Night Music: Famous Blue Raincoat

Black Pudding

Black puddings are some of my favourite things. Other kinds of blood puddings are okay at a pinch (JNZ’s is particularly fine), but nothing compares to the blood, oatmeal, and beef suet creations born in England. Slices of quickly heated black pudding are the perfect complement to any configuration of the traditional English breakfast, or served between two heavily-buttered pieces of good bread.

Most North Americans shy away from trying this perfect food. Obviously, the list of ingredients will seem unattractive to some. But it is also true that most black puddings are cooked too long and turn into hockey pucks. Thus, even if you are brave enough to try it, it may be horrible and put you off a second attempt.

I was lucky enough to be raised in London where they know how to cook their puddings. And I love them.

Experienced cooks will recognize what I mean when I say that for me, in the context of a fried breakfast, black pudding perform like an anchovy in a beef stew: it dissipates a flavor that complements and embraces all the other flavours and yet almost evaporates under examination; umami, as the Japanese have it.

A wonderful experience. And now we hear it is oddly healthy apparently,

“according to well-known nutritional oracle MuscleFood (an online shop specialising in lean meats for body builders). A spokesman this week claimed the pudding is becoming so popular with their health-conscious customers that they have declared it ‘a new buzzword in clean eating”, ranking it as a “superfood for 2016’…

“Black pudding is a superfood. Low in carbohydrates, high in protein, filled with essential nutrients. Lancastrian Viagra, I call it.”

 

 

Who knew?

 

Wise Words of Existential Epicurianism

A Great Day To Remember

Twenty-one years ago today, at sunset, the Everloving and I stood on the dock at Trout Lake and plighted our troth. There were a few friends with us, we sang “Always Look On The Bright Side of Life“, and we had our wedding supper at Wazubbee’s.

Her mother said it wouldn’t last a year. My mother said it wouldn’t last a year. Just goes to show, mothers are not always right.