Long Covid Redemption.

Long Covid Redemption.

Suitably refreshed by two superb Negroni cocktails, (long glass, 2 ice cubes, equal measures of: Booth's gin, Campari & dry vermouth, and forget the shaken not stirred bit,) I attempt to overcome two plus years of Covid induced writer's block.

I must confess that there was a short enjoyable interlude of sparring online with one ragged arsed fundamentalist, which sadly has come to an end. However, we must with Christian charity move on.

Covid has been a *****, but I was determined to fight the restrictions it initially imposed. A healthy mind in a healthy body was the mantra.

There was no travel for inspiration in two years; five-star hotel exotic locations; crisp cool linen sheets and hot female companionship of an equitable disposition.

No. I was restricted on the physical side to a gym workout twice a week locally; where one could observe some rather prominent males pumping their pecs, and clenching their glutes in torsos adorned, (if that is the right description) in skimpy body-hugging gym apparel, Not that the female of the gym species was much endearing either; comprised as it was of a seeming obsession with their gluts; added to which was strategically positioned tattoo turn offs, comprising in the main of extensive dragons down the outer legs, and incomprehensible Chinese calligraphy in the small of the back. It's not as if this were some kind of primitive David Attenborough courtship attraction. Very definitely a “Look but don’t touch” reality.

But away from the physical to the mental. Solitaire on the computer for two years helped, but did not overcome writer's block or attempts at immersion in Madame Bovary and likewise literature for writing inspiration.

Instead, there was an insidious perversion in reading cookery books!!

Hours were spent in supermarkets resourcing fresh ingredients; followed by extensive research into recipes, extending from Nepal to South London, Islamabad to Glasgow. The week ahead was planned akin a computer spread sheet: prawn & mango curry on Monday, potato and mushroom gratin on Tuesday and a Spanish Omelette on Wednesday.

Hemingway committed suicide when he felt he could no longer write. I hope, indeed I pray, that there is hope in the days ahead, even if it is Negroni induced.

Well, anyway, your sense of humour survived ( even if Negroni induced).

Of course buddy. What's your favourite tipple in Brazil?

I´ll have to disappoint you, Mani. I'm a complete teetotaler. But one can find bars everywhere here. People mostly drink beer ("give me a stupidly iced beer").

Don't panic buddy,

Its a prejudice you can overcome !! :smile5:

:lol::lol::lol:

This weekend in the UK has been an inane litany of celebrations over a four-day public holiday period to celebrate the Queen’s 70 years on the throne. She has, I must admit, done a steadfast job, in trying to hold us disparate Brits together; laced as it has been with: a clamour for Scottish independence, Brexit, Boris on the ropes & a cost of living crisis; but give the lady her due, she has stayed the course.

But I’m off on a tangent again!

Due to the TV showing nothing but: tributes to Her Majesty, crowds down the Mall, bunting at street parties etc, I retreated this Sunday to indulge in my passion for cooking, by reviewing for inspiration in the week ahead, five cookery books by Nigella Lawson.

Quite an experience, as I discovered the depth and complexity of her character. She is, (as many of you might be familiar), a celebrity chef of rounded, flirtatious appearance with no formal culinary training and of Ashkenazi Jewish roots. Her father in fact was the Chancellor of the Exchequer under Margaret Thatcher.

Yet when you read her books, she seems to have been at a tangent with her origins; which luckily for amateur cooks like myself has been a blessing.

For a start, she has no objection to providing excellent pork recipes especially of the Germanic variety; being a non-observant Jewess. She also, to my surprise, has a Catholic taste in alcohol. This varies from her take on a Negroni Sbagliato, (a mistaken Negroni made with prosecco instead of gin, and stumbled across in the Milan Bar Basso in the 1960’s). She then progresses onto how to revolutionise Bloody Mary’s, (by the jugful,) in seeping the vodka initially in ginger & turmeric. As a finale, there is the “Dirty Lemon Martini” using the juice from a jar of preserved lemons instead of olives as part of the mix.

As if this would not suffice, there is for hangovers a “Turkish Eggs in Purgatory” creation, so that all aspects of post drinking are catered for. To be fair though most of the books cover food dishes.

Anyway, with the menu formalised for next week, there is but the need for a visit to the Italian deli in St Albans and the fishmonger for some smoked haddock.

Speaking of the Queen, I would let her Royal Majesty sit on my face if she paid my rent. I need money.

I did in fact wonder Wolf why you were not on the New Year's Honour's List. ��

Haddock, Mani?
I thought, you were busy with the festivities!

One a more serious note, though, these seemed more farewell than jubilee festivities, with the Queen making probably supreme efforts to achieve some short smiling appearances. I like her, she kept UK together as well as she could, as you observed above. What will come after her is still to be seen. What will remain from the Queen, when she is not here anymore? I think, her friendly hopeful smile which she showed the world since she was a small child. Like with the Chester Cat, her smile will remain.
And if one of the last generation is to hold a leading position in life, I set my stakes on Princess Charlotte. She already has permited glimpses into a strong royal personality.

That said, these days when I went home and passed the bars of Pça Roosevelt, I absentmindedly stumbled on an word that seemed familiar: "Negroni". So Pça Roosevelt effectively sells Negroni, but don´t ask me of which quality or composition.

Continuing on the food obsession theme on my part, initiated by the Covid lockdown, I decided to read up a bit, regarding the historical context.

Where better to start, than an aside on Greek mythology: in this case, a tale involving; the head of the gods, sex hanky panky on a mortal level and its effect on subsequent literature.

The outlines are basically as follows: Zeus, wishing to seduce the mortal Alcmene, took on the appearance of her husband Amphitryon, and after having his wicked way with her, gave her a son, Heracles.

In Moliere’s comedy inspired by this fable, the servant Sosie, embarrassed at having to serve two masters, and deciding finally for the one who guarantees him board and lodging, says “The real Amphitryon is the host who provides dinner.”

But to provide dinner is not sufficient; one has to know the art of how to do it. Of course, the French being more obsessed with food than myself, this in turn gave rise to further comment.

Thus, although the term “amphitryon” is rarely used in culinary circles these days, one rule, decreed by Brillat-Savarin remains unchanged: “To invite someone to be our guest is to undertake responsibility for his happiness all the time that he is under our roof.”

What else can we take away from this tale? Perhaps ancient Greek wives should have been looking out for tell-tale signs in their supposed husband's behaviour? No, I’m not talking about handcuffs and talking dirty; but to perhaps study a bit more closely if there was a certain celestial glow about one's partner.