Cook By Stealth

I do not do emotions very well; tend to keep a lid on my heart and be quite reserved. I do not like to cloy or cling, and can as a conequence, at times, appear a bit chilly. I am aware of this problem; and try to express myself in other ways. My modus operandi is: to cook.

I will give my love a red, red consomé, and give back flour for flowers. If I like you I will put honey on your plate and vingegar on your salad and generally try to spice up your life. The language of flowers may be dead, but a hearty snack will still communicate all that is sub rosa.

This love-affair is not only with those that eat, but also, obviously, with the process of loving and leavening itself. My relationship with the kitchen and the actual cooking has been one of the more dependable, fulfilling and reciprocal I have had. While men last a summer, clear their plates and get sent on their way, mergues is forever.

For the past fifteen years or so, I have spent countless blazing winter days cooking for christmas: stuffing sausages and rolling meatballs, browning sugar and adding cloves. For many an blustery easter I have been beating eggs and pickling herring and baking bread and shredding anchovy. And all through the scorching summers, I have been shelling and chucking and poaching and going at it with demiluna and thongs and hands stained and stung by berries and thorns. 

Get me right: I like to do it. I like to looks on the eaters face when the fifth type of shortbread is brought out of the oven and the third type of jam is cooling in the larder. I like the smell of the kitchen, be there unpasteurised cheese in there or no. But in any long relationship - be it with a man or the burner - the flame is bound to dwindle. For a while now, I have been feeling that the love I put into the sauce is not given back to me, save in the form of love-handles. Feeling more and more like my merengues and lemons were taken for granted, the salty sting of the anchovy omelette less poignant, and the garlic of the aioli, once an earthy and direct hit, now more of a nostalgic memory; an old note, stale, badly punctuated and tasting of cupboard.

Never one to labour on when the icing is off the cake: I decided to take a break. That this would be the summer when I would be contented, with my book, watching the cherries ripen and left to rot. No extra cooking for me. Staying far away from the kitchen. For those few and all too brief summer weeks I would try to find other channels of communication than the hummous. And maybe even finding time to do my nails.

Only…Last night my brother and his long-time girlfriend arrived. They have been hitchhiking across Sweden, bringing a giant steak that her farming parents sent as a pagan-ritual-style greeting. We all sat down to tea and Scrabble, the octagonarian+ grandmother winning as usual. The glow of the lamp and the faint creak of the staircase, the soft stripe of the carpet and the layerings of ancient postcards on the fridge, the thudding of a fly against the window and the lilt of the basil on the sill: it was all sooo lovely, all so very much home.

And as we fell back into our roles, like pebbles would fall into theirs (lodged somewhere hard to reach, in your shoe, when in a hurry)  I fell back into the apron and the scraped back hair, the mealy hands and the mustard stain. There really is nothing for it: today is a big lunch for my sisters birthday, the steak is in the oven, the miniature tarteletts are cooling, the salsa verde is picking up speed, the walnut bread has a crispy crust and the many salads and the homey orange glow of shellacked carrots is only a matter of time.

Because that is the way it is once your hooked, isn’t it? The fruit may be overripe and the baking soda slightly off, but you still do your best, with what you have, to keep the home fires stoked. Somewhere between melting the chocolate and grating the lemon zest over the strawberries, I realised: this is one love I want to keep feeding. For better or worse, in richness or on a diet: I do want to keep the heat up in the kitchen. It may require a bit of extra effort, some new influences (have not really learnt any creole cooking yet), a quick dash to Cordon Bleu to pick up a racy new sieve: but it doesn’t matter. I am staying in my apron.

Last night I went on a quick mercy dash into the Big City, in order to console and humour a friend in need. Like any good deed, it went punished.

The actual effort of moving myself from lawn to Malmö Central was a bit of a terror in itself: what with getting on my bike in the sveltering midday heat, and then sitting for hours on a train packed with loud bumpkins. And then there was the city itself, or more like, the typical experience of ordering not enough food and to many bad rosés, bumping in to at least five unwarranted exes and spending an ill-adviced fortune in the bookshop. What really finished me off though, was the repeat performance of getting back, in the still of night, only slightly tipsy and really in no condition to be peddaling along narrow country lanes.

All in all, like all great scroungings, the trips was an opportunity to reflect on the pros of staying put in the shade of the pear tree with my book. Consequently, this morning when I got up, I was in a mood to embrace all that is solitude and quiet. And what better way to do this than by getting naked in crashing waves?

Towel in one hand, widebrimmed on head, sandals flopping, I headed down to the spot of coastline consecrated to morning ablutions. There is an age old set of rules and traditions regulating behaviour at this spot. You wait, of course, until any previous bather has left. You are perfectly allright to go in the water nude, since the next, in turn, wait at a respectful distance. You may nod, robed, as you pass each other, but you avert your eyes and most importantly: you never ever break the morning quiet even by a quick hello.

(Or actually, my mother introduced herself to another lady for the first time last week: they have been passing each other at that spot for thirty years and though it time to remark on the weather, what with the current gale).

The waves were crashing and my hair was all twirled like a rope in the wind, the sun laying its first tentative fingers on the broken shells and the seaweed.  It really was a day for new beginnings and reliable tradition. Secure in the knowledge that our village does not willingly admit any intruder who does not abide by the sacrosanct laws of dipping, or that, in the case of newcomers, they are still in bed at the appropriate hour and only turn up in garish shorts and loudspeakers later in the day, when I am once more perched on an even remoter stretch of coast, I stripped on the cold and slimy rock and started to submerge myself. But at this, what should have been the most divine moment, I hear a voice behind me.

I had been invaded. Behind me - not the 500 meters or more customarily granted, but more like one step -behind me stood a woman in garish shorts and trainers! She was sweating from her jog. She had a dog. The dog had a lolling tounge. The woman spoke to me again. Asking what the temperature was like.

 I muttered, very much like the bearded variety of fisherman, something unfriendly. She persevered and warned me about the currents. I shook my head. At this point, she started to take her shoes and socks of. Even though I was in shock, it was only too clear what was going to happen. Damn straight: she started to get in next to me.

Now, you need to understand that the water in the village bay rarely gets above 17 degrees celcius, even on a hot august day. This was an early morning, with an unfriendly wind. Which meant that for most of our conversation I had been, LITERALLY, frozen in midmovement. Dipping, as far as I am concerned, should be short and brief and strenghtening, like any good affair of the heart. It should not be fringed with dillying and dallying and having your reproductive organs turn sundae because of some rude old bag needing to vent halfway through!

The force of nature on one hand, and the natural modesty of a not yet tanned body on the other: I had no choice but to get out, and stroll over to my towel, doing my best to ignore the lolling of the dog and the conversation of the owner. With one last glace at her  - bare footed sure, but in a horrible shocking pink two-piece that was less modest than any natural nudity, I stalked of…muttering very much like the fisherman, of the changing times and all things evil.

But then again, while I blame nature and the jogger for my newly puce thighs, I can also thankt the former for the lack of tackle and pipe in my hand. Had it been less cold, less inclement, I might have gone the way of old men and stood, firmly naked in the face of whatever beast or bitch might watch. This would, in time, have made me either a spectacle or cantacerous, or both. Instead, I find that I simply must give in to the onsweep of civilization, not standing firm like the last man aboard the sinking ship, but more like a swimsuited rat leaving the same:

1) I am buying a one-piece swimsuit

2) I am going to find a new swimming place for mornings

3) and perhaps I will book a week somewhere balmy, next year.

Girls are great. Some of my closest friends, in fact, are female. And there are many reasons why I love being a woman. But fashion is not one of them.

Femininity can be expressed in many ways. Just of the top of my head I recall watching someone eat her first oyster, the gushing over a newly bulging tummy, the iron shoulder of a friend that turns your own grip into true steel when that friend, in turn, is in need. The broderie angalaise of my aunt, the pink executive felt-tip of a colleague, the tutting over blooms of my mother and the sheer stoical rumbling laugh of my ninety-years-old grandmother.

I love brushing my hair with a hundred strokes and pumicing my feet, I love taking my shoes of on the beach and walking home heels in hand through a park full of chessnuts in full swing. I love dainty china and voluptous turned wood and inlays and the futile engravings on the back of a spoon. I love the silk shawl and the wool throw and the wonderful world of two white pillows at the back and a painted cup-and-saucer-of-bliss perched, one hand turning the pages of some browned and smelling of sunseed book.

All this I love. It is a rich and varying landscape of neurosis and ambition and history. But the opportunity offered by fashion to express it is very much a small municipal park kept by very nervous keepers. The lawns may be green, but you are not allowed to stray to picknick.

Now do not get me wrong: I know about the cornflower blue silk shifts and the newly boho chic. I know all is not trousersuits or LBDs. But it seems to me that while men have a world of subtelty to choose from; women can only waver from outré to passé. Save the lucky few who can resist the lure of being in fashion, women are condemned to trends. And trends are, per definition, not flattering to anyone.

If I do not want to look like the teen on the highstreet, nor yet my conservative maiden (yeah, right) aunt - where do I go? Where are my equivalents of mens style: demure yet with leeway for the individual. Let me give you an example:

A friend of mine is very fashion conscious. He has a suited job, which he customises by wearing the slightly off-base colour, the weave that makes you need to touch his sleeve. He is still allowed the complete dependability of always covering all his intimate body parts - save a bit of troath, at end of dinner. He is allowed to dress in a way that is flattering, sheltering without being uniform, high quality without being flash.

I on the other hand: same age, same type of job, need dress either like a bank cashier or a fashion victim. I can’t wear soft blue cashmere without looking like a frump. And I can’t go individual without looking like a clown.

The explanation is quite simple when you boil it down. Men are allowed to grow up. Women are supposed to stay twenty. The autority explicit in a laisser-faire crumpled suit is not for women: we are reduced to the hapless slavery of powerdressing.

And the same rant-inducing haegemony goes for the world of fashion blogs. I have a few favourites, all discussing mens fashion. (http://permanentstyle.blogspot.com/ is one). They treat the wearing of things as a creative process, expressing taste, social strata and personal foibles. But the ones that I can find that cater to women discuss fashion in a much more passive way: how to recreate looks, how to copy stars, where to find BRANDS rather than where to find inspiration.

I have to stop now before I get in over my head or stop shaving my legs to save for a personally knitted cardigan. Which can seem like the only solution for an individualist woman who does not want to wear a bird in her hair…learn to sew? 

I now have conculsive proof that Orwell was wrong. All animals were not created equal. For while some will attack you with fangs, some will trample you and others, again, will place their barbecue within smelling distance on a balmy summers night.

Humans are generally said to have the advantage over animals. We have brains, Global knives and a little something I like to call the bouquet garnis. However, as I discovered yesterday, once you are out of the kitchen and in the wild, these advantages do not matter a great deal. I found several species taking advantage of my state of unpreparedness and trying to ursurp the general order and make a meal out of the chef.

Birds are frightening, once bigger than your fist. They have scary eyes, beaks and claws and can attack from any angle. This is why the Dutch, an eminent people, invented the Schemmertopf, into wich, with some lemons and masses of fresh herbs, you stick the bird and wait for the juices to clear and a divine meal to be ready. But far from home and not carrying a giant earthenware cooking device the birds have the advantage.

I met all kinds: the twittery type that keeps you thinking you are on the right track while you are in fact lost in the woods, the plummeting type that laughs hoarsly as you walk along, oblivious to the third degree burns you are getting on your calfs and lastly and most importantly: the big white long necked ones who will hiss at you and make you detour into a largish stand of nettles. I picked up the pace and left the immediate seaside for the (sic) safer meadows.

Only, the meadows is where I met another animal I favour on the plate: the cow and its connotations. I like cheese. I like youghurt. I like tender baby veal with a nice tonnato sauce, or in sweet union with a slice of parma for an alla romana. I do not like them horned, en masse, and hulking but discovered yesterday that this is how they normally present themselfs outside of the butchers.

Naively, I first thought them an improvement on the birds: while the feathered ones can swoop at you from any angle, I was sure the bulk of the latter would stop surprise attacks. Ha! I tell you this: what they lack in grace, they make up for in speed. A charging herd of brown and white flecked monsters had me running for my dinner. And straight into the next Charybdis. All the pretty horses.

Now, I rode horses for many years. I have a good seat and, with reins in my hand, can tackle grey steeds and finnicky ponys. When they amass in plural however, suspecting a feeding from my newly summery flaxen hair, and I stand unarmed with not as much as a piece of rope or a stick to call my own, I am stumped. Unknown horses who have been spoiled rotten by passing tourists handing out sugar - I’d rather the kebab. (My father actually fed me grilled horse once, tasty but worth a separete entry).

Passing on from the territory of the herd and into our garden, I thought I was safe, and sat down to an ironically vegetarian meal of mushrooms and red beets, broccoli and cauliflower, roast peppers and aioli. I thought my adventures were over, and looked forward to a civilized evening of deadheading roses, as opposed to being fed on by feed. But there is one animal trickier than all the rest. Neighbours.

Now, our village has always been devoid of mosquitos. Its the payoff, for the cold and stormy sea that will not let you linger in the bath is unfriendly to their eggs, and the cold and stormy winds that sweep the garden to smithereens also sweep away the stingy fucks. Till our neighbours dug a pond at the bottom of the garden. Right beneath my window: the western one. There, in perfect peace, the mosquitos lay their eggs, having to travel only a very short distance to find my sleeping body a fiest. This also gives rise to another plague: those who eat the mosquitos. Spiders.

Spiders are a type of creature that I can find no place for in the kitchen, nor in my bed. Nevertheless, they are in both places, fatly contented with the treat served up by our idiot over-read-on-homes-and-gardens next door fools. As I lay awake last night, haunted by wirring noices and the knowledge that today would be one of itching and scratching I sent a murduros thought over the hedge. Something has to give. Why not remove the root of evil: banker a’la king, anyone?

Where normally the cloak of nighttime would draw me to the brightest lights: in the country, I like to stay in the shadows when I misbehave.

Last night arrived at country house, wrung out from a day of travel, forgetting, and last minute deeds. I was dead tired, leaden, ready to drop off my chair. Ready to, had I been home, tuck myself under the covers with the DVD’s of Pride and Prejudice (the original, Firth-esque version is the only one I will ever watch) and a hefty batch of roastbeef sandwiches.

But in the country it is different. Not here the gentle soothing of empty carbs and stockings. Not here the surrendering to narcolepsy. Soon the restoratives of a wind blowing round the cherry tree, the sun piercing grey clouds and the homey chatter of my mum, aunt and grandmother had filled me with new energy. And once we’d had our fill of herring, eggs and potatoes, a berry pie and beer and coffee and Aalborgs Jubilee to fill in the cracks, I was ready to discover the evening.

Now here is another fundamental difference between city and countryside. What to do with surplus nighttime energy. Where normally I would drag some poor unsuspecting friend to some bar or other for some chat and maybe some eyeing - here I was left to my own rescourses. And those of nature, of course. I decided to take a walk.

Throwing on a woolly sweater and the same sandals that carried me across the mountains to Santiago de Compostella a few years ago, I set out among the scents of the sleepy gardens. In late light there where creams and yellows and blushing pinks both falling heavily on branches and soaring upwards on the gusts of wind.

Rustlings and creaks provided background music as I made my way out into the fields, where the black horses had gathered for the night under a big chessnut. The waves crackled over the pebbled shore and somewhere out at sea I could spot the pale white belly of a lonely boat. It was irresistible, I had to go in. Making my way tenderly over the slippy rocks, I left my clothes behind a shrub, tangled in the branches of a wild rose, and then hurried, pale white belly full of jitters, into the freezing cold and darkly inky water.

It was brief. It was glorious. It was better than any shot. Towelling myself of, barely even shivering yet, I made it back to the house. Going to bed, with both the east and the west window open, in sheets that have dried in the same wind that bothered the pages of my book, cool glass of water at my side and all summer before me: I felt like twelwe again, or younger; giggling at a secret and fully expecting the summer to last forever. And the roses.

The past few days have not been kind to my budding ulcer - whom I have named Claus and whom I shall feed gin&tonic at first opportunity after lunch. There has been a project deadline, of a humongous and mindachingly boring project, at that. At the same time, I have been juggling multiple end of season social engagements and a visiting friend: what with leaving keys under carpets and finding time to shower - I have been stressed out. 

Usually, a few hectic days would be nothing, I’d just put my head down and get whatever needs to be done done. But last night I snapped. I do not know if it was the project itself, or the build-up of recent breakup, current homelessness and the need to be perfect hostess - there was a snap and that snap was heard around the world. Or at least, the office.

At the end of the day, running late and flustered, I had appx 15 minutes before I needed to be in cocktail dress, in heels, with something resembling an updo, half way across town. But instead of being within reach of my ladyshave, or at least, emergency tried and true bronzer, I stood swaddled in papers with the urge to kill the copymachine. Or euthanise it, more like.

And it dawned on me: this is not what summer should be like. Where was the white linnen? Where were the flasks of elderflower lemonade? Where were the big sea kayaks, and the profiteroles, the wellingtonds and the dusty roads, the hidden mushrooms in shade and the blackberries in full sun? Where were all the ingredients of a hot summer? I wouldn’t find them chez the office, thats for damn sure. The printer was one more thing on my list, the ulitmate symbol, of why I need some time off, pronto. Also featuring:

1) Legs are colour of egg-shell painted walls

2) I introduce my self in bars with title, surname and spellin my email-adress

3) I haven’t seen the inside of a kitchen in a few weeks

4) The garden is blossoming - need to tame it

So for the next few weeks: will keep you posted from beneath the apple tree.

For the longest time, I ate rasberries, convinced that it would be tatamount to sacrelige not to like live sweet rubies. I was also sure I did not like liver, and I did occasionally drink beer. In short, it took me a while to trust my own taste and realise that what is manna and honey to one, is too sweet and mealy for me.

Well you live and learn. An excellent liver pie a few years ago turned my world, and since then I am a fan of anything intestine. But I have also developed rather a thick skin when it comes to insulting the resident cook. If it doesn’t please me I wont swallow.

 I have stopped the rasberry intake and choose a glass of wine, or even water, instead of forcing myself to sink several litres of bitter gold - even if in a swirling pub. I embrace my hatred of cantaloupe and crostini, as well as my love of stingy nettles and bloody dripping raw meat, my abhorrence of liqorice and my fanatical support of anything tart: grapefruit and broccoli and ruccola - bring them on.

With age, alas, I try to eat or non-eat based on personal taste only. There are exceptions to this rule: a certain sense of manners comes into play, of course, and I would not spit in a salad offered by a friend, even if it would contain apples and cucumbers (an unholy combination, I find). Also there are cases of extreme hunger when I may manage something pork. But as long as it is my time or money going into the pot, and I am not starving, I want the pot to live up to my standards. Or be sent back.

My theory is this: if I have paid for it or spent time making it, I should not have to go through further loss of money of time-is-money by eating something I don’t care for. And to continue my newly developed trend of obvious analogies: the same goes for men. Which begs a few questions:

Is the customer always right, or am I, as it were, ordering the cook to fire my meat to a cinder for lack of culinary experience? Should I stick to what I like no matter if it isn’t always the healthy option? Does it matter if the produce is fantastic if it has been seasoned all wrong? Can you save a sauce once burned? And most importantly: will I ever be happy with a one-sided diet or would my teeth fall out? What if over-consumtion will develop into allergies halfway through the meal?

But to close on a more optimistic note:

A man survived the WWII concentration camps to marry a Cordon Bleu chef. The only subsequent tragedy in their relatively contented life was that despite all her efforts at sautes and souffles and tangerines and cold boiled tounge with a parsnip side, all he ever really felt like eating was bread and salt. A few years of unhuman misery and starvation will have you running for the basics.

And so, I go on the dating market.

The Stockholm subway system is in no way either sex, fricadelles or cointreau and should thusly have no place in the blog of a single girl trying, as it were, to cure her own ham.

Or to put it plainly: the Stockholm subway system is neither sex, drugs or rock n’roll and should thusly have no place in the blog of a single girl who is supposed to be writing on food but who is finding it hard to keep on topic, what with the current lack of arm-candy.

It is however, reminicent enough of a bad date to merit a posting: smelly, slow and newly ridiculous. Case in point: the station announcements. They are translated. Like this: “plinplinpling ODENPLAN” that is, a little jingle and then the name of the station, ODENPLAN, is translated to “next stop: ODENPLAN”.  Take a pause and think about the sheer idiocy.

And hopping on, off track: when got out of subway tonight, having payed a visit to my grandmother and mown her lawn, was bumped straight from the fumes of the compressed “humanity” riding the slow train to dullsville into the scent of my ex-ex-ex (jesus, it really has been a while) boyfriends mothers perfume.

Now, I do not miss the boyfriend. I certainly do not miss the mother. But I do miss the nights of sitting out in their greenhouse, vines overhead and tomatoes all around, eating shrimp and roquefort and listening to the swilling of the sea and the swooping of the bats.

I am not a sentimentalist. I take nostalgia as a sure sign, the way the cloggy green snot at end of cold is sign of healing. A sign it is time to get a hobby. Or for lack of stamina, a short term obsession.

So I shall learn how to mend a punctured tyre and then I shall take some days out of my vaccation and ride my bike from Skåne to next stop: ODENPLAN. It is about 700 kilometers. What to pack?

Today I had a close encounter with the life that could have been mine - if only I didn’t like The Heels.

Even if you are in the business of PR/Spin, not normally recognised for profoundity, you sometimes need some background material. Something for the weak vines of gossip to cling to, something for the tender tendrils of innuendo to lean against. Something solid. Some facts. This is why, today, in the name of research, I made my way over to the Royal Library: housing pretty much all that has been printed. Ever. In Sweden, at least.

I was on a quest to find some old articles, not available on that beautiful thing, the world wide web. This in itself, actually going to the library and asking for a tome, gave me a sense of backwards time-travell. Outside, the overcast and chilly day, with great gusts of wind and my skirt plotting all sorts of Monroesque gettaway plans, my toes were freezing, the bus was lacking, and my hairdo - always a bloody mess - was more of a bloody mess than ever. All in all, the general feeling was one of upheaval and great adventure.

The fairytale feeling was further enhanced when I reached the big mellow eggshell building in the verdant park. Its big wooden door opened with a creak. I stepped inside, fully expecting goblins or beauties veiled in cobweb, but got the next best thing and, like struck by a spell, was swallowed by the silence and the slow-mo of academia. A real life forgotten kingdom.

No rush, no fuss, no frills, no yelling. Everything, in fact, that is the opposite of clamouring for attention the way us mediahungry professionals do. It was bliss. Rather like eating a very well cooked meal of boiled summer carrots, boiled leeks, boiled cauliflower and boiled cod (perhaps with a hint of mustard sauce) after weeks and weeks of brash cross-over height-building fad-following cuisine.

…and I do miss it. Miss the buildings and the bad coffee and the rational thought and the honesty and somehow backboned stubborness of answering to no one but the harshest of moral and integrityfondling judges. Not for them the headlines and the yellow prints, the on-offer-nows or the fast paced swarmings of the media pack.

But not for them either the sharp suits or the red soles or the thrill of out-cheaping the other cheaps.

And so I totter on. 

Outside, in the nothing that passes for Stlms most central square was a huge tv-style billboard. It informed me in large red print that Lohans mother gives go-ahead to Lohans lesbian realtionship. I say go Lohan, but do I need to know?

And these shoes hurt.

This is my last week in work before vaccations. And after my four weeks off I have one more month to go, and then (I) am the hell out of here, switching to new and exciting and wonderful and glorious job (for real). All of this is very good.

Less good, however, is the sudden realisation this morning that I have a shitload of important stuff to get through before leaving. The projects that have been slowly drifting in backwater have suddenly turned into a veritable tsunami of deadlines. So I will have to unplug myself from any social events, or even sleeping, and instead chain myself to my laptop for the next few days.

And this will present a cooking challenge. How do you varie your menu and keep it healthy while having three meals a day in the office? It sports a fridge and a two ring cooker, but no fan, and only half a skillet…

I started of this morning with cottage cheese on home baked hazelnut loaf: all you need is a knife. This was good, and I only wish, in hindsight, that I would have stuck to cucumbers and other non-pungent comerades for the entire week. But instead, for lunch, I had brought some cold boiled potatoes and…and here is the humdinger… five smoked herrings.

Now, in case you have never encountered a smoked herring, let me save you the suspense. They smell. They smell like fish. Like dead fish. Stuck in a smokehouse. For a long time. But still dead. Since I had wrapped them in ten layers of plastic for the trip from the seaside to town, I had sort of forgotten about this little detail. But was brutally reminded when they were unleashed.

The smell spread. Firstly through the kithen, then through the rest of our quite cramped and warm office. It spread to my hands and from there to my computer. It spread to my bosses pants and to the kettle. It stunk up the fridge, of course, and my colleauge said even his very spicy curry tasted of them.

Of course, you can’t be a lover of food and have a hard time coping with the smells. I am more or less imune to the stenches of the cheeses and the bloody, the pickled and yeasty. I have tackled the inside of a pigs stomach, the slow and tender cooking of cabbage, and the preparations of pea soup. But it is one thing to battle these enemies in the fair and level playingfield of the kitchen. When they invade the conference room, it is a whole other ballgame.

My original and deluded plan was to leave the herrings in the fridge and eat one for lunch every day this week. But even this first airing gave rise to a perfect mutiny amongst my co-wokers, and threats of “throwing out” or “down the toilet” were issued. As it wasn’t perfectly clear whom it referred to - me or the scaly ones, I realised I’d better make myself, or my smokey friends, scarse. It was me or them. And since I haven’t the time to defect right now, the fish had to go.

The simple solution: feed them to the office. This afternoon, while I have been slaving away at this god-awful memorandum on something I’d much rather forget - I have had to content myself with listening to a slurpy sloppy fingersucking orgy of fishdevouring in the kitchen. They sit around the table, the boss and the rest of them, and feast upon the carcasses of my poor dears. They even have beer.

And all I’ve got for company is the smell.