On the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month the Armistice was signed to end the First World War, one-hundred years ago.
Naturally greedy, the idea of making my own Lebanese dishes led me to purchase a small tagine.
In a roundabout way I speak of hemp; not the type you smoke and get high on, but another variety, a useful one.
Not so very long ago I remember loose sugar being weighed into stout paper bags; likewise tea and other dry goods, like rice. Very little was pre-packed. We didn’t all die of food poisoning either.
Panic, cold sweat, foul language and soft knees. The result of losing a credit card. Quite out of proportion to the loss.
I am not a doggie person unlike the vast majority of my compatriots whom, I suspect, actually prefer their dogs to their children. However, I have recently come across two dogs likely to change my mind.
That’s “Goal!” yelled at full throttle and as long drawn-out as you can hold your breath. Give it a try, preferably in the middle of a field. Or in the pub with your pals when your team scores.
You can’t go wrong with this Lithuanian “side,” even on the hottest day. Teenagers love kugelis; it fills all parts other padding-out foods fail to reach.
Our Aga cost a bomb but it gave succour, if only temporary, to crickets. It comforted the insomniac and the sufferer of an essay crisis. It was hopeless for teaching the little ones cooking. But it is the only piece of household equipment I have ever actually wept over when it died and was broken up and carted away for scrap.
Too late I realise that the secret of cooking is to know what something ought to taste like. It was my mother’s secret. Lover of good food, she never did a hand’s turn in the kitchen (being of that generation and an artist to boot). However, she knew exactly what the result should be and would rattle whoever was making the lunch or dinner by prodding, turning or tasting and then pronouncing judiciously: “Too much sugar, add more salt” or, worst of all, “I think not darling.”