A surfeit of lampreys and a recipe for Fried Eels

By on May 16, 2013 in Food, Home and Family

15th century eel fishing

15th century eel fishing

Last week, Boy the Elder ate himself sick.  No really.  He ate so much food over the course of a day at his father’s, that he spent the entire night vomiting and had to stay off school.  Apparently he had simply grazed on anything that cast a shadow, including the ingestion of all the remaining roast potatoes (of which there were many) a mere half an hour after one of their father’s legendary Sunday Lunches.

When I rang his school to inform them as to why Boy the Elder was absent, I said merely that he would not be in due to a ‘surfeit of lampreys’ and his school is such that they understood immediately. 

As I’m sure you know, Henry I of England died of “a surfeit of lampreys” according to the chronicler, Henry of Huntingdon.  The lamprey is a type of eel which is much meatier than your average fish and was a very popular food for the rich in the middle ages.  They have to be very thoroughly cleaned and gutted before cooking or they become toxic, which is probably what actually did for Henry.  Interestingly the RAF made a lamprey pie for Queen Elizabeth II’s coronation in 1953; I hope they weren’t trying to tell her something.

 However, despite being used mostly as bait for fishing, lampreys and eels in general are a nutritious and filling food and should not be overlooked as a free food source.  They are plentiful in many rivers and canals and can be caught with a rod and line or special traps.  Here’s a recipe.

FRIED EELS for 4

Utensils:
2 x medium bowls
1 x chopping board
1 x large frying pan with a lid

Ingredients:
2lbs / 1kg eels – washed and skinned
1 egg – beaten
flour for coating – seasoned with parsley, salt and pepper
1 oz / 30g butter (or just a good knob thereof)

Method:
Cut the eels into 2” / 5cm chunks
Coat the pieces in beaten egg then coat with the flour
Melt the butter in the frying pan until really hot but not burning brown
Fry the eels, turning gently once to seal them
Lower the heat, cover the pan and braise until the eels are tender
Serve with crust bread as eels are somewhat oily

Comments { 3 }

Sunday Poem 173

By on May 12, 2013 in Culture

Yet again WordPress let me down despite preparing posts before I went away for the weekend.  Sorry…


Still Falls the Rain -by Dame Edith Sitwell (1887-1964)

Still falls the Rain—
Dark as the world of man, black as our loss–
Blind as the nineteen hundred and forty nails
Upon the Cross.

Still falls the Rain
With a sound like the pulse of the heart that is changed to the hammer-beat
In the Potter’s Field, and the sound of the impious feet

On the Tomb:
Still falls the Rain

In the Field of Blood where the small hopes breed and the human brain
Nurtures its greed, that worm with the brow of Cain.

Still falls the Rain
At the feet of the Starved Man hung upon the Cross.
Christ that each day, each night, nails there, have mercy on us—
On Dives and on Lazarus:
Under the Rain the sore and the gold are as one.

Still falls the Rain—
Still falls the Blood from the Starved Man’s wounded Side:
He bears in His Heart all wounds,—those of the light that died,
The last faint spark
In the self-murdered heart, the wounds of the sad uncomprehending dark,
The wounds of the baited bear—
The blind and weeping bear whom the keepers beat
On his helpless flesh… the tears of the hunted hare.

Still falls the Rain—
Then— O Ile leape up to my God: who pulles me doune—
See, see where Christ’s blood streames in the firmament:
It flows from the Brow we nailed upon the tree

Deep to the dying, to the thirsting heart
That holds the fires of the world,—dark-smirched with pain
As Caesar’s laurel crown.

Then sounds the voice of One who like the heart of man
Was once a child who among beasts has lain—
“Still do I love, still shed my innocent light, my Blood, for thee.”

Comments { 6 }

Innocent until proven guilty

By on May 8, 2013 in The Big, Wide World

I am getting so sick of reading in the papers every day that such and such a celebrity has been arrested for under-age sex or general kiddy fiddling.

As far as I was aware, in English law, a person is innocent until proven guilty and their names should not be revealed in the press until they have been convicted of a crime.  Even if they’re innocent, they will always be tainted by the stories as there will always be someone claiming that “There’s no smoke without fire!”  The alleged victims’ names are not revealed and neither should the names of the people they accuse.

If those concerned go on to be convicted and sentenced then by all means splash their names across the media as the loathesome criminals they are.

However.  I am extremely worried about the spate of people coming forward, oh so bravely, having not felt the need to do so for the last 40 years odd years.  How peculiar that they should suddenly become traumatized and emboldened when celebrities, the media and possibly compensation of some kind are involved.

I do not condone sexual harrassment, under-age sex, predatory authority figures or anything like it.  The idea of celebrities using their position to abuse children or vulnerable young people is abhorrent and shameful and the perpetrators must indeed be brought to book and there should be no time limit on when this can happen.  But it should be proven beyond reasonable doubt before the publicity machine starts rolling.

This leads me on the another related subject which has been in the news lately, namely the alleged sexual harrassment of grown ups.

I have seen careers ruined because someone has claimed sexual harrassment against a person who has merely overstepped the mark or who has been the victim of a vindictive lie.  As Jeremy Irons so eloquently put it, any woman worth her salt should be able to repel the office lothario at the borders.  If the behaviour continues and repeated warnings have been issued, then by all means take it to a higher level but for for Christ’s sake get a sense of perspective.

Behaviour towards women (and men) has undergone immense and necessary changes in the workplace and in society generally.  When I first started work in the early 80s, it was quite common to be chatted up and teased by male workers.  A simple “Do that again and you’ll fucking regret it!” normally did the trick, as did the “You lay one finger on me (again) and my wrath will be as nothing compared to what your wife will say when I tell her how you behave…” etc etc.  Any further incursions would then have been reported, but only after you’d given them a reasonable opportunity to stop.

There is also the issue of changing morals and standards, to say nothing of the star struck nearly-adult who was quite happy to shag under-age whether it was a celebrity or not.  When I was 15, I was going out with a man of 21.  It never occurred to me that that would be a problem for him or me or that it was illegal.  I had a birthday party to which he and his friends were invited and I saw the colour drain from his face when he realized that it was my 16th and I genuinely didn’t understand why.  To his credit, he finished it the next day and I was gutted.

I hadn’t told him I was 15 and he’d never asked because I looked 19 and he’d met me in an over 18s nightclub.  There must be a great many men who find themselves in this situation and it is not always their fault.  There were no registers and we don’t generally ask to see people’s birth certificates if we have no reason for doubt.

In the same way that the lives of victims of abuse should not be ruined, let us apply the same standards to those against whom allegations have been made.  Innocent until proven guilty, that is the law.

Comments { 11 }

Sunday Poem 172

By on May 5, 2013 in Culture

About his person – by Simon Armitage (b.1963)

Five pounds fifty in change, exactly,

a library card on its date of expiry.

A postcard stamped,
unwritten, but franked,

a pocket size diary slashed with a pencil
from March twenty-fourth to the first of April.

A brace of keys for a mortise lock,
an analogue watch, self winding, stopped.

A final demand
in his own hand,

a rolled up note of explanation
planted there
but beheaded, in his fist.
A shopping list.

A giveaway photograph stashed in his wallet,
a keepsake banked in the heart of a locket.

no gold or silver,
but crowning one finger

a ring of white unweathered skin.
That was everything.

Comments { 8 }

Now is the month of Maying and I’ve been thinking about gender

By on May 1, 2013 in Home and Family

I realised as I looked back over last month that I had written very little.  I seem to have been incredibly busy and incredibly tired and April has flown by in a haze of cars, motorways, housework, children, babies and photography.  This is not good enough and I make a May Day commitment, here and now, to do better.

Something I have been thinking a great deal about is body image and gender roles. Today I’m going to talk about the latter because tomorrow I shall talk about the former and my feelings as I approach my 48th birthday..

It is not news that women are bombarded with images of young, thin, perfect women leering at them from every billboard and printed thing.   Despite the march of feminism, it is not enough that we should be educated, in fabulous jobs, mothers, housekeepers, lovers, gourmet chefs, DIY experts, psychologists, educators, moral guardians etc, we also have to be thin and beautiful no matter what life has thrown at us.

But what about the boys?  They are not discriminated against in the same way as women regarding their physical appearance, but it will come; oh yes, it will come.   Men are thrashed by a completely different set of social problems these days. 

Despite the entreaties of women for men to be more nurturing, sensitive and aware of their feminine side, there are still plenty of women who find a domestically capable man threatening. Women who secretly want the kitchen to themselves, and want to sew on the buttons so that they can exert their own nurturing side and look after their man.  There are still women who find the stay at home dad an unnatural beast and secretly think there must be something wrong with him.

Which leads to another problem.  The press are very keen for us to believe that behind every corner there lurks a paedophile or wicked abductor and an entire generation of children have had their childhoods spoiled as a result.  “No you can’t go into the woods, (for fresh air, exercise, companionships, the joys of nature, tree climbing) it’s not safe.” “You can’t go to the shops on your own, (where you need to learn about money, budgeting, crossing the road, not talking to strangers), it’s not safe.”

If men are so dangerous and threatening, how are they supposed to exercise the role of nurturer and carer against a backdrop of gender role confusion and mistrust?  I only know of one couple where the work of the family is genuinely split down the middle and I am in awe of them. They are fabulous role models to their boy and girl children and I wish more couples were like them.

My mother would sometimes refuse to do jobs (or moan like buggery about having to do them) because she genuinely believed that there were men’s and women’s jobs and never the twain should meet. But she was born in 1928 and has an excuse.  As a modern woman, I fall to my knees weeping with joy when confronted by a man who is good in the kitchen, can sew, arrange flowers or is comfortable with small children.   So girls, sort yourselves out and put up some shelves or change the spark plugs on the car. This is 2013 and the boys need some moral support.

Comments { 11 }

Thursday

By on April 25, 2013 in Household Hints & DIY

I really, really hate not being able to do things.
Last night, I spent two hours trying to get the clips off my headlights in order to replace the bulbs.  I looked in the manual.  I looked online.  I consulted my friends on Facebook, and I still couldn’t do it.

What really upsets me is the thought that I might not be strong enough to get the clip off – but that can’t be true can it?

Has anyone else got a Ford Escort with stubborn headlamp clips?

Comments { 13 }

Wills’ Cigarette Card No 19: Laying Linoleum

By on April 18, 2013 in Household Hints & DIY

With the advance of laser cutters, linoleum has very much come back into fashion and people are commissioning beautiful mosaic floors using lino to great effect.

19a Laying Linoleum

19b Laying Linoleum

Comments { 7 }

Sunday Poem 171 (on Tuesday because WordPress is playing up)

By on April 16, 2013 in Culture

Post Script: This poem has been doing the rounds on the internet aand credited to Pam Ayres.  Please look in the ‘Comments’ section for the story about the real author in The Guardian!

 FIFTY SHADES OF GREY – (a husband’s point of view) – by John Summers (b.1947)

The missus bought a Paperback,
Down Shepton Mallet way,
I had a look inside her bag;
… T’was “Fifty Shades of Grey”. 

Well I just left her to it,
And at ten I went to bed.
An hour later she appeared;
The sight filled me with dread…

 In her left she held a rope;
And in her right a whip!
She threw them down upon the floor,
And then began to strip.

Well fifty years or so ago;
I might have had a peek;
But Mabel hasn’t weathered well;
She’s eighty four next week!!

Watching Mabel bump and grind;
Could not have been much grimmer.
And things then went from bad to worse;
She toppled off her Zimmer!

She struggled back upon her feet;
A couple minutes later;
She put her teeth back in and said
I am a dominater !!

Now if you knew our Mabel,
You’d see just why I spluttered,
I’d spent two months in traction
For the last complaint I’d uttered.

She stood there nude and naked
Bent forward just a bit
I went to hold her, sensual like
and stood on her left tit!

Mabel screamed, her teeth shot out;
My god what had I done!?
She moaned and groaned then shouted out:
“Step on the other one”!!

Well readers, I can’t tell no more;
About what occurred that day.
Suffice to say my jet black hair,
Turned fifty shades of grey.

Comments { 6 }

In which the Wartime Housewife tries to impose a bit of balance

By on April 11, 2013 in The Big, Wide World

I bloody loathed Margaret Thatcher.

I was so excited at the prospect of a woman becoming Prime Minister and, on that fateful night in 1979, Marie Marsden and I sat up till the early hours in the Junior Common Room listening to the results of the general election on the radio, risking who knows what punishment for bring out of bed after lights out.  She got in.  We were thrilled.  A woman leading the country could only be a good thing, we thought; a leap forward for womankind and a more feminine energy counteracting the masculine imbalance in the halls of influence.

Little did we know that she was actually the worst kind of man trapped in a bouffant-ed, lipstick-ed, handbag-swinging body and I felt her perception of her political betrayal in a personal and visceral way.  I won’t bore you with lists of every wrong she committed against the society which she denied, or argue the pros and cons of a woman who won the Falklands War, castrated the miners, sold us our council houses and infantilized a generation under the glamour of empowerment.

But what I will say is that, whatever one’s feelings, she was a politician of immense historical importance and it is absolutely right that she should have a funeral commensurate with her status as a former Prime Minister.  She was a powerful and exciting leader and  she represented a figurehead that had been sorely lacking in government for a long time and it is no wonder that after a decade of despondence and feeble leadership so many people rallied to her with a sigh of relief.

She was also a mother, wife and friend and this must be remembered when commenting on her demise, for the sake of her family.  I despise the press who have been falsely stirring up trouble with the families of miners and others who were affected by her decisions, in the interests of provocative copy.  I repudiate the street parties held to celebrate her death and I abhor the outbursts of aggression held in cities, particularly as some of the people celebrating weren’t even born when she was in power.

It is wicked to rejoice in someone’s death whatever they have done.  The rejoicing happened when she was voted out and that is an end to it.

If her opponents really want to celebrate her death, might I suggest that they take direct action to counteract what they see as her damaging influence? Here is my Direct Action Proposal for them:

*   Look after your neighbours and community and demonstrate that society really does exist
*   Get involved in politics and make your voice matter
*   Hold the decision makers to account
*   Support British and local business to generate jobs and prosperity
*   Join trade unions and be active in a positive and responsible way within them
*   Seize control of your own life and stop blaming everyone else for what happens – do not be nannied
*   Campaign to have those who abuse their position and privilege stopped in their tracks
*   Look at why she was considered so successful and learn from it.

That’s REAL revenge, real power.

Comments { 27 }

Bottle Kicking and Hare Scrambling at Hallaton

By on April 1, 2013 in The Great Outdoors

Today I attended the Hallaton Bottle Kicking.
My God.  I have never seen anything like it.

This is what happens.  Firstly, there is a parade through the streets, led by a man in mediaeval dress carrying a leaping bronze hare on a stick.   A delicious Hare Pie is then processed up to the church where the vicar  blesses it and then cuts it up. Chunks of this, and twelve penny loaves are then thrown into the crowd for people to try to catch and eat (the dogs are particularly enthusiastic about this bit).  It is rumoured that the pie is now made of beef, but trust me, it’s hare.

The crowd then throngs throught the streets and up to the top of Hare Pie Hill to await the start of what can only be called a tournament.  There are three ‘bottles’, which are actually barrels – two filled with beer and one wooden one – the wooden barrel is thrown into the air three times and on the third descent lusty, virile and seemingly suicidal young men from the villages of Medbourne and Hallaton fall upon it and have to wrestle it over the hill into the stream on either the Medbourne or the Hallaton side.  The winners get the beer.  There are no rules.

It’s a very hard thing to describe.  Try to imagine the dirtiest scrum you have ever seen then add fifty more blokes.  Then add the entire crowd of spectators who are running with the scrum down a muddy hill with a stream at the bottom.  Every so often it stops dead and then surges forward in any direction, the crowd screaming and swearing with delight and fear as it turns in their direction and they all scramble to get out of the way.  Now add a pair of paramedics circling the melee, every so often zooming in to retrieve an injured participant, from the unstoppable mass.

Eventually, the cask and the men tumble down the hill and the game is over when they reach the far bank of the stream.  They then do the whole thing twice more to establish the best of three.

This ancient tradition is probably the most powerful fertility rite I have ever witnessed.  The majority of the spectators are under thirty.  The girls are all tarted up to the nines but sporting wellies.  The men are demonstrating their strength and virility.  The air is sparkling with adrenalin and testosterone and the only thing missing to differentiate it from a mediaeval melee is the dropping of lace handkerchiefs in front of the chosen champions.

According to the poster, the Bottle Kicking and Hare Pie Scrambling have links that may well date back a thousand years and the custom has certainly been recorded since the 1700’s.  All spectators and participants are advised to exercise extreme caution during the actual bottle kicking as serious injuries can result from the contest.

Local lore claims that the custom began when two ladies of Hallaton were saved from a raging bull by a startled hare, distracting the bull from its charge. Assuming that the hare had been sent by God they showed their gratitude by donating money to the church on the understanding that every Easter Monday, the vicar would provide a hare pie, twelve penny loaves, and 2 barrels of beer for the poor of the village.   Presumably God also told them to beat eight bells out of each other in order to get it.

I can honestly say it’s one of the most thrilling and visceral things I have ever seen.  Here’s to another thousand years.

Comments { 26 }