Switching off Coronation St ain't cute

Trawling Herhimnbryn’s blog about life in Perth, WA, I came upon a photo of possums sitting on a telly aerial. Of the commenters who referred to their cuteness it’s unlikely any came from New Zealand.

Here’s a baby possum from the Golden Bay area of NZ’s South Island. On three trips to NZ this is the only one we ever saw alive. The others had been reduced to poignant layers of fluff by car tyres and most Kiwis wouldn’t have it any other way. Possums were introduced into NZ as a solution to some vermin problem, long forgotten. It’s the possums who are now the problem.

Apart from the disruptions they cause in houses they like to climb up power-line poles and create a low-resistance path between the insulators. As a result electricity may be blotted out over very large rural areas. To prevent this metal collars are attached to thousands (millions?) of utility poles. NZ is not a rich country and providing these collars prevents expenditure on raising the efficiency of the All Black rugby team

FAUX-SMELLY LAV (see December 17). Sir Hugh wanted to know how we eradicated the carpet smell. I’d forgotten and had to check out the technology. An application of Spray ‘n’ Vac followed by a quick pass with the Dyson. Several times. Bit of an anti-climax really.

Oh, the stigma. Ah, the eeease

All my cars bar one have been what Americans – with admirable directness – call stick-shifts. Initially I had no option, the alternative was too expensive. Later, sharing a deep-seated prejudice with many other Brits, I rejected automatics on the grounds they were somehow louche. My penultimate car, a six-speed manual gearbox Lexus, was the most satisfying I have ever owned.

So why for the last two-and-a-half years have I owned an automatic? To encrusted types the answer is brief: it’s an old man’s car. But an equally truthful response might have been: I like the technology. I need only flick the drive selector a few centimetres towards the passenger and it becomes a manual gear-change, albeit without the need for a clutch pedal. The first car to offer that system I know of was a Porsche and it probably cost zillions. My present car is not a Porsche.

Take a trip inside the gearbox and there are more wonders. Traditional automatic gearboxes (called slushpumps in America), consist of two opposing but separate propellors linked by surrounding fluid. Such systems are wasteful of energy. Fine if you have bhp to spare, as most Americans cars have. Less so with European and Japanese hatchbacks.

But my car has a truly automatic gearbox. It incorporates two clutches, one for the odd-numbered gears, one for the evens. As a driver I remain blissfully ignorant of their function as they help change the six gears in milliseconds. Oh, I almost forgot: my present car cost two-thirds the price of the Lexus. More later about its remarkable engine.

Here's to my infallible nose

The previous post here dealt with house re-wiring and subsequent comments raised the subject of its legality when done by an amateur. Rather than appear to endorse the practice I pressed Delete. My thanks to Plutarch, Zhoen and Marja-Leena who responded and whose comments I have also deleted.

MORE CULPA MEA It seems only fair to replace it with another story where I ended up with egg on my face. So let’s start with my sense of smell and its sibling, taste. Both are well enough developed to identify why I dislike Beaujolais and certain red Loire wines (the Gamay grape), to predict the inherent disappointment in many petit chateau Bordeaux (excessive tannin) and to celebrate the emergence of the pinot noir all over the world without for a moment confusing it with the grape’s greatest expression in Burgundy.

But the application of smell/taste frequently depends on context. And pride, as they say…. A few days after we moved into our present house we discovered an unpleasant smell in the bathroom, seemingly coming from the toilet. The builder’s jack-of-all-trades was called in, used putty to seal the toilet/sewer junction and performed other stabs in the dark. The smell remained.

My daughter phoned and I mentioned the problem. What about the recently laid carpet? she said. Couldn’t be that I said; it’s something to do with poo. But once the phone was back in the cradle I stole upstairs and bent low. It was the carpet! The toilet (It’s so easy to give a toilet a bad name.) was blameless. And I felt like a complete prat.

Use 'em but don't love 'em

A dictionary’s most important quality? It must be accessible. If the explanation’s more than an arm’s-length away the word isn’t checked. Chambers is housed downstairs in the living room, Penguin here on a shelf over the scanner. Collins-Robert lies on the same shelf above the monitor.

Both are heavy to lift down and I’d prefer them to hover on either side of my head at temple height.

Foreign dictionaries need replacing. That’s the fourth or fifth Collins-Robert in two decades. The paperback French-French Dictionnaire Universel cost €2 off a market stall. It claims 40,000 definitions which I doubt but it’s mainly for emergencies such as discussing swimming pool filtration systems.

Dictionaries are systems rather than books and typography plays a vital role. The defined word in Penguin appears in an extra-bold sans serif face with the definition in a serif face, possibly Times New Roman; similarly with Collins-Robert. But the presentation differs radically. A long entry in the former (eg, “be”) occupies only half a column, in the latter “etre” covers a page. Penguin is initially clearer but C-R gathers useful related information into a single area.

Never become sentimentally attached to a dictionary. None is perfect and the faults can be infuriating. To be told (by C-R) that raki is raki is only a tiny step forward. On the other hand being laconic is a virtue. Penguin says an “erk” is a person holding the lowest rank in the air force (short for aircraftsman). As an ex-erk I didn’t know that.

Hiding behind a Gallic veil

Avus suggests a meme-like thingie in that we all post photos of our bookshelves. Rather than reveal the literary poverty of mine, I am relying on subterfuge.

On a loué une villa languedocienne pour deux semaines pendant Juin. Mais tous les couteaux de la cuisine étaient émoussés. Bonne opportunité pour m’enfoncer dans le soupe linguistique francais.

Parmi les étagères poussiéreuse de Monsieur Bricolage – car c’est un vrai bricolage à Lodève avec beaucoup de marchandises dont on ne reconnait pas le fonction – j’ai trouvé un jeune homme en sueur, portant une chemise et cravate, qui était evidemment pas en vacances.

Avant commencer parler je cherchais pour le témoignage d’une intelligence sur sa figure - parce que, manquant un mot important, je ne voulais pas d’abord commander quelque chose mais lui poser une devinette. Rassuré, j’ai dit: “Monsieur je cherche un truc pour rendre le lame d’un couteau plus efficace.” Ses cils se tricotaient pour un moment et puis – Boum! – le visage s’est epanuyé. Il me tirait par le main jusqu’à l’étagère le plus poussiéreuse. “Voila, monsieur, un aiguisoir!”

J’aime la France et avec des stratagèms comme ca je peux démontrer mes remerciements à ce beau pays. Arriver au mot exact après avoir recu le définition fait – pour un francais – le preuve qu’il est intellectuel. Ou, au moins, plus intellectuel qu’un anglais. Voici mon role en France.

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?

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