As I type this blog entry, Rod Stewart is singing the hauntingly beautiful, The Killing of Georgie, (parts 1 and 2). Now there’s a statement I never thought I’d make, Rod Stewart, and hauntingly beautiful. The reason I’m writing this entry at this time: after dinner, is because like, Beryl Bickerstaff, the protagonist in my novel/work in progress, 52, I have just experienced a, first However unlike Beryl I haven’t been given a fifty-two week life expectancy. The novel is a humorous look at what happens when you are confronted with cancer and the prognosis of just one year left to live. I can assure you the subject matter may not instantly make you think comedy, but sometimes it’s humour that makes our darkest moments bearable. In the story Beryl decides to grab life by the hair, despite most of it being lost on the bathroom floor, and experience all those things she’s always wanted to.
My first, harks back to a conversation on the beach a week ago, we Brits as usual were talking about food, and I happened to mention that I have never had, and am unlikely to ever have a fish-finger butty. The thought makes me wince and tomato ketchup on fish, (in the remotest sense I assume in a fish finger) sounds wrong. So what was this, first I hear you all cry out in unison?
Mashed potato, not just ordinary mashed potato, but the stuff that comes in a packet. So this evening, we’re having carrots, French beans and pork for dinner and we have no fresh potatoes, despite me shopping for the other ingredients earlier. A rummage through the provisions yields a box of dried instant mash. I have never eaten the stuff but the OH does, usually when I’m not at home: incidentally the same goes for porridge, or rather it did before we moved to Italy. I can’t bear the smell of milky oatmeal, just a quick sniff and I’m over the sink gipping like a drunkard.
Regular readers of my ramblings may remember previous culinary firsts, the toast toppers and pie in a tin blogs can be found at my old address, just click the link:
I remember the well known brand, where in the adverts Martians are laughing at the humans who peel them with their metal knives. Even as a kid, these funny TV commercials never persuaded me to eat the powdered potato; either that or my mother was more discerning during her forays to the supermarket on a Saturday morning. So we opened the packet of powdered white granules, (not the well-known brand alluded to earlier) and poured over hot water and something that looked rather like wallpaper paste began to form, with an odour akin to putty. “Hmmph,” the OH says. The wordless dialogue sends a shiver down my spine, as watch him place the bowl of greyish fake-potato onto the table.
Needles to say, here in Italy where we have countless, wonderful culinary dishes, this one was not one of them. In fact the dog refused to give it a try, my only regret is I didn’t follow by example.