Bridges

You look at me and speak
No words are spoken
Jade grey bridges
Meet me half way
I cross

Enough said!

When all the others were away at Mass
I was all hers as we peeled potatoes.
They broke the silence, let fall one by one
Like solder weeping of the soldering iron:
Cold comforts set between us, things to share
Gleaming in a bucket of clean water.
And again let fall. Little pleasant splashes
From each other's work would bring us to our senses.

So while the parish priest at her bedside
Went hammer and tongs at the prayers for the dying
And some were responding and some crying
I remembered her head bent towards my head,
Her breath in my mine, our fluent dipping knives -
Never closer the whole rest of our lives.

from Clearances by Seamus Heaney

Feed the Birds

Chefs feed people right. but what? just food,dreams,stories,lies?

Women’s cooking is better than men’s....that is to say the cooking that was conceived and produced in the home is unsurpassed. I can say hand on heart that this is my experience...all those stars and badges and awards belong to the inferior egocentric world of men’s cooking.

My abiding memory of eating in a Michelin starred restaurant was the service and the surroundings. Cooking in restaurants is not about the food its not about you its about the money...remember that....it’s a business.

Men at work,

serious profession,mean,moody,magnificent,consuming,passionate,
exclusive,intense,brutal,hilarious,regimented.filled with fear.

mmmm...smell the fear like shit on a shoe!

2009 is the year when I avoid eating out. It feels good cooking again for myself.. taking the time .No more feeling sick of the sight and smell of food, endless bowls of cornflakes and snacks.

The garden was frozen over today. felt like feeding the birds. Do the birds need feeding I’m not sure...but I need to feed them.

A flock of pigeons eating and cooing......so soothing

I feed them oats and they come...Wood Pigeons,Starlings,a Jay, a Magpie, a solitary Jackdaw and a pair of Black Birds. The liquid warbling song of the Black Bird at dusk is my favourite. Waiting in the branches Blue Tits and Robins cautious and unsure about how to deal with the suspended feast awaiting them. Nothing civilised here they know exactly why they are eating. I start to plan the next meal for them.Which reminds me the diet season is upon us

Smell of decay

I feel uneasy about the whole edifice that has built up around cooking....I smell something bad...you know the odour that starts to build up in the fridge as food starts to slowly rot....that's your call it's your prep...it's your bonus. When do you decide it's shit..when the taste is compromised or when it's a health hazard...or maybe you don't give it a dam or worse your scared?

Food is just food right?...wrong It's big business...which correct me if I'm wrong means the producers interests are paramount and every thing boils down to a formula.I'm not against development,change or evolution...but I am against extinction and lack of diversity....I'm against having my options taken away....if one day I decide I want to learn Aramaic....I don't want to find it's extinct.

Cooking must be rooted in a particular landscape...and the people that live on that land...only then does it really provide true nourishment.To loose the connection between the food we eat...the land,the seasons,cooking is to upset an important rhythm...to put things out of balance..to loose our freedom.

The Loaf

I clearly remember my grand mother scolding me for throwing bread on the fire,
"wasting food is bad, throwing bread away is a sin"....the staff of life...the body of Christ!

Food is sacred

Last night after at least ten years of trying I baked the loaf that had only ever existed in my imagination....it's sitting on the kitchen bench and it's beautiful....I gave birth to it by a kind of magic....because that's what the process is.Why is food such a fundamental source of metaphor?

Christmas Dinner

What would she make of it all?....what do I make of it?
Christmas day alone?. four children, grand daughter,father,two sisters,cousins,nephews,nieces,ex wife, girlfriend...of course it must have something to do with me.....it could never happen to her because she gave more than she received....talk is cheap!
Food is for sharing, let me say that again food is for sharing just so I don’t forget...cooking for money is corrupting.

Christmas dinner for one...roast chicken, roasted carrots and red onion...broccoli...Dijon mustard. Apple crumble and fresh cream.
This was possibly the best Christmas dinner I have eaten. And since I only ate the legs and wings three more meals will be had from it

Turkey is not the best choice for a celebration dinner...the breast is best eaten cold and the legs are better used to make a soup

Chicken on the other hand is divine...succulent, incredible flavour,irresistable smell...beautiful!

My early memories of chicken are seeing them slaughtered...big sharp knife, the chase, the cut...the blood... headless, running....smell of singing flesh and pale yellow fat....curry and rice...chicken soup

The idea of refinement,aspiration,challenge ,came via a book La Technique by Jacques Pepin.It never occurred to me why she bought it.. dreams of being the perfect housewife?...strange thing was he would not thank you for French Cooking. It’s a well worn track...for those of you who have never cooked for approval spare a thought for the afflicted.
Pepin...taught me how to roast a chicken for which I’m eternally grateful...but he also caused me to doubt

Christmas Eve

Christmas Eve...woke early dressed in my finest and off to the shops...well that's what she used to do and her mother before her...jobs needed to be done, turkey to be collected,vegtables to be bought...mince pies to be made, house to be given another cleaning.

Humping shoppping,laden like pack horses, big ladies, strong arms,chattering,aches,pains,woes and what the next meal would be.
Kettle on...tea brewed...cold meat sandwich, pasty, peas pudding, stottie cake...then on to the next meal...food is love or so it seemed.

Went to Patisserie Valerie Kensington Church Street ..the best one....drunk coffee, ate cake,read,listened to chatter, flirted with the well dressed and heeled....talk of almond paste and how it was made before “The War”...row upon row of the patissier’s craft..sugar,flour,butter,eggs...magically transformed into edible dreams, pleasure.....or maybe food is sex?

I like the order she brings, I’m comforted by her presence..her authority. soothed by the giving of orders,advice,directions and reprimands. I’m in her parlour..but once again transported into Her presence.

Do I hate him?....I feared him...he never belonged in the house.
Dragged by the hair, punched kicked and beaten...drunken rage.
She endured that why?...always picking up the broken pieces...starting again...order out of chaos.

He would never understand why. could never understand why I choose the kitchen instead of his world. The kitchen to him is a place for woman and children.

I’m cooking for one...were did I go wrong?