Holidays
We didn’t mean to take a holiday break – honest!
I’m writing from London, a random caf by the Goodge Street Underground, stopping over en route from Singapore back to Brooklyn. My brother’s due to show up in a couple hours, and together we’ll haul my jet-lagged carcass to the Borough Market, where, hopefully, we’ll see something worth writing about.
In the meantime, a holiday story. Christmas dinner, I cooked for the family - a couple uncles, the parents, and granma. Dinner was a crackling shoulder of pork (possibly my most successful roast ever), with all accoutrements suitable to its rank and position. Carrots, snap beans, spinach tart, roasted tatties, the works, and Christmas pud for afters.
My family (with a few wonderful exceptions) are a dour lot at table, fixed in their ways and tastes, who tend to faint at the sight of blood in their meat, so I wasn’t entirely expecting a good reception. They generally approved of the crackling, however, except for my granma. I asked if I could improve the situation.
“It’s not as good as the red haired devil’s food we had the other day.”
“I thought you didn’t eat the food of the red haired devils, granma.”
“I didn’t know it was the red haired devils’ food when your mum ordered it, she just told me it was fish. Anyway, it was damn good.”
Turns out my granma, at the ripe young age of 90, has discovered fish and chips. I went out with her for fish and chips before leaving, and I must admit, those really were damn good fish and chips.
Back soon, with parts 3 and 3 1/2 on pigs, and, if D is feeling up to it, possibly something on Hungarian food. And, after that, turning one.