A Tale of Trompette Gathering.

                     
                             

This picture is from a couple of years back, but I'm using it again simply to illustrate this story.....

Mushrooms, mushroom-hunting, and mushroom-selling are a big part of local life here. If one called it an obsession, it would easily merit the name.

Many years ago, at exactly this time of year, a friend asked if there were any 'trompettes', (Trompettes des Mort, above) near my home; I replied yes. She said she would love to pop-over and pick a few.

I took her to my best spot, and we started picking. I topped-up her baskets with my own gatherings, and noticed that she was beginning to have a VERY large haul.

We continued to pick until I just had to ask if she hadn't got enough. She replied that she wanted as many as she could find.

'What on earth are you going to do with them all?' I asked.

'Sell them!' she replied.

'WHAT; I'm here picking MY OWN mushrooms, so that YOU can go and sell them', I said in amazement.

She didn't reply, and we returned home (in silence) with about 8 kilos of mushrooms, which I presume she then went on to sell for a king's ransom (which I would normally have done myself).

Whenever 'trompette' season comes around, I always think of her, and this story. Not earth shattering, I know, but a cautionary tale car mème. She was never invited again.

N.B. Nowadays, dried Trompettes sell for £25 per 100 gms on Amazon.

Firelighters.

At this time of year we often light our sitting room wood-burning stove with excess walnuts.

The new crop is already being gathered (and eaten), so any remaining nuts from last year make extremely good fire-lighting material.

This may seem like sacrilege to many, especially if you're paying ££££'s or $$$$'s per kilo, but with about 30 kilos from last year still in stock, the only alternative would be to dump them.

Waste not, want not; and those oil rich kernels burn really well.

5 Minutes later.....

Aaaaah........Walnut warmth!

Booking with Ryanair.

                                 

It's not often that I hear 'whooping-n-hollering' coming from the sitting room; even rarer that I should hear Lady Magnon singing 'I shall survive' at the top of her voice. Somehow I knew that she had just finished successfully booking her flight (online) with piss-poor budget airline Ryanair.

Ryanair's owner, Michael O'Leary, has recently declared that his airline aims to be more user-friendly, no more herding passengers on-board with sheepdogs, etc. I wonder!

Booking her simple return flight from our local small airport to London took about two hours, leaving her exhausted, almost tearing her hair out, and demanding brandy. At every opportunity they are trying to trick you into paying for unwanted extras, it's a nerve-racking exercise, that requires both mental agility and patience.

I've advised that she has a lie-down in a darkened room until lunchtime.

I spy with my little eye.

                                       
                                            

Knowing that those pesky Yanks have been monitoring all my phone calls, Emails, and daily blogs, has reminded me of this (I hope) amusing little story.

My late Father-in-Law was a senior diplomat with the British Foreign Service. He started his career in Ankara, then moved to Kathmandu, and then on to Moscow (where this tale took place).

The Embassy in Moscow was riddled with 'bugs', but they always kept one small room entirely 'bug free'; just for those important secret conversations. Otherwise they simply accepted the fact that every word spoken was being listened to, written down, and analysed. Most Embassy work was pretty banal anyway, so it didn't bother them.

At one Christmas party glasses were raised and a toast offered to the KGB. A matter of seconds later the phone rang, and a Russian voice said "And a happy Christmas to you too".

His next posting was to Washington DC, where, of course, no such spying activities took place (ahem).

Saucy!!!

As opposed to what people may think, ketchup is a seriously good, and not particularly unhealthy, product.

In China it was known as kê-chiap, in Malaysia as kĕchap, and in England as ketchup; but when the English exported it to the US they decided to call it catsup (goodness knows why).

Ketchup is made from 3 basic ingredients; tomatoes, vinegar, and sugar, with a few spices thrown in for good measure. So, other than the sugar, it's nowt but goodies. 

Imagine your fish-finger sandwich without ketchup; no no no! Imagine your local 'greasy spoon' without that ghastly tomato shaped plastic dispenser on the table. Imagine a meal at 'McGrub-u-like' without tear-open sachets of ketchup in-amongst the mayo, salt, and pepper.

I only ever buy one brand (as I'm sure most people do); its container being of such an iconic design, that my version (above) didn't even require the brand name.   

Yes, but is it 'Art'?

                                  

When Grayson Perry was exploring the 'parameters of Art', in his recent Reith Lecture, he touched upon the thorny subject of Photography.

Photography has always been reluctantly included in what we consider to be the 'Arts' (capital A). The image already exists, the photographer uses a machine to record it, and the final result can be reproduced as many times as one wishes. At first glance it seems impossible to include it's activity along with that of either painting or sculpture.

Yet photography occasionally climbs to great heights. One only has to mention the names Capa, Cartier-Bresson, Ansel Adams, or Liebovitz, to know that it is a serious business.

I was amused at Grayson Perry's attempt to explain the difference between 'Art' photography, and 'non-Art' photography. He claims that you know when it's 'Art', if no-one in a picture is smiling; and you also know it's 'Art', if the photograph is very BIG.

So, take note; if you wish your snaps to be taken seriously, no smiling. And get your high street store 'Pix-u-Like' to enlarge them to at least 200 cms by 180 cms. Then, hey presto, according to Mr Perry you'll be an 'Artist', and not just a photographer like the rest of us.

Your Sunday Crumpet.

                                

There are certain delights in England that become 'taken for granted', 'overlooked', or even 'ignored'.

The humble Pork Pie, the beautiful Battenburg Cake, or (heaven forbid) the wonderful Crumpet.

I've never attempted to make Crumpets, but why should I. They come ready made at the supermarket, and would be hard to better.

Popped into the toaster (or even better, toasted by the fire), liberally coated with butter, and eaten accompanied by a cup of Lapsang, little could come close to the sensation of 'English' well-being than that offered by a simple Crumpet.

When did you last have one? Have a good Sunday.