‘Paul’s Fresh Fish (from Fleetwood. Lancashire)’ has been present at Hebden Bridge’s Thursday market every week for years: the van appeared on the blog way back in December 2012 (a picture I always quite liked due to its sense of late December desolation and some decent lighting). He missed a couple of weeks in April, but clearly there is too much tuna in the Irish Sea off Fleetwood to sell on, so he’s back now.
Lockdown notwithstanding, I live in a middle class enclave, so the olives are still flowing. I am middle class enough to say, ‘thankfully’.
In the background, a meeple from today’s Sunday afternoon distraction, Carcassonne; I like the two star-shapes complementing each other.
During the Great Hebden Bridge Flour Famine of early April 2020 I panic-bought some organic rye flour, at a ridiculous price, when it seemed to be the only bag of flour available in the town. Subsequently, I have tried making pizza with it, and then batter, and both were dismal failures. Then today, Clare suggested the entirely logical approach of making rye bread with it. At this it — and she — was a roaring success. There will be more of this.
Day 10 of house arrest. Amongst the various ways in which this virus is causing trauma to the human world is the added strain it is putting on our communications infrastructure. WordPress seems to presently allow me to upload photos at around noon each day, but at no other times. And lower-resolution pictures are the only ones getting up there. Right now, it’s the way it is.
But at least there is no need to go out panic buying salad leaves at the moment. I have found the wild garlic motherlode a few hundred yards from home. All edible and delicious.
Three days in a row in Manchester — teaching must have started again… This also explains the early start today. Expect more of these on subsequent Fridays, to be honest. But at least I know that at 7.15 am in Victoria station, one can purchase pudding and pie.
Hard to caption this photo as anything much other than ‘APPLE!’. For appley (apply? Apple-y?) it most certainly is. Not that it’s sitting comfortably on this tree any more; it was definitely picked today.
Always a good culinary moment. The first ones just seem to taste so much better. The act of peeling allows the anticipation to build pleasantly, before that opening bite allows the sweetness to cover the tongue. Well, it was the best bit of an otherwise very mundane working day.
So many blackberries. So little freezer space. This clump dangles tantalisingly off the wall at the end of Victoria Road, ten feet up; no one can pick them. But then again so much of this free bounty remains unharvested at the end of a summer; and so in November, the shops feel it’s OK to sell the imports from Guatemala. What a waste…
Wilfully ignoring the political developments of the day — let’s photograph some food instead. Two days after being picked, these blueberries have darkened to become indistinguishable, colour-wise, from the blackberries tossed in the bowl with them. Add some sugar and cream, and eat to forget.
Regardless of anything else that has ever happened on any of my trips to the Middle East — I have never come away complaining about the food in any way. In my opinion — the nicest cuisine in the world…
