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| Sunday, 13 June 2004 |
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Random thoughts Gourmet dreams Born in May. Will die in June. It's not an optimistic epitaph for contemplated murder. Perish the thought. I never think of fatality or death when I saturate the shepherd's pie with salt and allow it to sprout fuzz for four whole weeks in the cool confines of the fridge. Nor do I think of an ignominious five feet journey to the garbage bin when I buy fresh baguette, a large can of yoghurt, cheese, tomatoes, milk and every thing else a normal person eats, and then store them in the fridge for days and weeks. I do it in the hope that I'll make a gourmet something out of these one day. Ditto shepherd's pie. One day... As the days pass, I add with great ceremony a can of olives, a bottle of jam, half a dozen spring rolls, some Indian sweets, foiled wrapped doggy bags of American chopsuey and Chinese stir fries from the previous week's binge of eating out, a bunch of spinach, carrots, beans and cabbage, half a chicken leg... two cans of ginger beer, one packet of mushrooms.... still believing that one day I'll perform culinary wonders that will make even Bobo the Clown sit up and smack his lips in glorious gluttonous satisfaction. Talk about mortality and death!. I stuff them in the fridge and pronounce them immortal. When time mood and innovative desires permit, I take them out, sniff them, pass them to my friends or a family member who is around at that time, for expert comments and then shove them further back and put them on hold for future inspection.... that is if the items are still recognisable. If not, I brand them history and put them on the bottom shelf for ready disposal, if time, mood and unslobbish desires permit. By the way, when I say unslobbish, it doesn't mean am I am a slob living a slothful life. A framed poster at the entrance corridor, pretentiously referred to as the 'foyer' testifies to the contrary. And I shall not got into unnecessary details about that. Anyway, to get back to the life-span of the shepherd's pie.... Well, I think it's time I pronounced it and its erstwhile counterparts dead and ready for the one way trip in a garbage bag.The shepherd's pie along with the bread and the baguette and the yoghurt and everything else, save the milk, was born in May. I haven't opened the foil to watch the fuzz, nor do I know what multicoloured wonder the unopened can of yoghurt would provide. But I do know that the bread and baguette could easily slog their way to a baseball game without being identified as items of food. And the mushrooms and the carrots could start an agricultural revolution on their own, sufficient to render fertilisers and good weather almost useless. Born in May.... I shall definitely pronounce them dead in June, may be even tomorrow, when I sit in front of an open fridge, separate the ingredients to my gourmet dream and lovingly wrap them individually, perhaps in last week's Sunday Observer, and give them a decent burial in the garbage bin. by Hana Ibrahim |
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