A
Recipe for Disaster
By
Dominic Horton
My
dear son Kenteke is a dedicated fan of the television
programme Masterchef so recently he has taken a keen
interest in cooking, which means that I have been stretching my
culinary wings to try new recipes with Ken. I don't
mind Masterchef except for the only unpalatable
aspect of the show, which is the two arrogant, toffee nosed berks
that present the programme, John Torode and Gregg Wallace, who strike
me as being singularly disagreeable characters. Torode showed his
true colours in a recent BBC television series called A Cook
Abroad, where a well known chef travels to a foreign country
to learn a thing or two about cooking in that country. The series as
a whole was wonderful viewing but the Torode episode was the
exception – he travelled to Argentina to marvel at their beef,
which the Argentinians are obsessed with, but he revealed himself to
be a dull, two dimensional character. In the programme Torode seemed
to be so in love with himself that his Narcissism made me want to
vomit. If his Masterchef sidekick had accompanied
him to South America they could have entitled the show, A
Cook Abroad: Argentina with Wallace and Vomit.
 |
| The brilliant film maker, Ken Loach. |
Fortunately
for me Kenteke is an infinitely more pleasant cooking partner than
the Masterchef duo. I can dabble in the kitchen but
I have never been much of a baker but we have been experimenting with
the art of pastry making. The first thing we baked was banana and
blackberry muffins but like my career in Barclays bank the muffins
failed to rise. Maybe they need viagra. Using ASDA Smart Price self
raising flour might account for the flatness of the muffins. The lord
Jesus Christ rose from the grave (allegedly) but my muffins couldn't
even rise from their cake cases. But despite looking like Friday
night faggots trod on the muffins were at least edible and
tasted acceptably good.
There
is a lot of mystique about cooking and if you ask me it is all a load
of b*llocks. What a television chef deems to be simple is not
necessarily straightforward to most people. Everything I cook is that
simple that even a UKIP voter could do it. I don't make posh things
like falafels - I don't even know what a falafel is to be
perfectly honest but it sounds delicious nonetheless. The celebrity
chefs have all the top notch gear and quality ingredients. I have a
knife that is as blunt as Brain Clough was to the average journalist
and Tesco Everyday value products, which do for me but the likes of
Heston Blumenthal wouldn't be seen dead using them.
 |
| The unidentified orange plant, ailing in my Codger Mansions garden. |
I've
effectively become a vegetarian by proxy due to the scandalous price
of meat. Even budget chicken – which is injected with water so it
is 80% fluid – is beyond my means. Granted, I am currently a job
seeker, so things are tight, but meat was a luxury even when I was in
full time employment. Especially as I always sought to maximise my
disposable income to spend on beer. Someone brought a Second World
War ration recipe book to the Flagon & Gorses some
time ago, which teaches readers to knock up cheap and tasty meals on
meagre rations. Most drinkers who leafed through the book marvelled
at how families survived on such meals but I thought
to myself, “hang on a f*cking minute, war time families on rations
ate better than me.”
Not
being able to afford meat lentils are my stock in trade, which might
sound boring but at least I have a variety of choice – green and
red. If you cook a pot full of red lentils they reduce to a mere
handful when they are done but the green ones are a bit more robust
and meaty, so I tend to favour them. Lentils are supposed to be good
for you but they make me bloat up and f*rt. But at least they are
cheap, so I overlook the side effects.
I
am destined to be a job seeker for the foreseeable future after the
BBC decided not to offer me employment following my interview with
them, which I thought went exceedingly well. The deafening sound of
Lord Reith rolling in his grave at the thought of me joining the
state broadcaster must have been too overbearing for the officials at
dear old Auntie. At least the rejection upholds my theory that if you
think you have done well at an interview, an exam or on a first date
that you are most likely to have made a hash of it. Hash …........
there's an idea – I wonder if you can make it with lentils?
 |
| Herbs at Codger Mansions. |
I
was nervous enough before the interview but having to sit next to a
full size dalek in the waiting room did nothing to ease my terrified
condition. I scrubbed up pretty well though in my charity shop shirt,
hand me down suit (complete with a tear in the ars* region) and tie
chosen by Kenteke.
The two interviewers (both named Sarah, which was
convenient for me given my faulty memory) couldn't have been more
pleasant and welcoming, which I was surprised at as once I saw the
set up I assumed that they would go for the good cop/ bad cop
approach. Sarah #1 started off in good cop mode so when Sarah #2 took
the reins I was ready for her and thought to myself, “come on then,
give it to me both barrels you motherf*cker, you are not going to
break me.” So when Sarah #2 was as nice as pie to me it was a bit
off putting. I did an awful lot of research about the BBC so when
they asked me questions about the corporation I was more than able to
address them. They probably thought that I was a smart alec, so it
could have worked against me as no one likes a clever dick.
Due
to the BBC turning me down I have been listening exclusively to Talk
Sport in protest, boycotting Radio 5 Live and Radio 4, which is
really a case of cutting off my (large) nose to spite my face,
especially as the excellent Colin Murray is not currently filling his
usual 1000 – 1300 hours slot as he's on holiday. Most probably
eating meat. My Beeb-oycott won't last too long though, especially as
I want to watch the last fifteen minutes of Ken Loach in
Conversation with Cillian Murphy, as I was viewing the programme
when I returned from the Flagon & Gorses on Monday, so
I resultantly fell asleep after I had eaten my cheese and
onion cob.
 |
| An innovative way to dry turd catchers, by request of Toby In-Tents. |
We
are constantly informed that obesity is the new epidemic, which leads
to heart problems, diabetes and turd catchers as the trouser of
choice. But when television chefs cook a dish they invariably
fry the ingredients, hardly the healthiest of cooking methods. The
chef will say to the camera, “just add a spot of extra virgin olive
oil to the pan”, which is all well and good when you have a top of
the range non-stick Tefal but when your frying pan has seen better
days you need to use half a pint of oil to ensure that the food
doesn't glue itself to the pan.
I
have even branched out into the murky world of trying to
grow my own bits and pieces as the lovely Babushka donated to me
some herb plants, which I yesterday housed in an old plant pot in the
Codger Mansions garden. The herbs almost immediately wilted and when
I went to survey their state today they looked to be going through a
near death experience. I have long said that the only plants that
prosper in the garden at Codger Mansions are weeds and this point is
proved not only by the ailing herbs but also by the easy grow flower
seeds that I planted a few weeks ago, which – despite me watering
them religiously – have decided not to make an appearance. In a
desperate attempt to add a splash of colour to the garden I even went
to the extreme of planting an unidentified orange plant, which
hitherto had been living happily in a pot I the kitchen. The
plant's health has since rapidly declined and it's demise doesn't
seem to be too far off. Seemingly the only thing that successfully
grows in the Codger Mansions garden is my frustration.
©
Dominic Horton, June 2015.
Lowlife
is dedicated to the memory of the late Jonathan Rendall
Email:
lordhofr@gmail.com
No comments:
Post a Comment