked. This comes shortly after what appears to be the unlawful killing of a black man by a police officer in the USA and a report, in this country, that Black, Asian, Minority Ethnic (BAME) men are significantly more vulnerable to the Covid 19 virus than white people. While I have every sympathy with the sentiment, I consider any crimes and social inequalities that may occur in the USA to be a matter for the people of the USA. It does not justify attacking British policemen and I cannot believe that people in London can be so foolish as to attend this mass gathering, given the circumstances and their vulnerability. Total stupidity.
I have toothache. I never get toothache, but now the record has been broken and I am in agony. And it is a real pain in the jaw. For why? Because there are no dentists working. There is some hope on the horizon as dentists are expected to be able to open again on 8 June. I rang our surgery yesterday and the dentist said they would be operating a triage from that date and he would add my name to the list. There would be no instant treatment, as there would have been in the past: it would be an assessment only. Still, it is better than nothing. In the meantime, I am mainlining on the paracetamol and just about getting by, suffering in silence (as I do). The problem is, Jane is hitting the painkillers too occasionally, and so we are going through paracetamol like no tomorrow. Of course, we have been limited to buying only two packets of paracetamol per person for quite some years now and at least there is now plenty of the stuff in the shops, but it does mean having to go out almost every day to top up, and to buy the painkillers individually from several chemists. Right now I am tempted to take a mallet and chisel and remove the damned tooth myself. Why did it have to happen now?
I was chatting to a neighbour the other day and he was describing how his mother was very reluctant to leave her house, not because of a fear of catching the virus so much as a fear of actually going out: agoraphobia. This did not surprise me, and I fear it may be a problem that a lot of people are experiencing after so long in confinement. I remember when we had a canal boat years ago, and spent the summer weeks cruising the canals and rivers of rural England. Life for just the two of us was so tranquil, slow and largely devoid of people that, when we did venture forth into a town or city for provisions, we hated the bustle and noise and could not wait to get back onboard and away into the countryside again. I think that our experience was a minor version of the agoraphobia described earlier. The collateral damage to mental health from this epidemic can be added to the absence of dental, optical and – indeed – any other non-CV19 medical treatment during the current crisis. I hate to wish what is left of my life away, but I do long for the day when things return to normal (or something close to it).
The good news is that we have our new ice machine (Blog 47) and it is up and running. The bad news is that we have run out of both Durham and Plymouth gins. Regular readers will recall that these are Jane and my favourite tipples respectively. How could this have happened? I summoned the Supply & Secretariat Officer and remonstrated with her over the shortfall, but found her just as crestfallen as I was by the deficiency. It would appear that we have been drinking the stuff a little more than usual. We still have gin, of course: Gordon’s is a good substitute and we also have bottles of House of Commons Gin (a gift from our son, who works in high places) and Three Queens Gin (speciality of Cunard). But none of them is as good as our favourites. Fortunately, we have the internet. Jane started surfing immediately (note my use of the hip, modern terms) and she finally tracked down a supplier of Durham Gin – even the distillery was out of stock. Four bottles were immediately ordered and the crate is due today. As to Plymouth Gin, well, that will have to wait a little longer. Jane has not forgotten that remonstration and my referring to her as the Supply & Secretariat Officer.
After proof-reading my opening paragraphs above, I reminisced with Jane about the first meal I ever prepared for her when I invited her to lunch in my house, very early in our courtship. Women appreciate it when men cook food for them, especially if there is also a cosy fire and a warm, homely, romantic atmosphere. I pointed out that, even then, I had culinary talents and was perfectly capable of independent living.
“It was the summer. You opened a packet of smoked mackerel, added half a bag of lettuce, sliced a tomato and offered me a dressing of bottled mayonnaise. And you used to eat tinned Tyne Brand Minced Beef with Onion, Yeoman Instant Mashed Potato and Heinz Baked Beans in the evenings”.
How clever of her to remember the exact details of that special meal of 1982 (he said through gritted teeth). And how impressive that she still married me.
Perhaps she could tell that I badly needed help.
4 June 2020
"A Very Vintage Chap..." 