Welcome to my non-blogging world

My wife cooks the meals, I am le plongeur. It isn’t a fair division of labour, I know, and very occasionally I split and clean a leek. Otherwise I bring scientific method and cutting-edge equipment to the kitchen sink.

BRUSH My preferred tool even for plates, but especially after a pasta meal when the fork tines are clogged with parmesan which has undergone molecular change. Such brushes must be regarded as consumables. When the bristles begin to curl – however slightly – replace. In fact if you take washing-up seriously, buy in bulk.

SCRITCHERS Two types: sponge-backed and fake silvery metal. The latter is the more abrasive. Scritchers for me are a last resort. I prefer to soak and brush. NOTE: soaking should never be a ploy to avoid tackling a difficult pan; the plongeur who practices this delaying tactic loses all professional credibility.

RACK Stainless steel. Don’t be tempted by wood, the first step towards catching Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever.

DISH-TOWEL Is it damp? Of course it’s damp! Chuck it into the Bosch. Minimum requirement for a household of two: two to three dozen.

WASHING-UP LIQUID Green only.

WATER TEMPERATURE Should be unbearable.

HIGHER TECHNOLOGY? Under the kitchen work-surface sits Monsieur Ariston. He and I have no relationship. My daughter tickles his fancy when she visits.

All that glisters is not good

Last week BBC4 showed two French-made Maigret films starring Bruno Cremer. Since they sought to re-create the fifties/sixties I was on the lookout for the Shiny Car Syndrome. Not my invention, I’m afraid, but I’ve happily adopted it. Here it is: Cars are important in setting a film’s period. But since the only, say, 1927 Lagondas are now in the hands of enthusiasts, have been cherished and are worth a mint, they will appear in the film as unnaturally groomed. Too glossy to be workaday.

And not just cars. Beautifully blocked trilbies, Art Décor funiture, horse-drawn carriages. Not a scratch anywhere, causing these artefacts to stand out prominently instead of melting into the background as they should.

The Maigret films did not suffer from too much shininess, possibly because there are people still driving blancmange-mould Panhards and traction avant Citroens in France and the cars may be borrowed for a few packets of Gitanes. Maigret’s office didn’t look lived-in but that was OK, he wasn’t one for staying at his desk. However I query the horribly neat, seemingly anachronistic, filing system that occupied one wall because he wasn’t a one for filing either.

TECHNO-ANTIPATHY Not secateurs themselves but the switch which locks the blades. If you’re wearing heavy protective gloves it’s far too easy to brush the knob and bring cutting to a standstill, delaying the completion of a gardening job which – surprise, surprise - I already find intolerable.

Molecular magic in the kitchen

The good news is I beat my best time for swimming a mile by over 1½ minutes – a huge improvement. The bad news is I am Samson shorn of his hair. In a word, knackered. So here’s something gentle and speculative: cooking as chemistry.

By which I mean combining flavoured constituents to create a new flavour and, ideally, an end-product in which the constituents are no longer visibly evident. A cake is a perfect example (reflect on how unpleasant it would be to eat the constituents individually) whereas a stew falls short. Application of heat is probably assumed.

But perhaps such fusion becomes more magical when it involves the smallest number of ingredients. Hollandaise sauce consists only of butter and egg yoke plus a dash of lemon juice or vinegar. Just as vital are patience and slow heating. Yet I see this as being closer to the biogenetics lab than the kitchen. Diverge from the rules and the sauce is not spoiled, it becomes something else: a bastard form of scrambled egg.

From my limited experience, making hollandaise is Three Toques (Raymond Blanc’s grading of culinary severity) and I never aspired to that. I have made soup – and blogged about it – and it met the above premises. I also discovered, off my own bat, that an ingredient too far precludes fusion. Add Lea & Perrins and the rest of the soup simply becomes a background for that very opinionated product.

Question: bacon and eggs are made for each other yet – assuming they are eaten together – do they fuse? There’s a new texture but is there a new flavour?

For a fascinating food list click on Relucent Reader's latest

More on the mythical(?) toy divide

Yesterday’s post on toys was triggered by the news that the inventer of Slinky had died. Is Slinky a toy? More of an engineering exercise to prove a principle in mechanics. Similar to that wooden bird that dipped its beak into a glass of water, stopped, then resumed. That proved something or other but nobody ever told me what.

My elder daughter, a teacher’s assistant specialising in science, admits to playing with Slinkies and adds, somewhat dubiously, “they are good for demonstrating waves”. Remembering she was greatly attached in her youth to a shapeless, knitted creature called Fub I asked her what her favourite toy was. She responded: “I loved that garden thing that I had - you would never be able to market it now because the little tool thing was lethal.” I have no idea what this could have been.

In raising the girls’ toys/boys’ toys bifurcation it now occurs to me that small children do not initially demand toys, but are given what seems appropriate by their parents. Obviously this is not the moment for handing over a 00-gauge model of The Flying Scotsman. Suckability rather than realism is likely to be the overriding parameter.

More soft toys may go to young girls rather than young boys but something odd happens as the years go by. Men of all ages admit to an attachment to teddy bears. In the case of Sebastian in Brideshead Revisited the attachment is perhaps self-explanatory. In other instances less so. A late life reaction to being given an air-gun at a vulnerable age?

As far as I know I have no latent teddy tendencies but I must confess to enjoying a walk round Hamlyn’s on visits to London.

Are toy choices hard-wired?

From us, for Christmas, grandson Zach will get a Bob the Builder talking tool bench and helmet, plus the optional toolkit. I know… but you’re wrong. I had nothing to do with a decision cooked up between my wife and my daughter.

Nor do I know what a talking tool bench will say. However this bizarre present has set me thinking about how children perceive the real world and how they express this perception via their preference in toys. My toy-receiving years neatly coincided with WW2 when the few toys available were made of wood or lead. An alternative was something second-hand. I well remember disdaining a pitifully crude wooden Spitfire in preference for a used Dinkey toy. Why? Because the latter looked more realistic.

Later it was all change. As one of three brothers I found myself father of two daughters. I was adrift, faced with Barbie dolls and such. Barbie wasn’t realistic, though a model kitchen stove, bought later, was. But was the stove played with, did it appeal? I can’t remember. The situation became more blurred when my younger daughter developed a crush on the late F1 driver, Gilles Villeneuve, and requested a series of ever more authentic model Ferraris.

Given the way my life evolved it’s perhaps not surprising I wanted realistic toys. And perhaps this is a lad’s thing. Many young girls seem to prefer soft toys. Is this a girl’s thing? But is a doll’s house – a phase many girls pass through - a step towards realism?

For the record my other grandson, Ian, aged 24, has asked for a subscription to New Scientist but I think we can safely say he passed the floppy bunny vs. remote control helicopter dilemma some years ago.

Dear dead Dos dreams

In the High and Far-Off Times, the PC, O Best Beloved, had no mouse. It had only a Keyboard… I can’t keep up with Kipling but you get the idea. This was aeons ago. This was the age of Dos when today’s careless texters and wilful misspellers would have been required to bend the knee to the computer’s rigours rather than the other way round.

Say you had a file called Teacup in a folder called Saucer and you wanted to copy it to another folder called Milkjug. On a blank screen devoid of pretty icons you typed something (age has affected my memory) like this:
C/>: copy: /Saucer/Teacup/: /Milkjug/
And if you didn’t get it exactly right nothing happened.

Windows plus a mouse meant any fool could drag and drop but the advantages weren’t immediately apparent. When told about Word for Windows I remember asking: why complicate a typing procedure by breaking off to use a mouse?

A computer running on Dos was like an Austin 7. Repairs and maintenance were within anyone’s grasp. You could tinker with the central cortex by rearranging the autoexec/bat file, causing the PC to boot up differently. You could penetrate the hard disk and alter the way programs appeared on the screen.

My favourite game was Columns, a childish version of Tetris. When I changed to a slightly faster computer I realised I would never match my earlier scores because Columns too was now faster. So I found the score box on the hard disk, deleted the old figures and started again. I was Master of the Universe.

But it didn’t last.

Were you looking for this?

Essential news for technologians:

TALKING SAW Sensor in blade detects absence of pencil marks on wood, triggering recorded message: “You’re deviating, you’re deviating.” (Japanese accent optional).

NEW CE RATING Die-stamped symbol (labrador rampant) indicates approval by Le Laboratoire Culinaire de Bretagne. Applies to small kitchen utensils.

ITEM FROM AMNESTY INTERNATIONAL GIFT CATALOGUE Portable transmitter causes hologram of Oscar Wilde and Noel Coward, reciting extracts from De Profundis, to dance tango on car bonnet of Richard Littlejohn. (US model note: For Richard Littlejohn read Rush Limbaugh, for bonnet read hood.)

SARKOZY TEMPTS ANGLO TOURISTS A bill just issued by the Elysée will force all French supermarkets to erect a 50 m high mast carrying illuminated sign visible for 5 km, “Closed for LONG lunch break”.

WHICH? EASES SHOPPING Polymicroancrylinate glove increases finger-tip sensitivity allowing shoppers to check ripeness of melons, soft spots on apples, cracks in egg-shells (without opening box) and tastelessness of prepared meals. Not suitable for use on humans.

FROM HEREFORD WINE LOVERS SOCIETY New gadget combines essential features of gas chromatograph and allows potential buyer to check whether wine is corked without need to open bottle. One member says: “Saved me thousands in one year”.

POLYGRAPH DEVELOPMENTS After British MPs rejected being attached to a conventional lie-detector during Newsnight interviews (“undermines the dignity of the Mother Of Parliaments”), the manufacturer has designed a variant which flags up Hasn’t answered the question. PM Gordon Brown orders an enquiry.

Type setter's toast; presses still roar

During a professional low tide I wearied of giving space on MotorCycling’s letter page to readers celebrating the Golden Age of British Bikes. Disapproving of many models cited I inserted a fake letter decrying this tendency, adding “nostalgia is a suspect emotion”. The foam-flecked response was gratifying. Yet here I am being just as nostalgic.

But not about badly engineered bikes with total-loss oil systems. Rather the mechanisms of publishing. This is a Linotype which set type in the hot-metal days. Press a keyboard key and a brass mould (for a letter, a number, a punctuation mark or a space) came tinkling out of the large box on top. Repeat this until sufficient moulds for a line of type assemble themselves in the machine’s bowels.

Work another control and molten type-metal from the Linotype’s small furnace – Just imagine it! – flows into the moulds to cast that one line of type. Start again. A newspaper might well own two dozen such machines, tinkling away and smelling like… well, over to Proust. Now my humdrum computer can do the same job and I haven’t seen a Linotype for thirty years.

One mechanism still remains. To print many newspapers in next to no time you need a press. And a Heidelberg, a Hoe or a Crabtree in full flight (and full throat) resembles open warfare. The power of the press indeed, all directed towards an ephemeral product with a life-span often measured in minutes. The newspapers I worked on were printed in a Bradford street called Hall Ings and the soles of my feet twitch sympathetically down the years as I remember the roar and vibration of those majestic machines.