An American Gift - The Humble SpudPedro |
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COMSUBBBS Posts: 2974 Location: Liverpool, England | Subject: An American Gift - The Humble Spud I was reflecting today about the changes in food that I have encountered over the years. They have been so numerous I can safely assert that the only staples I haven’t tried are the type that surgeons inflict on the stomachs of obese clients. Those whose assaults on their own digestive systems are so life threatening that they require the surgical equivalent of block-ships to halt the flow of food down the alimentary canal. An inventory of my food cupboards reveals many varieties of rice. I can see long grain, Basmati, Arborio and a packet of Thai fragrant rice and even one of Native American wild rice. But I am old enough to remember when the only occasion that ordinary people ate rice was at school lunch and even then the real pleasure lay not in the taste of the glutinous mass, but in the visual delights afforded by the designs that could be obtained by dint of swirling around the mandatory blob of plum jam that sat atop the pudding like a smouldering Icelandic volcano. There are also enough varieties of pasta to open a tratorria. I have tried conchiglie, but abandoned them as the shell shapes held water for so long that by the time I had drained them I was serving an arctic version of the Sicilian dish, Cavolfiore con conchiglie. Fusilli, farfalle and radiatori, along with my childhood favourite of macaroni, have, like short lived butterflies, made their appearance at some time or other, but in the end it is the straightforward spaghetti that my grandchildren prefer. On those days between Setzuan chicken and rice or spaghetti Bolognese I have delivered food wrapped in Mexican tortillas, Indian parathas, chapattis and puris, French baguettes, Italian ciabatas, Chinese char sui bao and of course burgers, all reminders that what ever our ethnic self identification we all eat what are essentially sandwiches. I spot a polythene bag of potatoes and suddenly I am reminded of the part the humble spud has played in my gastronomic odyssey. It is a fact that in Britain the potato has fallen behind in the culinary stakes as many people who are eager to emulate the super models of this world have largely abandoned carbohydrates in favour of low calorie air and watercress soup. Yet I can remember the days when the pink complexioned King Edward potatoes were the true aristocrats of the dining table. In those far off days chips, fries or pomme fritte as they are now variously called, were served as small helpings that barely filled the shallow paper bags which resembled the jaunty little caps worn by burger vendors and other fast food operatives. Astonishingly the seemingly meagre helpings were considered sufficient for a grown up persons meal. I say astonishingly given that nowadays a portion of chips from a fish and chip shop is so large that it resembles a beaver lodge during the dry season. Small wonders then, that those who won’t buy watercress or lettuce instead are now assuming the appearance of Hippos. In the fifties my aunt Alice was a caretaker tenant on a large farm and every year I would attempt to obtain much needed cash by picking potatoes. I was a child at the time and so my contribution mainly consisted of having to be rescued when my feet disappeared into the yielding black soil that had been rendered into quick sand by the churning of the tractor. There was, for me at least, a peculiar thrill in seeing the white and oddly pearlescent potatoes suddenly unearthed as the tractor blades parted the soil. Their skins had not yet hardened and calloused and so were soft and moist to the touch; a little bit like newborn babies. Above our heads wheeled squadrons of gulls that followed the tractor and dived to devour the exposed worms while we flightless mortals swooped on the gleaming potatoes. Those very potatoes had a good chance of being sold locally and so there is every chance that one of them was the cause of my tasting a culinary delight that has never in my lifetime been replicated One day on the submarine depot ship HMS Adamant, I found myself standing in the canteen line talking to my mate Eddie. Someone near the front of the line was skylarking because suddenly a voice cried, “Catch!” and I instinctively caught and held onto a lofted roasted potato that was so hot I spontaneously learned to juggle as I desperately tossed it to from one hand to the other. When it had cooled enough to bite into the golden lattice of the salt encrusted wedge I tasted heaven in the form of a fluffy cloud of potato perfection. That memory remains with me to this day in spite of an avalanche of potato-based meals that followed. It is Sunday today so perhaps a roast dinner is in order or maybe just a simple chip “butty” (colloquial for sandwich) will suffice. All of which makes me kind of glad Sir Walter Raleigh latched onto the humble spud, courtesy of the indigenous natives who grew it in the New World, and then brought it back to our shores along with a few bales of tobacco. Nice one Walt - thanks a lot. Pedro Edited by Pedro 2010-09-05 3:38 PM | ||
