Odd Lunch Out

Yesterday I had a strange lunch. I didn't want an egg and bacon roll, or minestrone soup, or a stout and beefsteak pie, or a sausage, or a cheese and tomato toastie. I was looking at the menu of a lunch van on wheels, out of doors.

Why are there no greens? I asked myself. If anything had lettuce in it I would have had that.
It was the Farmers Market. You could obviously go and buy a lettuce, but it wouldn't have been washed, and it would just have been a lettuce.

So I went back to the food hall, and looked again at the stalls. Cheese, honey, chutney, bread, cold pies and tarts, everything was the colour of pastry. and nothing was warmed up. It was a cold day too, I'm telling you, you'll feel sorry for me soon.

The last stall at the northern end sold slices of leek and gruyere tart, cold lentil pie, falafel, vegetable fritters and little pastry triangles the colour of cold feet.

But, at the end of the display, was a row of fluoro yellow pumpkin risotto and sweet chilli muffins with a green swirl through the middle. This was the greenest thing I had seen to eat other than the lettuce, broccoli, chard, cabbage, cauliflower, zucchini and other greens outside. So, tempted by the bright yellow muffin, which was also very cheap, I bought one and took it back to the outside table where my companions were eating.

They were eating egg and bacon rolls and hot minestrone soup. I opened my paper bag. What's that? they asked. Pumpkin risotto and sweet chilli muffin, I replied optimistically.

Now cooked rice loses texture when it's a day old. Pumpkin can be bland. And I never did discover what the green swirl was. It was just a green swirl tasting of nothing in particular, marking the point at which the muffin was to break in half, revealing a blob of cold sweet chilli sauce.

I ate the halves, breaking off each piece as though it would be my last. How was that? asked my companions.

It would have been nicer warm, I said, biting into an unwashed pear.

Clare to Tanunda

The VeloDrone and Le Bon David are in Clare this morning for the start of the first stage of the Tour Down Under. Le Bon David is in a silly mood.

Le Bon David: I wonda who wonda Tour Down Unda in Tanunda?

The VeloDrone: Very funny David, except they won't have started yet.

Le Bon David: By thunda what a blunda!

The VeloDrone: David, if I didn't know you better I'd think that you'd been drinking.

Le Bon David: Well I have. This region is famous for its lovely wines. And honey too. I've been eating lashings of delightful honey, drizzled all over my breakfast toast. I'm quite sticky.

The VeloDrone: Lucky you're not driving then. By the way, did you find out anything about the gentleman with his pockets full of stones?

Le Bon David: Hee Hee! You won't believe it!

The VeloDrone: What! What! Tell me.

Le Bon David: It was our old friend Professor Freud. I knew as soon as I heard his German accent, even though he was dressed in a ridiculous suit of Lycra and didn't look like his usual self at all.

The VeloDrone: Lycra? With the pockets full of stones?

Le Bon David: Yes, he seems to have had special pockets let in.

The VeloDrone: Did you find out what he was up to?

Le Bon David: (doubtfully) I think so. He was trying to give a stone to any of the riders who would take one. But he wasn't having any luck.

The VeloDrone: I'm not surprised. It would slow them down no end. What the devil can it mean?

Le Bon David: There he is! Let's go over and see what we can learn.

Wein und Sonnenschein

I have another question, said Pliny the Elder. Why did you caption your photos in bad German?

It wasn't meant to be bad German, I replied. I wanted to use German as a tribute to the German settlers and winemakers of the Barossa. But I admit, I don't know very much German.

So that is why you called the album Wien und Sonnenschein! I thought you were referring to a type of sausage.

You mean Wien? As in Wieners? As in hot dogs? No, I thought I was calling it Wine and Sunshine, but of course it should have been spelled Wein.

That's what can happen when you are pretentious. Did you try any of the local wines, by the way?

We did, and most of them were very good.

Were they indeed? Then the Germans have come a long way since I was in Germania as a commander and tribune during our Germanic campaign. Their wines were very basic then. We had only just introduced the vine into their country. Until then, they had been beer drinkers.

Why did you bother?

We didn't like their beer. And we thought we might be there for a very long time. So we thought we might as well try and produce something drinkable. Something strong, that we could mix with honey, resin, chalk, herbs, or salty water......

Mmm. That does sound nice.

Did you bring any wine home with you, by the way?

We did. But we're saving it for Christmas.

Oh. Well, did you bring home any sausage?

No. I'm very sorry. We didn't bring you anything.

Typisch! Nicht Wein, nicht Wiener, nicht Sonnenschein. Danke schön.

Pliny! What does that mean?

I think you know.

Our Little Friend

What's this on the top? asked Pliny at lunchtime peering into his bowl of fruit.

It's rock melon, I replied.

Not our little friend? he said, looking harder.

Yes, it is. His vine rotted away and he became detached this morning. I bet he never expected to fulfil his destiny so soon. How does he taste?

A definite rock melon nose. But disturbingly mushy. I don't think I look forward to finishing him off in this state. Perhaps we could use him in a cooked dish. My friend Apicius had a recipe called Pepones et Melones.

I'm all for that, I agreed, as long as it doesn't contain fish sauce.

As a matter of fact it does, said Pliny. You peel and dice the melon, after removing the seeds. Then you cook it with honey, parsley, pepper, a little liquamen, or salt, and vinegar.

I can't do that to him, I said. And I can't do that to me. But you can. We'll cut him in half, what's left of him anyway, and each do what we like with our portion.

This makes a nonsense of the idea of Fate and Destiny, observed Pliny, not to mention the integrity of the individual soul.

In such cases, I said, agreeing with him, it is better to think in terms of the Manichean division into Good and Evil.

Dualism? said Pliny. And my fish sauce would be Evil I suppose, according to you. May I ask what you intend to do with your own little piece of our friend?

Share him with Nostradamus, I said, who created him in the first place. And perhaps we will save some of the seeds and begin the whole cycle again. I might, I added grandly, even attempt to immortalize him in an elegaic poem.

Right, said Pliny. Now where's my knife?

Praecocia

Praecocia! cried Pliny the Elder, spying several bowls of freshly picked apricots in the kitchen this morning.

What do you mean, praecocia? I asked. These are apricots.

Yes, yes, he said, but it was I who gave them the name praecocia, from which the word apricot derives. Praecocia, the Asiatic peach that ripens early, in summer. What a lot you have.

I know, I said. I am thinking of making Praecocia Jam, or maybe my favourite Praecocia Preserves, made with lemon juice and a few poisonous praecocia pits to add an intriguing taste of almonds.

Very good, said Pliny. Or you might like to try a favourite recipe of mine, well, of my friend Apicius, actually, whereby you cook the praecocia in honey, raisin wine and vinegar, and then , before thickening, add some pepper, mint and a little liquamen.

Liquamen? What's that again? I asked.

It's another name for garum, or fish sauce, he replied.

Pliny, I said, how about you make that, and I'll make the preserves? Meanwhile, would you like to eat a few fresh ones for breakfast?

No thankyou, that would doubtless upset my digestive system, said he.