I woke up yesterday morning; it was cold and grey outside. Myfwt got up and got ready for work, she breezed in at 8.20 to say goodbye, and then she was gone. I lay in bed for a few minutes. ‘No’, I thought, ‘I’m not getting up’. So I didn’t. I texted a mate at work to inform the office and went back to sleep. Lovely.
Arriving at work in the afternoon is so much easier. I got just as much done as I would’ve if I’d been in the office all day and because I was at max just over 3 hours from leaving, and falling by the second, I was in a much better frame of mind. It’s the future surely?
Last night I hooked up with Frank for a couple of beers in the local. We de-briefed the skinhead situation and discussed right wing fanatics, sensibly concluding that extreme intolerant views see no race or class, ironically. By 8pm I was home in my kitchen, I removed the ingredients for dinner from the fridge and ran a bath.
There was something I heard on Radio 4 last week about how pre and post war households would make meals from leftovers, this was on the back of a report that we throw away billions of tonnes of perfectly edible food daily because of the fucking sell by/use by date, which is always ridiculously pessimistic in order to cover the food industry asses should someone get ill eating a rancid product. With this in mind I discovered that bubble and squeak was pretty much standard Monday supper fare, as much part of the English tradition of fish on Friday and Sunday roast, from where the basic ingredients of the dish evolve; mashed roast potatoes and green vegetables, usually cabbage.
I became a little obsessed with eating it; I’d had it years ago as a kid (at granny’s which may tell you something) and thought it was great, even if it did have green bits in it. I checked some recipes online, dead simple, mash stuff up, season, fry. So, on Sunday I ‘accidentally’ made too many roast potatoes and ‘oh for heavens sake I don’t need these many vegetables (specifically, leeks, shredded Savoy cabbage and peas) tsk’ etc.,
After the bath, the steam still glistening on my smooth skin, I smashed all the ingredients up, added lots of salt and pepper and made the mixture into 2 patties with my bare, naked hands, and shallow fried them in butter whilst I yanked on some slob slacks and a sawn off t-shirt. When they were ‘golden brown’ (a contemptuous phrase but in this case wholly appropriate) I let them cool whilst I shoved on the grill and grated some strong cheddar. I covered the bubble and squeak in Wiltshire off the bone ham, then the cheese, and grilled it until the fucking cheese was all bubbling and shit. The whole cunting lot was eaten with a fork in front of Dragons Den in a state of near ecstasy. It was so nice I nearly did a wet out of my end.