...for the land of hope and pork pies...

Undeniably, the French know a thing or two about food. And fighting. So it takes no great leap of faith for one to believe Napoleon Bonaparte was well-informed and indeed accurate when he claimed “An army marches on its stomach”*.

We British, knowing less about food but nonetheless agreeing with Boney’s sentiment, went on to conquer two-thirds of the world’s landmass during the 19^th century fuelling an army purely on beer, beef, and pork pies (mixed with a cunning refusal to learn the native tongue).

Forced to retreat to these shores during the first half of the 20^th century, the reasons for the failure to create an enduring empire became apparent as we returned to this Sceptred Isle clutching such exotic delicacies as the balti, the pita, and the kebab. All admirable and delicious foods in their own right, but not manna for sustaining an occupying army.

Whilst the empire has long disappeared, fortunately those three staples of beer, beef and pork pies remain in great abundance. The first two are both well-known and have their own global iterations, so it is for the pork pie to stand alone as uniquely British.

Today, civilisation is divided in to two distinct spheres: those who adore a good pork pie, and those who have yet to taste one. They have become something of an obsession of mine.

In common with all the world's finest food, their concept is terribly simple. The traditional British pork pie consists of roughly chopped pork cooked in a hot water pastry crust. The pies are unique in that the base is raised by hand around a wooden ‘dolly’. The dolly is removed, the filling placed in, and a pastry lid seals the deal. Yes. The French raise their children by hand. The Austrians, no doubt, raise their veal calves by hand. But we, the Brits, raise our pork pies by hand.

The crowning glory of the humble pork pie is in its jelly. As the meat cooks it reduces, leaving a void within the pastry casing. As any pork pie aficionado knows, this just won’t do. In order to maintain moistness a jelly, made by boiling the pigs bones in water, is injected through a hole in the now deliciously golden crust. Really, what’s not to love?

And there you have it. A simple food borne of the English huntsman’s desire to have a tasty snack while out shooting fox and boar, and one that went on to feed those who felt the world’s riches were there to be plundered in the name of the king (or queen).

Throughout much of its history the pork pie has been associated with one town, Melton Mowbray. It is our Parma, our Kobe, our region de Champagne. And there, amongst the hills of Leicestershire, it lays quietly anticipating the second coming of the British Empire. It may be in for a long wait…

* Yes, for the pedants amongst us, it is far more likely that what Napoleon actually said was, “Une armée marche sur son estomac”. But no one likes a smart-arse, do they?

...for the first mince pie of the season... (year two)

i have proof, as if it were needed, of the continuing

 degradation of civilised standards.

(for background reading click here if you like although, 

personally, i wouldn't bother)

the festive season has barely begun and yet, for me, 

it may as well be over.

after last year's devastation at the unveiling of 'luxury mince pies', i have returned to the scene of that particular culinary crime and uncovered this year's travesty - mince tart.

there's mince (but very little of it).

but (as indicated) it is not a pie, but a tart.

how hard can it be to stick to tradition?

i think this best sums up my mood...

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,

Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,

Silence the pianos and with muffled drum

Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come. 

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead

Scribbling on the sky the message There Are No Mince Pies,

Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,

Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves. 

They were my North, my South, my East and West,

My Christmas Day and my New Year too,

My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;

I thought that love would be with me for ever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;

Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;

Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.

For nothing now can ever come to any good.

Without Mince Pies.

(sincere apologies to wystan hugh auden)

...for a real apology...

from you, instead of a reverse apology from me.

recently, so infuriated have i become at the modern world's lack of etiquette and politeness, i have begun reverse apologising.

you've probably done it yourself, quite innocently.

you know the scenario: you go into a store and are told they don't have enough change for you to make your purchase. what do most people do? instead of saying "didn't it occur to you to make sure you had enough change to satisfy all your customers. it's part of running a business like this. why should i be expected to come in with the exact money" we offer a meek apology and return the unpaid for purchase to the shelf, i've even offered to go to the store next door to see if they have change. the apology should be travelling the other way. yet it rarely does.

or: an old lady in the supermarket inadvertently whacks your shin with her walking stick and what do you do? you apologise to her when what you really want to say is "why don't you watch where you're going you stupid old bitch".

i now go out of my way to offer effusive reverse apologies

 in the hope that they might stimulate the tiniest wave of recognition from the recipient.

"oh, i'm terribly sorry you kept me waiting".

of course they never do.

i also indulge myself with reverse etiquette.

invariably people rarely thank me for holding a door open

 for them so, as they pass, i thank them.

you probably think my actions are petty and small-minded,

 and you'd be right.

but i don't care. and i won't apologise for them.

...for cottage cheese...

and there's none to be found. anywhere.

which is weird.

i've even started looking at methods of how to make it myself.

which is disturbing and in any civilised society

 should be unnecessary.

i wonder if cottage cheese travels well through the mail?

...for the first mince pie of the season...

nothing counts down the days until christmas better than

 regular ingestion of mince pies.

i am horror-struck to discover my traditional supplier of such festive fare has sought to 'improve' their offering. 

this year 'mince pies' are off the menu, and have been 

replaced by 'deluxe mince pies'.

the prefix of 'deluxe' is explained by the fact that these pies now also have cream on the inside and custard on the outside.

which means they are not mince pies any more.

i didn't buy any.

why can't people just leave things alone?

these days i increasingly find that 

'luxury' is rarely a good thing.

regular, and eagle-eyed, readers of my posts will have spotted something in the image above that will have brought at least some joy to my heart. click here for a timely reminder. 

...for 'a man, a plan, a canal, panama!'...

meet mr palindrome

barry duncan is the world’s only 'master palindromist'. each day the 53-year-old american sits down to create phrases which read the same backwards as well as forwards, such as "No! Set a date, son", or indeed the title of this post.

here 'believer' magazine profiles duncan 

and explores his 12-hours-a-day obsession.

http://www.believermag.com/issues/201109/?read=article_kornbluh

The Believer is a monthly magazine where length is no object. 

There are book reviews that are not necessarily timely, and that are very often very long. 

There are interviews that are also very long. 

The Believer is printed in four colors on heavy stock paper.

Recommended.

...for my own green gold...

but expecting it to be just another moldy, tremendous turd.

...for my own healthy obsession...

i've none to match anything seen here. yet.

http://www.obsessionistas.co.uk/