Cricket Tea, and the Joy of Cucumbers - Published in the South Shropshire Journal 26/7/13

Well, who would have thought it? Forget the ‘Jubilympics’ of soggy old 2012, this is what summertime is all about. At Wimbledon they lost not one day’s play to rain and then everyone’s favourite Briton (Andy is no longer just dour old Scottish) goes and wins it. And then the scorcher not only becomes more scorching, but England (not Britain) go and win the first test of the Ashes. Yes, this is how an English summer ought to be.

And of course, because it’s all getting a little bit too hot and we’re all getting a bit too jolly about it, everyone stars going, “It’s too ‘ot”. “I canner sleep”. “I dunner like it, my wife comes out in sweaty ‘ives.”

Do me a favour? Do you actually remember last so-called-summer?

Me, I’m jolly happy and have got three games of cricket under my belt in the last two weeks. This means three cricket teas, and when the sun is high and the livin’ is easy, there is no finer thing to eat than the cricket tea. You bat or you bowl, or you loiter around at fine leg or deep backward square making daisy chains, and you go in for tea. Any sport that is punctuated by food is pretty much tickety-boo in my book.

Cricket tea done well is a thing of splendour. Sandwiches, warmed gently in a musty pavilion that smells faintly of hymn book. Pork pies cut into dainty quarters, thick tea served in those funny green cups that smack of village hall, and weak orange squash. Cake too. Lots of. There must be a coffee one (made with Camp, if we’re being proper), and a Victoria sponge with so much icing sugar on top that it makes you sneeze even looking at it.

The great cricket tea sandwich, and probably the very best of all English sandwiches is The Cucumber. It is rarely seen these days, and even rarer made well, but I urge you – now while the mercury is still rising – to go and make one for yourself. A few non-negotiable rules: peel the cucumber, halve it horizontally, scrape the seeds out with a teaspoon, slice into half-moons no thicker than a pound coin, toss in a little salt and leave to drain in a sieve for twenty minutes. It’s worth it. The bread must be fresh from a proper bakers’ shop, and as soft and white as Boris Johnson. Take the crusts off, unsalted butter on both slices, a grind of pepper on the cucumber, and cut into the daintiest triangles.

To be fair, I’ve never encountered a really good cucumber sandwich at a cricket match, but I should like to. And this may just be that perfect summer when I do. 

Shaun Hill, a Jolly Clever Fellow - Published in the South Shropshire Journal 12/7/13 (unedited)

Being the slightly self-depreciating chap that I am, I’m always slightly surprised when people tell me that they’ve enjoyed reading this column, or indeed have simply read it at all. It was much to my amazement recently when at my local greengrocer’s a fellow I’ve never met before tapped me on the shoulder and said, “You write that column in the paper don’t you?” Before I could even start looking for a pen with which to sign his copy of the South Shropshire Journal he continued, “Well it’s a bit bloody moany.”

Charmless, but he may have a point. What irks me more is that my byline photo (see above), possibly the most unflattering snap ever taken of me sober and clothed, would appear accurate and lifelike enough to warrant me being recognised by complete strangers. So, unfortunately, I guess this is actually what I look like.

But I take unconstructive and random criticism on board – I’m a man of the people me- and I’m going to write a moan-free column this week.

When Shaun Hill opened the Merchant House restaurant in Ludlow back in the early ‘90s many locals at the time thought that he was going to wreak unutterable havoc on this little town with many old timers decreeing that fancy-pants new restaurants had no purpose here other than causing noise and smell. Shaun came from “off” with clever ideas and wonderful food, a serious reputation, and within a couple of years had turned a staid market town in the middle of nowhere into a gastronomic hub pulsing gorgeousness.

By the time Hill left Ludlow in 2005 he had single-handedly turned the town into somewhere worth living, and thirteen years later his legacy lives on. The Ludlow Food Festival, Claude Bosi’s Hibiscus, Mr Underhill’s, La Becasse. They’d be nothing without Shaun Hill.

After Ludlow, Shaun went into retirement for about five minutes and then found himself cooking at the legendary Walnut Tree Inn just outside Abergavenny. Local newspapers have more A A Gill-u-likes than you could ever need, so I’m not going to embark on a review here. But go to the Walnut Tree, just go. Save up and eat the sort of grub that first got Ludlow her reputation. I went last week and ate some of the most clean, sensible and accomplished food that I’m ever likely to.

Shaun Hill is of the group of chefs (Simon Hopkinson, Alastair Little, Jeremy Lee, Fergus Henderson, Rowley Leigh, Henry Harris etc) who emerged in the late 1980s, gentlemanly, educated, witty and better at cooking than any of the half-cocked telly clogging halfwits who are so prevalent these days.

Shaun has retired once already. Try his cooking before he retires again. 

Twitter-burger, and the Chancellor - Published in the South Shropshire Journal - 5/7/13

My editor at the SSJ wisely removed some McDonalds-related material from this piece that potentially could have seen him and me in a whole lot of hot water. Therefore I will print the article almost as it appeared in the paper. I don't need Ronald taking me to the cleaners. Sorry. 

Georgie Porgie, pudding and pie, kissed the girls then took a photo of himself eating a burger and chips. The Chancellor was just trying to appear normal, so tweeted a picture of himself tucking into a midnight snack - a ‘Shamburger’ as the Sun decreed – whilst he was finishing off his spending review. Poor George.

I couldn't really give two hoots about George, after all he’s right up there in the Top Ten List of People who Currently Make our Lives a Misery, but what really got my back-up about this is that he got pilloried in some darker corners of the press for not buying the offending patty from McDonald’s. Where he went wrong apparently was by choosing to get his burger from Byron, a small independent chain owned by a friendly chap called Tom, who source their meat from British farms.

Silly, silly George. What he should have done in order to please the electorate would have been to go to a massive global behemoth and spent 99p on one of their burgers instead. Why? For goodness sake, he’s the Chancellor of the Exchequer so can probably afford to treat himself to a glamorous takeaway once in a while (George’s meal cost him just shy of a tenner apparently – flash git) Good on him I say, for setting an example. Reports initially told us that George’s burger was delivered to Downing Street, even though Byron don’t actually do deliveries. I asked Tom from Byron myself if there was any chance he could deliver a burger to Ludlow. He firmly but sweetly told me they wouldn’t. Turns out George got no special treatment either and one of his elves popped out to get it for him.

I like that. Blanket rules. Let one person get away with it, and everyone else starts taking the Mick. Stick to the policy. Bravo Byron!

We should follow Byron’s (and George’s) lead and pay a bit more attention to burgers. A good hamburger shouldn’t be cheap and nasty. It will be made from good bits of cow and lavished with the attention that it deserves. If, unlike Mr Osborne you’re making your own, make sure you use mince with plenty of fat in it. Burgers, like most good things benefit from decent lubrication and this is what fat does. Keeps ‘im nice and moist. Yum. Buns. You need good buns. Search out the best, or do them yourself. I’ve got a book that suggests adding a little Bird’s custard powder to your bun mix, and this is inspired. You get that slight sweetness that they do at Maccy D’s, but you’ve done it yourself.

Thanks George, for making us think about burgers again.

Lusty Elizabeth David, and Broad Beans. Published in the South Shropshire Journal - 28/6/13

The great foodwriter Elizabeth David wrote thus of summer food: “Meals will be primitive…entirely delicious because perfectly appropriate to the time, the place and the circumstances…You are on holiday. You are in company of your own choosing. The air is clean. I ask no greater luxury. Indeed I can think of none.”

Having enjoyed a few warm days recently, I may perhaps have come over all wistful and romantic prematurely. Peaked a touch early maybe, but when summertime arrives, pretty girls put on floaty dresses, the babies smell all of sun-cream and strawberries, it’s then that I turn to dear old Mrs David.

The best summer food is indeed primitive in its simplicity and so much the better for it. At the time of writing it is the eve of the Summer Solstice (call me disorganised would you? I wrote this a good week ago dear Reader!), and traditionally tomorrow is the day that the last of the asparagus is harvested. Cheerio spring, hello summer. So the ‘grass may be gone, but for me the primitive gobblings will be peas fresh from the pod, strawbs straight from the punnet, ice creams direct from the jingly-jangly van. Elizabeth David was a partisan of lustiness, and summer food is sexy. Have you ever podded a pea or picked a crab with someone you’re likely to spend the night with? You should try it.

With a bit of luck – the Met Office don’t unfortunately seem so optimistic – we may enjoy a few more days of alfresco dining over the next few months. Lounging around all Bridesheady and Cider with Rosieish on picnic rugs and up against hayricks. Phwoar.

In my little garden the first broad beans are just appearing. And by the time you’re reading this I reckon they may well be ready. I love a broad bean, in their cool fluffy pods. I will commit vegetal infanticide and harvest them when the beans are no larger than a little fingernail. As affords such a seasonal treat, I will go to the bother of blanching them in boiling water for a brief minute, chilling them in iced water, and then popping each one out of its tiny jacket. Tossed around in the best virgin olive oil you can afford (do me a favour with this rapeseed malarkey – there’s a time and a place, maybe), the teeniest squirt of lemon juice and a little chopped mint, this is a moment I look forward to every year.

Although the longest day has been and gone, summer is only just beginning. Enjoy the seasonal treats that come your way because round here we have them in fleeting abundance. Come rain or shine, it’s an opportunity that’s too delicious to be missed. 

Badgers and Cheese (pre-editing) - Published in the South Shropshire Journal 21/6/13

The Great British Badger Bash is underway down in the West Country. It’s too early to work out if it’s going well (“well” being an entirely objective term depending on whether you’re a badger or not) but unsurprisingly it’s already causing a hoo-hah.

I’ve read the pros and cons of this operation and perhaps it’s not really in my remit to delve too deep into this, but as a fully paid-up and dedicated cheesemonger it’s of frontline relevance to me. Like any dedicated cheeseman ought to, I deal with many of my suppliers directly. Many - arguably often some of the best - cheesemakers are dairy farmers. The impression I get is that bovine tuberculosis is a massive pain in the what-nots, and that old Mr Badger is far from an innocent bystander when it comes the spreading of this disease.

Now we all know that badgers have been being bashed by farmers since BTB began. You’ll never find anyone who’s actually done it, but everyone knows somebody who has. Let’s get real here, how many people have really hit a badger with their car? And how many badgers do you find “sleeping” (as I frequently lie to my daughter) by the side of the road? Quite. We may as well make it legal for a bit and see what happens.

So it’ll be interesting to see how this cull works out. In time the figures will speak for themselves. Until they do, I wish that people would get their heads around the fact that the countryside and its goings-on are not always pretty and fluffy. Nature does not organise itself, and because we’re at the top of the food chain and considerably more intelligent than badgers and dairy cattle, we need to get involved. Unless of course you’d rather not eat meat, vegetables and fruit, or drink milk, wear woolly jumpers and so on.

I need to sell good cheese in order to make a living, so I could do without badgers buggering things about. And good cheese, properly made by people who care, is quite the most remarkable thing. Possibly more messed around with over the years than lovely old bread that I extolled last week, by the early ‘80s artisan cheesemaking had all but died out in the UK, but now, and especially in our neighbouring counties and our own, craft (not Kraft) cheese production is thriving.

The work of the artisan chessemaker is so incredibly skilled. There’s science there, but more than anything else there’s the intrinsic instinct and ‘feel’ that comes with passion and experience. When tasting proper cheese you’ll get a sense of place – what the Frogs call terroir – of where the cows grazed, what the weather was doing, and what the milkmaid was wearing. Really, you will, and I don’t want those pesky badgers getting in the way of something as gastronomically glorious as that. 

The Love of the Loaf - Published in the South Shropshire Journal 14/6/13

A few weeks ago I – perhaps slightly acerbically – took a bit of a pop at the New Foodie Revolutionists. All beards, trust funds and yeastiness, they’ve got a long way to go when it comes to having a grip on reality and commercialism, sustainability and feeding the world. But they mean well, really they do, and they reap harmony from the baking of real bread.

Have you ever baked a loaf of bread? Of course you have. Scratch that. Have you ever baked a proper loaf of bread? A loaf that is made from nothing but flour, water and microbes and LOVE?

Real Bread amongst the foodists of San Francisco and London is pretty much the status quo, but for the rest of us, not so much. It used to be the norm, but no longer. It ought to be though, because properly made bread is an embodiment of everything that is meet and right, so to do. It is an outwardly simple yet intrinsically mind-boggling thing. Like bread, many of the finest and most brilliant things contain very little. Think cheese, wine, beer, salami and Wayne Rooney.

Bread, like booze and cheese is the most ancient and wondrous of comestibles. Bread is warm, it is sharing, it is family, and it transcends everything. There is no single culture on earth that doesn’t make, break, and share bread.

My mate Peter who’s The Man at Price’s in Ludlow gave me some of his ancient sourdough starter a little while ago. Sourdough is where it’s at when it comes to bread and you need Starter to start it. Food is subject to trends just like clothes. Take your Aztec-prints– so last year, like quasi-modish tiger bread and foccacia-with-stuff-in-it. Faintly daft now. Looks like fun, not much to it, and will never make the distance. The good sourdough loaf is the well-judged A-line skirt, a Loake’s boot, a Panama hat. It will go on and on.

Anyway, I’ve been playing around with Peter’s starter (a mad amalgam of natural yeasts, which feed from the atmosphere they live in) for yonks. It’s taken a lot of work, but I’ve finally nailed it and this week I a made a damned-near perfect loaf. The most satisfying (publishable) thing I’ve done in ages.

It’s fun to have a bash at this at home, but if you can’t be fagged and you live where I do then why bother? We have a plethora of brilliant bakers on our doorstep. Peter at Prices, Robert at Swifts, Anna at the Ludlow Food Centre, and many more. The phenomenal artisan bakers of Shropshire may not be in the trendy-set yet, but we’re bloody lucky to have them in our bucolic back yard.

The Shropshire Map of Death

Frankly I find it utterly stultifying that the government, after everything that has happened over the last few gruesome years, is still pumping (or surreptitiously slipping) cash into quangos. Big dozy white elephants implemented to make it look like actual governmental departments are doing something productive. But they’re still there, being all serious and expensive.

Public Health England (“an Executive Agency for the Department of Health”) has carried out a project called Longer Lives. Part of the Longer Lives project was to draw up a map – presumably done by a bunch of GCSE geography kids on work experience – to highlight the fact that people in the southern half of England live longer than those in the northern half.

I haven’t found out how long it took PHE to work out that folk up north smoke more fags, eat more takeaways, and go out on the lash more often than the fairies down south, but I’ll bet it took them a fair while. Maybe Jeremy Hunt was on holiday that week. I could have saved them a whole bunch of time and just told it to them straight, but strangely I wasn’t approached to opine on this particular matter. Hey-ho. The interesting thing though is that whereas the north south divide was always traditionally a diagonal line from the Severn Estuary to the Wash, it is now a nice horizontal-ish line from the Humber to the Mersey. Much more north south and them-and-us. Result for Shropshire: as far as death goes, we’re southerners. Yay!

It’s great. You can have a look at a pretty colour coded map on the PHE website. Green meaning premature death outcomes are “best”, yellow, orange and down to red. Red being...you get the idea. So there I was looking at this map, most of the southern half nice and green with odd pockets of red here and there in places like Luton, Coventry and so on, and as my eyes moved upwards and across I was thrilled to see Herefordshire, Worcestershire and Shropshire all verdant, free of junk-food, lung cancer and untimely death and feeling really quite proud to be a man of the Marches and then…then there was this bloody great red blob pulsing like a bubo in the top right corner of my home county.

Telford and Wrekin. As red as you like. After Much Wenlock, you’ve pretty much had it. To be honest it’s of no great concern to me, as callous as this may sound. My own Shropshire stops at about Church Stretton, but it just makes our county’s Fat Map look untidy. A blot (or a Blott – RIP dear old Tom Sharpe – nice Shropshire cultural reference there young man, thanks very much) on our lovely and aged landscape.