The Gasman Cometh

Yesterday, the gas company sent us this:

and this:

and this:

and this:

In a building somewhere, a computer is going quietly off its head.

Oh Boy

My father had many endearing affectations. One, picked up, I suspect, during a posting in Washington, was to say, very emphatically, almost yearningly, 'Oh boy,' when he tasted something he liked that you'd cooked. 'Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy.' A pause. 'That IS good.' Or sometimes, 'That is GOOD.' Rather like the German waiter's cry of 'sofort' and 'gleich', I was never sure what finely nuanced differences in meaning there were between these two variants. Probably none. As he wasn't actually particularly keen on eating anyway, the whole performance was largely insincere - but that didn't make it less charming.

Anyway, after appealing for recipes for my home-grown eggplant the other day, I got lots of suggestions, mostly to do with grilling the things. One recipe though that someone kindly gave me and, I'm sorry to say, I at first thought was going to be rather disgusting, (partly because I thought it would be a waste to peel the eggplant - but then I realised that, as long as I peeled them thickly, I could grill the peel bits and so get two dishes for the price of one) turned out, in fact, to be a bit of an 'Oh boy' dish.

It qualified for 'Oh boy', status, I felt, by being unusual, surprising and, most importantly, of course, delicious. In addition, it had a special allure because it came from the 'original' Russian Tea Room in New York - not the nasty modern incarnation, which boasts rather oddly (but in a manner that makes me suspect that there is Russian new money somewhere in the background) that it is the 'second home for boldface names' (???) but the authentic 1920s establishment. I would very much like to have visited the Russian Tea Room in its earlier incarnation, but that is no longer possible. Armed with this recipe though, I can close my eyes, take a spoonful of eggplant a la russe and pretend that I am there:

Eggplant a la Russe

1 kg eggplant
45 g butter
2 tbsps finely chopped onion
1/2 cup flour
1 cup milk
1 cup cream
1/4 teaspoon ground coriander
1 teaspoon french mustard
1/2 teaspoon paprika
salt and pepper
1/2 cup thick sour cream
6 tbsps finely grated parmesan cheese

Peel the eggplant. This is vital, otherwise the inside becomes too soft by the time the skin is tender. Dice into medium-sized cubes, each about 2.5 centimetres. Put into a saucepan of boiling, lightly salted water. Bring back to boil and cook two minutes. Drain well and let stand for 10 minutes in a colander.
Melt butter, add onion and cook until softened. Add flour, stirring until cooked and then stir in milk and cream. Bring to boil, stirring all the time until thickened.
Mix in coriander, mustard, paprika, salt and pepper. Finally add sour cream. Taste. It should be quite well seasoned with the spices.
Put the eggplant into a shallow ovenproof dish - or individual ones. Spread sauce over the top. Scatter with cheese. Bake in a moderate oven until edges are bubbling and the top is glazed and golden.

(And, yes, it is very rich.)

Bruce Dawe

 Although I don't really understand the poem, much of the imagery in Bruce Dawe's 'a' is for asia ..., which you can find in his collection called Condolences of the Season  (published by Longman Cheshire, ISBN 0-7015-1306-3) , seems almost presciently apposite in this strange wild year:

'a' is for asia ...

It is part of our peculiar charm that each time we witness
A nation's total collapse
We are amazed and hurt as the cruel wave makes nonsense
Of another sand-castle Perhaps,
And the hurt is a personal hurt as deep as a child's,
Trudging painfully up the beach
- Already planning the ramparts of his next castle,
Beyond the sea's reach ...

'Those who do not learn from history are condemned to repeat it ...'
With, of course, variations,
And, while the beach may be limitless, there are unfortunately only
A certain number of nations,
Which means that each step we take back with bucket and spade
(Having, for protection, only
Our innocence of such things as tide-rise and tide-fall)
We must feel the more lonely,
The more desolate and set upon, while personally wishing
Not so much as a starfish harm,
And the injured look on our faces as we finally go under will be
Not the least of our charm ...

Another Reason for Preferring Australia to Britain

We don't have Evan Davis. I'd forgotten all about him until yesterday - it's called blotting out trauma, I think. But I dropped my guard and there he was again. In that solitary instant of less than complete vigilance, the full horror came flooding back.

What I especially hated when I lived in London was that moment in the morning when you'd turn on the Today programme and listen in trepidation - and, oh no, it was the D team, Evan Davis and that token woman, who has an exceptionally annoying voice.

But, hang on - I've just caught a glimpse of Eddie McGuire. I'd forgotten about him as well. The scoreboard's gone back into draw territory all of a sudden. Damn.

See Below

Writing about Gyles Brandreth reminded me of a Way of the World column I cut out and  kept in my special folder of things that have no rhyme or reason. It was originally intended to go in its own Way of the World folder but, shortly after I cut it out, the Telegraph, in its infinite lack of wisdom, decided to dispense with the services of Craig Brown and, therefore, Way of the World ceased to exist. At around the same time, BBC Radio Four decided to replace Ed Stourton with Evan Davies on the Today show and the Telegraph set up an on-line petition, so that people could register their disapproval of this move with a comment of support. When I wrote, 'Bring back Ed Stourton - and Craig Brown, while we're at it', the comment, strangely enough, was not allowed to appear. Its suppression was an example of what my brother described - rather beautifully, I thought - as 'depthless hypocrisy.'

Anyway, this is the Craig Brown column that I did keep. Brown writes, as always, very amusingly, and he also highlights a hilarious aspect of Brandreth's work (1):

 (1)I love the phrase, 'Like a pushy footman edging into a group photograph of bigwigs'

More Fun than Fun

I listened to Desert Island Discs the other day (I rarely do these days as I find the Scottish female presenter has a moist way of talking that makes it impossible not to think about the wet mucous membranes inside her mouth - ugh). The subject was Gyles Brandreth, a man who I know very little of, beyond his occasional participation in Just a Minute. I suspect he is someone one might feel ambivalent about, if one met him. His friend Roger Lewis in the rather wonderful Seasonal Suicide Notes describes a visit Brandreth makes to Lewis's house:

'Gyles Brandreth called in for lunch on his way to address the Oswestry branch of Bingo for the Deaf ... I made him a cup of tea. "This is the most wonderful cup of tea I have ever had in my life," he said, so firmly I believed it. I opened the door to the dining room and we proceeded to tuck in. "This is the most wonderful lunch I have ever had in my life," he claimed. Later on, Anna took him to Leominster Railway Station. "This is the most wonderful lift I have ever had in my life," I expected him to say in a heartfelt manner - and, when the Arriva Trains Wales train pulled in, "This is the most wonderful train I have ever seen in my life."'

Brandreth does sound a bit exhausting to be with, but his never fading enthusiasm is quite enviable as well. Therefore, when he told the Desert Island Discs lady that he takes Noel Coward's letters and diaries as inspiration, I made a note. According to Brandreth, when things went wrong, Noel Coward always said, 'Rise above it,' and Brandreth has taken that admonition very much to heart.

Which is why, when I was at the remaindered bookshop yesterday and saw a copy of The Letters of Noel Coward  for a relatively knockdown price, I bought it immediately. I started reading it yesterday evening and, despite the slightly Brandrethesque (or rather, I suppose, since Brandreth has been inspired by Coward, it is in fact purely Cowardesque), gushing nature of a lot of the phrasing in the letters (Dear Darling old Mummy-snooks is a bit sickening, I have to admit, and there is quite a bit of that kind of thing ['Ducky old Diddleums' - eurgh]), I am rather enjoying it.

The book has a good introduction, outlining Coward's life and the development of his career. It turns out that at two years old Coward 'had to be removed from church for dancing in the aisle to accompany the hymn', which suggests that it would have been impossible to try to get him to be anything other than an entertainer. What is also emerging though is that in some respects he was born before his time. 'He was always a man in a hurry', the author explains, 'a hurry to get on to the next thing and the next place. Which is why he was particularly fond of the telegram as a means of communication. Not only was it necessarily brief and to the point but it lent itself to the kind of verbal jokes that he dearly loved.'

When I read that, I thought about all the modern ways of sending messages around the world at immense speed. There are many things in the modern world that Coward would have hated, but I suspect he would have absolutely adored Twitter.

Ways of Seeing

I have a credit card. That credit card runs a free scheme whereby you get awarded points for every dollar you spend using the credit card. I belong to this scheme. My friend says I am stupid to belong to the scheme. She says that, if these schemes didn't exist, things would be cheaper. I agree with her - they probably would. However, these schemes do exist and my not joining one of them is not going to prevent them from existing. Therefore, I might as well take advantage of them. I should mention, perhaps, that I am writing this on a laptop that I received in exchange for points I had collected from my credit card's points scheme. My friend, on the other hand, has an ancient Apple that needs weird floppy disk things inserted into it after a few pages of typing. It cannot be connected to the Internet. It is probably about to become valuable as an antique.

Who is right? I think I am, because my friend is making a point, but no-one is paying any attention, whereas I am accepting that the status quo, although not ideal, is as it is and that, given I have little influence over it, I may as well work within it to my own advantage (I should also point out that I pay off my credit card debt in full at the end of each month and never use it just for the sake of getting points).

Despite my belief in my rightness, I find that I still can't help feeling guilty about my points and what they bring me. I think this is partly because I receive things, thanks to my decision to be in the scheme, whereas my friend receives nothing from her refusal. This reaction of mine may be purely the result of growing up in a Protestant culture: I have the feeling that, precisely because she gains nothing material, my friend has gained something more important - namely, the moral high ground.