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FOOD PORN

Do you remember what you had for lunch last week? Last year?

Well, in my case, I never forget what's launched into my mouth because if it was worth remembering, I record it.

This is something my boyfriend discovered early on in our relationship and it has taken him a while to get used to and accept over the years. I've always thought it entirely normal. It's not just my food, but his food, other peoples food, food at dinner parties, sometimes people in restaurants' food, food I see on the side of the road, or in a shop, it all gets photographed - nothing escapes the net - food that's still alive or that looks repulsive, even better phallic (this of course is normal and also extends to plants, vegetables, sweets, furniture well anything really that's looks remotely like a willy and is therefore hilarious).

Generally, food that looks wonderful and appears in large quantities excites me. I think because I am one half Naylor-Leyland one half Lambton, and as far back as I know, we have all been extremely greedy. My grandfather ate scalding hot melted cheese with a fork (i wish he'd used a spoon because it always went all over my head); my grandmother whipped cream out of a brandy snap cornet; my brother ate half an entire brie once (yes those Frence ones, 12 inch in diameter), hallucinated for 8 hours, cried and thought he was going to die (but didn't I'm glad to say); I have on more than one occasion been taken to the doctors with suspected appendicitis (which turned out to be indegestion - unbelieeeeevably embarrassing); my father has had the Heimlich Maneuver administered on him on various occasions due to swallowing without chewing; and I don't think my mother would ever speak to me again if I told you what she got up to when no one's in the kitchen.  So my obsession with food is actually not my fault but can be blamed on genetics, or just simply and fairly, like everything, on my parents.

So here goes with the most exciting food encountered (and where necessary explained) by me over the past 18 months. It goes in a kind of 'Yum to Yuk' order:

WILTSHIRE:

The argentinian way to eat/crucify your sheep, yet this was on someone's lawn in Wiltshire. Deliciously succulent, not dry at all and rather beautiful even if it did remind me a little of an ovine Jesus.

TUSCANY, ITALY:

My egg and bacon salad for 10

The close up

UMBRIA, ITALY:

These magnificently voluminous sugary bosoms I discovered at the front of a Pasticceria in a hilltop town in Umbria. It took some persuading me not to pack them in my suitcase as presents. In hindsight I may have been well advised.

They sure were!

LONDON:

A delectable jean stand at the Village Bicycle boutique in London

Its close up. Think I used to dream about swimming through this as a child.

BANGKOK, THAILAND:

Wonderful little pastry cakes I found in the Siam Centre in Thailand just before it was blown up by rioters

Now time for some less ravishing but no less fascinating looking food photogrpahy...

This dainty dish below was a type of Thai fondu we foud on the side of the road (at a street restaurant just outside the night market in Bangkok). Although it looks a bit terrifying, it was in fact delicious and an ingenious alfresco type of cooking I'd not come across. You start with a dense lump of pig fat which is placed at the top of this grated pyramid, underneath which are red hot coals, then as it melts, it coats the pyramid in fat ready to receive your first bit of meat or fish.

Then came the slightly terrifying bit - the buffet choice! 

Up at the buffet table were rows and rows of little iced tupperware boxes filled with every type of meat and piece of fish you could imagine and a hell of a lot we couldn't. Slices of beef, lamb, chicken, pork, squid, prawn, octopus, puffer fish, pink fish, bits of fish still with eyes and some terrifying objects that looked like the innards of an octopus but were we 'think' tripe - going by the gesticulations and noises of the resuranteur's sons who tried to explain by pointing to their stomachs and made a sound that sounded a bit like a moo or an oink... might've been a eeyore and a whoof, but we sort of blocked that possibilty out. 

Either way, we were squeamish - and tried it all!

Here I am, living up to my reputation - eating so quckly I'm actually blurred

About 15 dips and sauces were available and as we found out, the best plan was not to ask but to try, although one was so hot I had to ask for something to cool my mouth down. Gesticulating, 'it's hot in my mouth -help!' by panting and waving your hand in front of your mouth, whilst your eyes and nose are watering, evidently doens't mean the same in Thailand though, beacuse they looked puzzled for 10 minutes then finally went off to the kitchen and brought another little bowl (which i hoped might contain some soothing yoghurt or milk) of chilli.

The best part was the moat at the bottom, which had been filled with water to begin with and became a delicious bouillon by the end. Although by that point 'you've made your bed/bouillon, you've now got to  lie in it/eat it' sprang to to mind.

Charlie tucking into his 2nd 'Chicken Ceasar Salad Hot Dog' also from the Siam Centre, Bangkok. He thought he'd found heaven. 

Disgusting boy. Wrong wrong wrong.

Right right right

Now for the less than appertising....

MISCELLANEOUS DESTINATIONS, EARTH (believe it or not):

These were alive and jumping. Fresh - I'll give them that.

Alive also - these giant clambering toads I found next to the veg and fish stalls in a little Thai village market. Perhaps they eat them like jacket potatoes over there...

AND LASTLY, food that's so repulsive it makes you laugh...

This was our Thai Airways breakfast, which tasted as bad as it looked

These delightful little 'soft' baguettes were being sold packaged on the dry shelf (NOT EVEN REFRIDGERATED - gahhhhhh!) at a Japanese food fair in London. So so digusting looking, give me a frogcket potato with baked beans and cheese anyday.

Suitably repulsed?
My job here is done.

'A Short Story' (well it's rather long for a blog but short for a book)

I was on my way back from pilates the other day when an elderly gentleman on a mobility scooter came flying towards me.

This is not me. I can not touch my toes, let alone my head with my foot. 

I was right in the middle of texting in that malcoordinated way you do when walking, focusing closely on your fingers and nearly avoiding lampposts. As I dodged out of the way to avoid my shins being lacerated by the pensioner, the seated gentleman asked if I had a phone. As it was darned obvious i had a phone as I was using my phone, I thought to myself ho ho, this fellow wants to have a little joke so I decided to play along; holding up my phone I said 'Nope, fraid not! No phone!'

As I smirked at my ingeniously clever and quick-witted response to his joke, he looked increasingly worried and said 'Oh dear! Scuse me Sir - do you have a phone?' to the man behind.

Realising the joke had not been well received and the the man was definitely over 80 so perhaps had poor eyesight and hadn't seen my phone in the first place - or my shins come to think of it, I quickly retracted my comment: 'Yes. Yes I do have a phone. It's right here. I was just joking. Do you need to call someone?' I said. He informed me his scooter was running out of batteries and asked if I could call the AA.

'Ha HAA!! I thought. I've been had again! 'Very amusing,' I said 'The AA - eh?'

'I am NOT having you on! came the reply, now even more annoyed.
'My scooter's run out, I'm a member of the AA, I'd like them to come and fix it, so can you PLEASE call them!!' My face reddening by this point, I dutifully picked up my phone, googled the AA and called them.

The conversation went as follows 'If you have a car press -1.... if you are calling about a motorbike press 2..... if you are calling about a caravan or heavy vehicle press 3....' The options started wearing thin and as Mr May was sitting glaring at me, finally I pressed 2 for bike and then hoping to redeem my earlier stupidity somewhat I launched striaght into: 'Yes. I have a Mr May here. He'd like you to come and fix his mobility scooter immediately!
'Sorry madam - what did you say?'
'His mobilty scooter. It's broken down. Can you send someone?'
'Sorry, madam. What kind of scooter - did you say?'
'A mobility scooter - one of those scooters you might use if you've become immobile.'
 'Is this a prank phone call?'

'NO NO!! It isn't. I've got Mr May here who says he's a member and you've come to fix it before.... Could you check his details?'

'Madam, whether he's a member or not, we don't provide a breakdown service for mobility scooters.'
Mr May is at this point tugging on my t-shirt saying 'They do, they do! She doesn't knowww. Speak to someone else!'
So I ask if she's made a mistake so she asks her colleague. He confirms he's just asked their manager and all three are quite sure they don't provide emergency breakdown for mobility scooters.

Alas, I put down my phone and must return to my new friend the bad news.

He looks very annoyed and suggests I send for his nurse to come and charge the mobility scooter instead. As I begin 'I'm afraid I don't have her number... he reaches into his pocket and pulls out 2 brand new mobile phones saying HERE! Call her on one of these.

By this point, I'm expecting Ashton Kutcher to appear and tell me I've been punked. I look around but there seems to be no sign of Kutcher, so slightly cross-eyed I decide it's best not to bring Mr May up on this point, and upset him further so I just attempt the ON button dubiously with one of the phones and to my surprise Ping!! on it goes, with FULL battery and a screenpicture of its owner in the same uniformed outfit grinning proudly on his mobility scooter.

His nurse, it turns out, is from the Royal Hospital, Chelsea. She expresses great surprise when I inform her one of her pensioners is heading for the A4. She explains Mr. May has been unwell and just had his scooter returned to him that morning - a the condition of his recovery. Evidently, he'd got so excited, he'd just gone APESHIT and was heading for Reading.

But the nurse also tells me there's no one to pick him and the scooter up so could I put him in a cab and leave the scooter on the Earls Court Road. This I suggested to Mr May but there is NO WAY he is leaving his scooter on the Earls Court Road which I kind of agree with so I suggest he come with me to my flat nearby on the remainder of his battery and we sit there until my boyfriend gets back from work, when we can give him and his scooter a lift back.

Typically it was the ONE day Charlie was late - 45 miins to be exact and I couldn't get hold of him then my phone ran out of batteries. So I sat with Mr May outide my flat, chatting to him. He told me he had lived in Blackpool and worked on the buses before giving up his pension and moving into the RHC. In my igorance, I'd thought Chelsea pensioners were people who'd always lived in Chelsea but this is not the case at all (if you still trust what Mr May says by this point).

As there was no sign of Charlie and no sign of the chat subsiding and I had a deadline for 6pm (which i was about to miss) I begrudgling persudad him to jump in a cab but on the one condition - that I stayed with his scooter until it could be moved from the  pavement. So off he went and 10 mins later Charlie arrived to find this...

Understanably his immediate reaction was WHAT THE F***! Have you killed an old person?!

As he helped me drag it off the pavement I tried to explain about Mr May, (Charlie seemed dubious. HIs view was the man was obviously trying it on with me - typical) THEN I had to explain to my boss why I'd missed my deadline (it must have sounded a pretty unlikely excuse - i wouldn't have believed me) THEN I had to explain to my friend why I was late for dinner (again he just raised his eyebrows and told me sit down). So, admittedly I did feel a little like I'd made it up....

......UNTIL about 4 days later i received this letter, which had an official stamp on it - one I didn't recognise until I looked closely and saw this:

And a letter (i've swapped his name for privacy purposes):

So apart from feeling a 'little' guilty about dobbing in Mr May so soon after he'd started joy-riding again, I now know that good things come to those who abduct pensioners' mobility scooters.

I will be booking a tour in Sept. and shall report back. Can't wait!

IT's A LONG WAY TO TIPPERAREEEE... and Jamaica it seems. Huh who'da thought?

The limited edition 'Basil's Bar' at The Goring hotel is FAB if you haven't been. You're advised to wear beach clothes, and I'd strongly advise taking that advice. I poopooed this advice and regretted it.
Let me put it this way - would you wear tights and shoes on a beach? No you re-heeally would not. Well, then don't here unless you want to feel like a total penis, aka m o i !

It's meant to be the exact replica of a well-loved watering hole in Mustique called Basil's Bar (never bin). They really have gone to town on recreating it as far as i can tell - gone is the grass and the Middletons and now there are washed-up boats, a shark's skeleton, these wonderful signs and even Basil himself has been seen wandering about (or perhaps I just got a bit over-excited and imagined him).

Anyway the signs were too tooooo much not to post....

My GOD this makes me want to jump on a plane right now, fly to Mustique, go to this bar and prod one of the staff to see what happens

FOOD THEATRE - IN THE SUBWAY

FINALLY, somewhere in south west London in fact central London to go food shopping. Unlike Wholefoods, which has irriatingly over the top packaging, large portions and just screams WAAASTE... yes - WAAAASTE really loudly, whenever you go in there. However magnificent the spectacle, i mean who needs an entire gallon of guacamole washed down with a crate of ostrich eggs and family-sized bucket of melon pieces at one million pounds per kg - huh? I don't. But this place really hits the nail on the head.

UNION MARKET appears like a farmer's market with separate counters for cheese and cured meats, a butcher shop, bakery, grocers', fresh pasta stall, deli, sandwich and salad bar and cafe but the great thing is it's all in one place, and you pay like you would do at a supermarket. And behind each counter you'll find a man or woman who absolutely knows a pig's arse from its elbow. It really is the the cow's bollox  - and what's more if you find they don't have any in the larder, they'll be happy to order some in for you. AND even give you a call at home to say 'Your cow's bollox have arrived Sir.' 

Quite like to just use this as a face mask

To boot, it's right next to my pilates studio (i agree - of no use to you but I'm pleased which is the main thing), but more to the point it's in one of the most lovely London buidlings - the grade II listed old Fulham Broadway tube station - I'd never had known existed if they hadn't stripped it back to reveal the still perfectly painted iron ticket machines (now part of the cheese counter) and a sign that shouts 'TO THE TRAINS!' right above the wine wracks.

It's tempting to run off dramatically in that direction a few testers down. Never ceases to amuse (me... mainly).

My week just deosn't feel complete until I've chatted to Zac who knows more about jamon than a spanish pig with black feet, or James the wine merchant who used to work at Fortnums and bigs up English wines with such gusto that even I'M worried a Frenchman's going to appear out of one of the schnapps barrels and 'thurmp 'im on th'nuse' for saying our champagne is better than 'is.

An old war food poster. There are lots on the walls.

Another charmer

A six footer

It's full of humour, theatre and charm this place, and makes food shopping feel, rather than chore-ful - instead, somehow.... like it ought to.

They've even got a freakin' chicken selling you eggs. How authentic is that?

Purbeck - wherever you are, you have a new stalker

Yastik? Bluddy fantastic!

While 'fashion' carries on weeping from the loss of - no not McQueen silly - but Ozek leaving the industry, the world of interiors can start running through giant daisy covered fields of joy to have him entering their cosmos.

I know this is crude but there's simply no way to describe these other than...
                                                                                                                'orgasms in cushion form'.

There, i said it. I know, I know, you're trying to swallow down the vomit I just induced but truly, all other words have escaped me. You can report abuse to blogspot or un-follow once you've been to the shop and decided i'm wrong. It's just off Kensington Church Street.

SEE?

I suppose when you find out that Rifat Ozbek is the seamstress behind them, their unadulterated loveliness is just not that surprising, but still the concept (and correct me if i'm wrong) - a cushion shop (how did no one think of that one before?) is completely original. Now, when can you say that nowadays - eh? Eh?

They make me think of India, Africa, Peru, (and considering the designer's roots, they would prob. make me think of Turkey had I been), the 60s, the 70s, my mother (I suppose the 'orgasm in cushion form' reference gains its inappropriateness right about now... ), my great grannny who wore leapard print raincoasts and drank Dubonet, beautiful old curtains we used to have at The Ferry House, my old nursery - everything I love really.

I could genuinely sit and gaze longingly at them for hours, never really needing to move, eat or satisfy any other need, until my little hunched cross-legged figure is whittled down and finally turns into buttermilk,

                                              just like the tigers from Little Black Sambo.

Not sure Rifat wants buttermilk all over his shop floor though, so I'll stick to a standing ovation instead. 

Keep It In Yer Trousers Please - I've Got A Plane To Catch

I'm not really a bag person, more a bag lady, if a bag anything. I'm often seen wandering the streets wheeling one of those miniature suitcases, with various things hanging from my person in a uncomfortable fashion - notebooks, laptops, food, pieces of clothing I'm not wearing or I've forgotten to take to the menders. Things even hang from my my hair sometimes. (If you know me this makes sense.) I found my favourite biro I thought I'd lost on Sat. in my hair in fact. My dad retrieved it with much surprise. It wasn't much of a surprise to me though - my hair's been hijacking items for years (a bit like Roald Dahls' Mr Twit's cornflake-filled beards but cleaner and with less cornflakes). 

On a school trip once when I was 11, my hair shoplifted a whoopie cushion from a joke shop I used to frequent in Tetbury, unbeknownst to me. (The staple on the packaging had got caught.) I didn't notice until we were halfway down the motorway on our bus back to school. I felt terrible. My hair stubbonly refused to apologise and take it back so my friends and I (guiltily) made use of the stolen item, just so it didn't go to waste. (It felt awful just awful.)

Anyway, back to bags... Here is the lovely 70s bag I use, which was passed down from my mum. Sadly it holds some unpleasant memories I'd like to erase by finding a new one. 

"But what are these unpleasant memories?" I hear you ask, hoping for a dose of schadenfreude to brighten your morning.

Oh dear, really - do you want to hear? Well alright... The incident happened 3-years ago after I'd fallen asleep on someone's sofa in Ibiza. When I woke up I realised some cretin (who won't be named but he definitely has a name... that i know...) had peed (no not peered spelt wrong - actually peed) in my bag. And the worst thing was I became aware of it so quickly because the said cretin had informed his friend about the incident before passing out on the sofa next to me. I could've forgiven a drunken pee, in Ibiza, but i meeean!

Looking back, I suppose that's what you get if you go to Ibiza, but either way, it struck me as a rather irrating choice of urinal at the time, ESPECIALLY as I had to go straight to the airport when I woke up AND I had to put my bag in a plastic bag to carry on the plane, which did not help my bag lady credentials any further. AND to pour add salt, lemon and a bit of tabasco into an already pee-sodden wound, I HAD no choice but to pick up my damp wrinkled passport by hand in order to show it to passport control. And yes he did ask, and yes i did lie.

Anyway, despite a sud-filled wash in the machine, giving it that oh-so-fashionable faded look (vintage has never looked so haunting), I've never really gotten over it and have been looking for one ever since.  

But I can't believe I've only just discovered ASOS bags. They're FAB! Because if like me your debit card frowns and tuts everytime you think you want a new one, these are definitely a solution - all under £100. 

Effing nice - no?

Love this one's name - the 'Aztec Barrel Bag'

This would obviously only fit a small hamster

And here's a man bag thrown in for good measure. Although, I'm pretty sure this is my satchel from Peterborough High school...