I had intended to do something musical on Fridays, but I can’t quite figure out this new programme for podcasting yet, so I’m sorry but the Friday Five will be postponed until a further date. I know, I know. It’s tragic and it may be hard for you to get past, but rest assured that I will persevere and you will be blessed with five random songs from my iPod. Just not today.
Now onto the other regular subject of every Friday’s blog – food. I’m a bit of a foodie, you see. I love food. I love cooking. I love discovering new restaurants and new dishes. There’s almost nothing I won’t eat – well, ok. I won’t put a snail or a brain or an eyeball anywhere near my mouth, but other than that I’m game. I was late to the sushi game, but now I really like it. I’m also a big fan of Chinese, Mexican, Italian… pretty much every ethnic food out there is a favourite of mine. Except British food. That stuff is vile! I know this from first hand experience – I grew up in the UK and was subject to its weird food proclivities.
Take for example, the traditional full English breakfast, which consists of a slice of toasted, fried bread (toasted and fried, mind you), sausages (again, fried), tomatoes and mushroom (yep, fried), black pudding (which is a sausage made with animal blood and varying forms of “filler” – usually the meat of whatever animal also gave its blood, suet, bread, barley and oatmeal – and then…well, you know…fried), baked beans (NOT fried, although if the British could figure out how to fry a bean, you can rest assured, the beans would be fried and not baked), and some sort of potato – fried American-style hashbrowns or fried leftover mashed potatoes. Sounds ghastly, doesn’t it? But hey, in Scotland, the variation includes haggis (sheep’s heart, liver and lungs, minced with onion, oatmeal, suet, spices, and salt, mixed with stock, and traditionally boiled in the animal’s stomach). Absolutely disgusting, isn’t it? Juxtapose this culinary train-wreck with a traditional French breakfast – a light, flaky, buttery croissant, a cup of hot chocolate and some fresh fruit – and you perhaps see why some people’s version of Hell includes English chefs.
Speaking of breakfast, my family and I have a week-end tradition. Every Sunday morning, we go to a near-by locally-owned restaurant called the Good Egg, and have freshly squeezed orange juice, Mickey Mouse-shaped pancakes, frittatas with ham, green peppers, and onions, and sinful sticky buns, oozing with caramel and pralines. And as we waddle out after thoroughly stuffing ourselves, I laugh silently at all those Brits who are forced to eat a full breakfast. Poor sods.