As I’ve mentioned before, I have a slight weakness for Easy Food magazine, the monthly step-by-tiny-step guide for novices of the fine culinary arts of tin opening, bread browning and kettle operating.
The October ‘Halloween Special’ contains some appropriately horrifying dishes with which you can easily ruin even the most voracious of appetites. But before we get all complicated, let me introduce to their delightful recipe for Ham And Cheese Croissants. (more…)
Like my friend Rebekah, I do enjoy happening across English errors, whether inadvertent or straightforwardly remedial. I’ll reserve judgment about which category the above (which stopped me in my tracks in Dun Laoghaire) falls into, purely because it’s not clear whether: (more…)
This is a blog about a log. Sorry about this; I’m writing from Scotland, where the locals (including most members of my family) are utterly charmed by tales of excretion. Lots of non-Scots may think this is entirely to do with Billy Connolly and his jolly old japes about jobbies, but all he did was tap into a national obsession – not so much with our bowels themselves (that’s an Italian pastime) but with the end product.
This particular story concerns a photographer, who regaled some female relatives of mine with a particularly charming tale; to he’s now making a living taking pictures of nature and weddings but, once upon a time, he was a paparazzo. (more…)
Due to overwhelming demand (and the extraordinary patronage of ANITA ALOHA , star of a 1960s Kellogg’s commercial), it seems we may have a ‘Bring Back Puffa Puffa Rice’ Campaign on our hands. Personally, I’m all for keeping the past in the past but, if they can bring back Wispas, we could be in with a shout. Firstly, here’s the ad featuring our friend Anita Aloha, followed by last year’s post as it appeared, then…
Generally speaking, I’m not one for nostalgia. Get a bunch of people of a certain vintage together in a living room or a bar and a strange mist descends over their eyes – before you know where you are, they’re dredging up half-memories of Spangles, Captain Pugwash, school medicals (including “the cold spoon”), Creamola Foam and Thalidomide.
Still, sometimes, a fleeting recollection of a certain product will conjure up tastes, smells and emotions of a bygone, never-to-return era; not a demand for an immediate return (because most comebacks don’t work), just remembrance of youth and a gentler time of your life. (more…)
Waterford is having an indentity crisis. Of course, this may just be my opinion as viewed from the vantage point of Dublin, but it does seem that it’s not a city entirely at ease with its image. Take the poster to the left here. “Waterford – Summer City”, it states, colourfully. What great Waterford landmark have they chosen to illustrate this objective? A cartoon blue sky with fluffy clouds. As an enticing tourist-magnet, it’s quite possibly the worst, most ineffective poster I have ever seen. Another Waterford-centric pamphlet I saw yesterday features a photo of a giant hot air balloon, a tree top and a sea of raised hands, apparently praising this glorious vision. Again, not a Waterford landmark in sight. In fact, not a sight of anything that resembles the ground, giving anyone the impression that the best thing about Waterford is the skyward escape out of it.
All this could perhaps be partially explained by the lead story in this week’s Waterford News & Star. (more…)
I’ve just bought a Korean lunch box. People have been asking me what’s ‘Korean’ about it, and the truth is, I’ve no idea. It was just made there. All I can tell you is that, if this is a standard example of a Korean lunchbox, they’re very good at making them. As short-legged people who try to walk beside me will confirm, I walk everywhere at as brisk a pace as possible. Today was no exception; but I’d completely forgotten that, inside my bag, the Korean lunchbox was full of salad. When it finally dawned on me, I expected the inside of the carrier bag to be sodden with dressing, but it was no such thing. So well done, Korea – your press hasn’t been great lately, but here’s one consumer who’s satisfied with at least one aspect of Korean industrial endeavour.
Now, you may think I’m being poncy bringing salad to work; and you’d be right. But there’s as much method in my madness as there is madness in my method. I’ve been fighting off insanity. No, seriously. Let’s not put too fine a point on it, but, work-wise, motivation has been hard, almost to the point of impossible over the past few months. As one of nature’s cynics, I avoid most forms of medicine and medics; basically because, when things get tough for people, so-called ‘doctors’ automatically reach for their prescription pads and recommend you take anti-depressants. Well, that’s not going to happen to me. (more…)
In the spirit of fellowship and togetherness, the Taoiseach yesterday met the heads of the Church of Ireland from north and south. And, in the spirit of Christian generosity, the Archbishops brought Mr Cowen some lunch, in the shape of a gigantic baked potato. Then, in the spirit of perma-starvation, our Brian scoffed it before commencing dialogue with the men of the (table) cloth.
Originally published in U Magazine, June 2008
It’s that time of year again. Any day now, they’ll be flooding in through the front door, and nothing can keep them at bay. No, not a load of crisp packets, bits of old fridges and plimsolls seeping in with excess rainwater because the council still haven’t unblocked the drains of last autumn’s leaves – I’m talking about invitations to friends’ barbecues.
No one invites you to dinner now, no one says they’re having a few nibbles and cocktails in their garden, or in their 4’ X 3’ yard, in summer, you only ever get invites to barbecues. And because there’s usually about a fortnight of sunshine at the beginning of summer, they’ve been out in force early this year. You’re not allowed to burn garden rubbish anymore, but boy are you permitted to turn a small corner of your rear end into a smoking pyre for chunks of indeterminable animal offcuts. I’m sure many of you are now wearing tops that were out on the washing line when one of your neighbours threw one of these acts of wilful fire-raising; smells yummy, your jumper, doesn’t it? I bet you were delighted when you first noticed what was happening. First you catch the scent of hot charcoal, then your throat and eyes begin to sting and choke, and finally you see the black plume snaking over the fence, the universally understood smoke signal meaning, “Man. Cooking. Now.”
Tea drinking visitors to my house have always, over the years, made polite fun of my collection of Bialetti Moka pots. I have five, graded by how many espressos they make: one, three (I have two of these), six and nine. Being of Italian stock, these ingenious, classic stove-top coffee makers have been a huge part of my life since I was tiny; the beautiful aroma of the brewing process could, in TV home-improvement logic, have sold my house and those of my grandparents and extended family, thousands of times over. But for all that they’re life-saving devices for drowsy, dual-ended-candle-burning coffee addicts, they do have an Achilles heel: their functionality depends entirely on a little rubber seal. Using a Moka pot at least once a day means copious washing (in water only, never with washing up liquid) and eventually, this rubber ring wears away and stops sealing – leading to treacly coffee bleeding out of the middle or simply not filling the upper chamber. My whinge is this: why is it so hard to find these little rubber rings in Dublin? I do trek to the wonderful Little Italy in Smithfield for supplies as often as possible but, the thing is, so many places sell Moka pots – why can’t they just keep bags of replacement seals? The pots themselves usually cost around €20 for a three-cup (probably a lot less in Italy, or anywhere else), and should last a lifetime if cared for correctly – in fact, the more used and worn-looking, the more charming they are. And, of course, they make progressively delicious, fragrant coffee too. It’s just such an aggravating, violent-tremble-inducing pity that this can all go suddenly awry for the sake of the death of a wee rubber ring. Still, what’s a little psychomotor, vigilance and cognitive performance impairment between cups?
