The quirkiness of community gardening
I’ve been a member of a community garden in suburban Sydney for about 12 years. I remember the day that the then coordinator proudly showed me around. He enthusiastically thrust tiny radishes and other earth-encrusted, often unidentifiable, edibles into my hands. I dusted off their soil jackets and obligingly popped one or two into my mouth. Others I surreptitiously dropped back to the ground.
I didn’t quite get it. But I had a romantic notion of toiling a small plot of land: pulling carrots, plucking pea pods, digging up bucket-loads of spuds. Continue reading
The Grass Harp by Truman Capote
I was one of those bookworm kind of kids who used to read into the night with a torch under the bed covers, completing entire books by 4am, them dreaming myself into them in for the last remaining hours of sleep. As my gastronomic interests flourished so too did my interest in food fiction. I now have a vast library of books that are thematically based on food: from novels, to memoirs, and manifestos that expose the ugly inner workings of factory farming, hierarchical restaurant kitchens, and multinational monopolies that have hijacked the world’s food basket for commercial gain. But it’s food fiction that gets me every time.
Dear waiter: Can I have a plate with my meal please? Just a plate. Preferably a round one. Definitely not square, and i’d rather not a ridiculously thin rectangular one. Just a plain old plate. Actually, it could be patterned. I’m okay with that. Flowered or flecked with colour is fine, too. It could have a deep rim, a dimpled rim, or be more of a shallow bowl kind of thing. I really don’t mind. It could be made of bone china, chunky ceramics, be hand-crafted, or mass produced. But i’d like to have a plate, please.
Not a small chopping board, or rustic piece of wood. It’s no longer trendy; time to find another bandwagon to jump on. That piece of slate you served my steak on recently was just plain wrong. The steak knife that you kindly supplied (many restaurants don’t bother, I know) scraped across that piece of slate like finger nails on a blackboard. And I could have turned a blind eye to the faux baking tray you served my burger and chips on last week, if you hadn’t also used it to serve the paella.
I like the concept of serving certain dishes in the paraphernalia they’re cooked in: ochre coloured terracotta bowls for tapas, garlic prawns served sizzling in a small pan, stainless steel ‘balti’ bowls for curries — as long as plates are provided to eat from. But since when was paella made on a baking tray? Plus, that tacky piece of tin had no grip and spun annoyingly on the table top every time food was extracted from it. Stop trying to be trendy. You’re mostly just behind the times. Just give me a plate, please. Any old plate will do.
The Adria brothers’ Tickets tapas bar in Barcelona (Photo: supplied)
Albert Adria doesn’t come across as a celebrity chef. The younger brother of Ferran Adria – the world-famous chef behind the former elBulli hotbed of molecular gastronomy in Catalonia, Spain – he is the public face of the brothers’ gastronomic empire in Barcelona and a celebrated pastry-making genius in his own right.
Dressed in shorts, T-shirt and unlaced black Converse All Stars and carrying a paunch, he has the down-to-earth demeanour of a typical bloke next door. With a mop of short, tight curls, and blue-grey eyes that work in tandem with a wide smile, he’s gentle of nature and generous of time, despite being the guardian of elBulli’s proliferating progeny; meaning he’s always in demand. Read the full article here.
Eating at the work desk is fraught with difficulty (iPhoto)
Not long before I left my last job I was at my desk eating a Crunchie — you know, one of those Cadbury chocolate-covered honeycomb bars — quite noisily, it turned out. The boss stood up, peered over the partition between the ‘hot desks’ we occupied, muttered something about eating (I can’t remember what, exactly) and smiled in a not really smiling kind of way. I was sufficiently chastised to suck the rest of that Crunchie, which was aptly named by the marketing geniuses at Cadbury, I have to say.
The next day, sitting at the same hot desk, I was eating a bag of crisps — you know, those extra-crispy Kettle Chip kind — quite noisily, it turned out. The boss stood up, peered at me over our partition and said: “Oh, you again!” I was mortified. Not once, but twice i’d been ousted by the boss — of all people — for my inelegant office eating habits. Continue reading