It's just cooking

I've been watching Masterchef.  It's compelling, in a sick, car-crash kind of way. 

It's a cooking contest between four eager competitors from a variety of walks of life; plumbers, secretaries, builders, insurance brokers.    To start with, they each have to cook a dish in about 15 minutes with ingredients selected by the judges, maybe a nice bit of steak, or scallops, or mackerel, and the best two (or three, I get confused at this point) go on to the next round.

Sometimes there is a huge disaster where the finished dish looks like something you'd knock up after a long evening at the pub, when you were drunk and adventurous. Usually there is a sauce that is far too runny, or a bit of fish that has been charred beyond redemption.

The judges taste their efforts and tell them how much better it could have been, while the competitor stands there biting their lip and trying to look pleased to have some constructive criticism.  I assume the big sharp knives are removed for safety before the judging bit begins. 

The next round is set in a "top restaurant", where the hapless competitors are dropped into the middle of a full service to prepare some of the signature dishes for paying customers.  If I were having lunch in a "top restaurant" I'm not sure how happy I'd be at the thought that some wannabe reality TV personality* was making a lash-up of it out the back.  Especially if I was paying full price for it.

There is a very serious commentator who tells us all about the progress of each competitor as the show goes along. 

If the competitor doesn't have an interesting-enough job, the commentator refers to them as "mum of two" or "keen amateur cook" throughout the programme.   If they are under about 28 they get referred to as "keen young cook" as well.

One of the current crop is an "interior architect".  He's called Jonty.  What's that short for?  Jontythan? 

Jonty's speciality is dicking about with huge syringes to "inject flavour" into the food he prepares.  It doesn't seem terribly successful so far.  The judges look at the plates of food he prepares (and they are always referred to as "plates of food", rather than, say, plates of knitting, or plates of cat litter, presumably to help we poor ignorant non-cooks watching at home to recognise them for what they are) and admire the sheer beauty and artisrty with which he presents stuff. 

Jonty is an artiste.

There are usually teeny-weeny julienne of this and frilly fronds of that, all injected full of additional flavour till they squeak.  He was injecting balsamic vinegar into strawberries last time I saw him.  I'm guessing young Jonty didn't have many friends as a child. 

The judges spend a few moments praising Jonty's skill at decorating, then they taste his creations.  Jonty stands there sweating, trying not to look too smug while they praise him.  You can almost see him thinking "I am an architectural genius.  With FOOD."

Jonty gets on my nerves.

He sweats more as they taste his food, their faces betraying their reaction before they say anything.  They almost always tell him that there is "no flavour" despite all his efforts at syringing it in.  At this point I laugh uproariously, in an unkind manner.

It is interesting how the competitors try to justify their desire to win.  Rather than being honest, and saying "I want to be the WINNER.  Not a sad, lonely, broken loser.  I want to become a TV chef, with a multimillion pound business empire, raking in the cash without me having to do much to earn it, other than knock up a tower of handcut chips and an onion marmalade a couple of nights a week, please."  

No. 

They say things like "It's always been my dream to cook." The presenters look earnest, nodding and doing the strokey beard thing, as if they are sharing some deep, well-thought-out philosophical ideas.

Well come round my house one evening and make me dinner, you dissembling tiresome slackers. And don't inject anything with anything.

They say insightful things like "Well, I've been cooking for three years now, and I want to take it to the next level."

I've been cooking for about 30 years.  If you don't cook, you are very limited in what you get to eat, usually.  It's not rocket science.  Most people I know can cook, at least a bit.  Some of them are even children.

Some of them are excellent at roast dinners.  Some of them make fantastic puddings.  Some of them have made truly memorable pies.

None of them, as far as I know, have ever dicked about with syringes full of balsamic vinegar. 

And what is the next level?  Preparing the deadly fugu fish?  Making the most exquisite miniature bread known to man?  Cooking for endangered baby pandas? 

They talk about cooking as though it is a life-changing event.  They try to sound as though winning the competition will be the best thing ever to happen to them.  Ever.  You get the impression that if they were offered the choice of discovering a cure for cancer or winning Masterchef, they'd take the winning. 

They are terribly earnest.  Sometimes they have tears in their eyes, at which point I make disparaging remarks and mock them from the comfort of my sofa.

It's most refreshing.






*I use the term loosely

Paint it black

If I was his parents I think I'd have got him to come back from his trip to Brazil to clean this off. Probably why he went there in the first place.

Other news: Another glorious day! Hurrah! I have been stuck in my home office* but have looked out of the window at regular intervals.

Went to the village hall last night to watch Mr WithaY give his Talk On Sharks. It was very good, despite having heard him Talk About Sharks a lot in the last 2 years, I learned a lot.

The talk, sorry, The Talk, went on for about an hour and then we all had a ploughman's supper**. Mr WithaY celebrated by going to the pub for a pint, possibly to talk about sharks again for a bit to those people who had missed The Talk.

Also, had a guitar lesson last night after a hiatus of a few weeks, for one reason and another. Was excellent. Really good. I have not felt much like playing or singing for the last couple of months, and last night it all came together, and sounded really good. I even managed the riff in "Simple Kind of Man" whilst also playing rhythm guitar and singing. I slightly spoiled the overall "Cool Muso" effect by yelping with excitement afterwards, but I reckon I can control that if I practice enough.

Plans for this evening include ironing some smart-ish non-suit trousers, as I am up to London tomorrow for a team training event. What's the dress code? Is it casual? We're going out for a drink afterwards, so maybe. But there's a guest speaker coming along, so perhaps it needs to be formal?

Gah, fuck knows.

Normal work days I can dress for with no problem, this kind of thing does my head in.

Not looking forward to the journey home afterwards, I bet the trains will be packed like, well, trains.



*Teeny spare bedroom full of guitars and computers.

**Like a ploughman's lunch but you eat it at suppertime.

Little things

Today I have been mostly fed up, and slightly weepy, but that might be because I have woken up at 0530 for the last few days, and it is a pain in the arse, frankly, being this tired.

Was in London today, but lacked the energy to walk anywhere. I only managed to drag my weary carcass across Westminster Bridge before catching the Tube this morning, and then copped out and got the Tube all the way back to Waterloo this evening.

Remembering that there is very little actual food in the house, I decided to call into the supermarket before I came home. In my head, this meant that I would eat a proper supper tonight and have food in the house tomorrow so I can eat sensibly during the day.

I fantasised about picking up a hot roasted chicken and some fresh salad, maybe with some fresh pineapple afterwards. However, at 8pm on a Tuesday night, the supermarket has sold all the hot chickens, cleaned the rotisserie, and is trying to flog off the rock hard baguettes to groups of young Scouse squaddies.

It is not interested in providing a well-chosen and dainty evening repast to a woman who has been travelling for fucking hours.

Supper this evening actually consisted of 2 Scotch eggs, a handful of little tiny cherry tomatoes, and a big glass of flat fizzy water with some lemongrass squash in it. I am waiting for a knock on the door from Jamie Oliver and the food police as I type.

Anyhoo, I was mooching around the place with my little hand basket, biting my lip and feeling sorry for myself, composing a sad, sad blog post in my head about how cruel everything is, and how unbearable, and how awful and lonely, and how much I hate my life. I was in some danger of going emo.

I rounded a corner into the MEAT aisle, and there in front of me was a large, rotund chap dressed in the height of West Wiltshire chic.

He had on a pair of baggy blue tracksuit bottoms, or possibly overalls, tucked into workboots liberally splattered with crud. His huge saggy torso was encased in an ancient, equally saggy, green sweatshirt, also crud-encrusted. Topping off the ensemble was a jaunty black woollen hat, looking much like the teat of a baby's bottle, perched high on his head, emphasising his red cheeks and shiny jowls.

I sighed heavily, thinking how terrible life is when you are faced with such things.

As I dragged myself past him, possibly swinging my arms like Kevin the Teenager, I heard the opening bars of "Oi've got a braaan new comboin aaaarvester". I shook my head, clearly overtired and imagining Wurzels songs in the middle of the supermarket.

But no. Mr West Wiltshire Fashion reached into the pocket of his trousers, pulled out his mobile, and answered it with a huge grin on his face, after letting the Wurzels get almost all the way through the first verse.

It made me laugh out loud, just as soon as I got round the corner, and suddenly life felt less like a hideous struggle.

Other news: Mr WithaY called from his windswept hostel in the remote Welsh countryside, which was lovely. I am missing him very much, and plan to hide his passport when he comes home, just in case. And possibly all his trousers.

Accidentally pissed

Went to the pub for dinner after a ridiculously long day in London (more on that another time) and ended up having far too many glasses of wine with some hilarious neighbours.

I love living here.

Greed

Have had a quiet day today, as am a bit tired and fragile after last night. We had a very pleasant evening with some lovely mates from the village coming over for supper. It wasn't an especially late night but I didn't sleep well, so feel a bit hungover today.

Nothing to do with all the booze, obviously.

I made profiteroles. And, though I say so myself, they were bloody marvellous. In fact, the whole meal was pretty great. Mr WithaY utilised the stinky gift fish to make a superb chowder as a starter, then we had sea bass with salad, then the glorious profiteroles, then a ton of cheese with port.

What greedy pigs we are.

Other than that, I have been catching up on domestic stuff. The spare room is now back to habitability, and looks marvellous.

It was deeply satisfying, if a bit sad, restocking the book case, and ordering all the books by author, ranking them by size and genre as well.

Yes, I know.

But if anyone asks me now where to find one of my PJ O'Rourke books I can tell them precisely. On the "modern" shelf, in the "amusing" section. Between Tony Hawks and Bill Bryson.

We watched "Minority Report" on DVD this evening. I'd forgotten what a good film it is. It even made me forget how annoying Tom Cruise is.

I found a bit of a bargain at the supermarket - a triple DVD for six quid, containing "Minority Report", I Robot" and "Independence Day". All amusing enough for Sunday afternoons in, I think.

Other news: Am a bit stressed about a big presentation I have to give tomorrow...found out on Friday that my boss' boss will be there as well. No pressure.

Ah well. If they sack me for being shite I have more time to read other peoples' blogs.