Excitement

Earlier in my blog I said that food is often mistaken for love due to their similarities, but is really only a imitation of it. Now, this sounds rather damning considering I have claimed that most of my relationships are heavily based on food. However, I also believe that their similarities, in some circumstances, compliment each other rather nicely. Somewhat conveniently, I think this is the case in my relationships.

I've been with Greg for about 5 years now, and as I am only 21, I consider that rather a long time. The excitement Sophie Dahl describes in the previous post is long since gone, so instead we generate our own. Now before you turn away disgusted, I must quickly assure you that I am talking about seeking out, cooking and trying new and exciting foods.

Recently a trip to Surrey Street Market provided us with a few products we hadn't cooked before. A few we hadn't even eaten before.

Greg Posing with a yam and a Kohlrabi

 

"I am not a glutton – I am an explorer of food."
Erma Bombeck

Scotch Bonnet Chillies

Greg's Aunt has a holiday home in Cornwall which Greg and I occasionally visit. The purpose of these holidays is almost purely food based. Last time we went down (September 2011) I insisted on us lugging my huge hardback River Cottage Fish Book along (which took up at least a quarter of my suitcase, meaning many of my perhaps "more essential" items where ousted and left behind.) The thing I really wanted it for, and the thing I was most excited about, was foraging for razor clams. I'd seen Hugh do this on river cottage and I was dying to give it ago. Greg was rather less enthusiastic, but when it comes to River Cottage, no one can discourage me.

This is River Cottage regular John Wright demonstrating how its done.

The day arrived for us to finally give it ago ourselves. The flat is around a ten minute walk from the beach, so off we trotted down the steep hill and onto Carbis Bay. It was fairly empty, but we kept walking until we were far away from any other holiday makers (partly from embarrassment of what we were about to attempt, partly for the peace, quiet and the wonderful feeling of having the beach to ourselves.) I hadn't bought wellies (they certainly wouldn't have fit into my suitcase). So I popped of my flimsy shoes and left them on a rock away from the waves for a sceptical, spectating Greg to watch over. I took out the little sachets of salt I'd 'borrowed' from a café, and crouched down by the tell-tale holes we'd been looking for. I poured in the salt and waited. And waited. Nothing. I moved over to the one next to it and did the same. Nothing. Then, the holes began to bubble. Suddenly, Greg was no longer the sceptical spectator, but was crouching next to me, fingers each side of the hole, poised and ready for the razor clam's appearance. Nothing. Greg soon gave up and got up. He occupied himself trying to remove barnacles of the rocks while I patiently remained watching the holes. Occasionally a bubble or two would rekindle hope and excitement, but the long periods of stillness in between would soon control my expectations again. The tide was fast approaching, and my enthusiasm had been well and truly damped by this point.

Looking over to see how Greg was getting on, I saw he had a small pile of barnacles and mussels forming. OK, it wasn't razor clams like I'd hoped for, but my fish book defiantly said we could eat barnacles, so that would be an experience. And we'd had a pretty nice day, in a pretty nice environment, certainly nothing to moan about. Looking out over a beautiful sea, the blue waves crashing into white nearby, my eyes where caught by two small objects floating out to join the sparkling ocean. A thought struck me. My shoes. What had happened to the sceptical, spectating shoe watcher? He'd stopped being cynical and got stuck in, leaving my shoes unguarded. Unsurprisingly, the greedy waves had helped themselves. "GREG!! MY SHOES!" I shouted, wading in after them. Greg, managed to steam ahead and reach them before they were irretrievable. He brought back my misshapen shoes which had absorbed half the ocean, but our dinner had been swept of in a sort of exchange.

Walking back, me barefooted and Greg soaked up to his knees, we agreed "Oh well, I guess its fish and chips tonight".