I am greatly saddened to learn of the death of writer, food communicator, chef and TV cook, Keith Floyd.
He was fantastic at communicating the hedonistic joy of food. I still enjoy his recipe for Chicken cous cous, on a regular basis. The Floyd On France book remains a favourite.
Good luck, Keith.
My back bloody hurts. I don't know why. Maybe it's my eccentric swimming technique. Maybe our new bed is taking its revenge for my slovenliness. The point is that the last possible thing I could do with right now is three to four days bed rest.
One thing that I find back pain is very good for though is focussing the mind.
Today is a day I knew, in my heart of hearts, was coming. Dawn of the Facebook cull. The time when basic realities of life have to be faced. So, it's goodbye vaguely familiar people and those I could well do without. Farewell to those who block any of my cursory attempts at positivity and adios to the extras from my 'good old' school days. Specifically, those who seem to spend their lives in some misty eyed, rose tinted nostalgia trip, yearning for times that never actually existed.
One of the tragedies of adulthood is that the bullies of your childhood are no longer around to arrange to have assassinated. They are, of course, now all grown-up with families of there own. I have no quarrel with these adults, only their child selves.
My resounding memory of childhood is having seven bells knocked out of me by the resident thugs. The reason being was that I was (and am) not well coordinated physically and overweight. A prime target as a punch bag, you might say.
What I really hate about having had the living daylights beaten out of my younger self on a regular basis is the fact that it made me very defensive. You get so used to having to get into fight/flight mode in order to survive that the brain translates everyday trials and tribulations as personal threats. It's only really since being with K. that I have fully recognised this trait. My apologies to anyone who had to put up with me as a teenager.
Thanks to me not being as strict as is advisable with accepting new 'Facebook friends', I have found myself in danger of being vicariously connected to people whose names and faces my subconscious has spent the last 22 years trying to erase.
If there is some space between denial and wallowing in the shit from the past then maybe it's worth staking a claim for.
But enough of that. Let us head upstream...
Almost the last of the wedding vintage (2006) wines arrived yesterday. Domaine Gauby Muntada. The Gaubster is the king of Roussillon wine and I was once proud to meet him with my dad, S. and her friend, Ma.
Seeing Mr Gauby at his domaine in Calce, you could not fail to notice an incredible sense of conviction coming from him when he was talking about his wines. What a guy. What a winemaker: elegant, rich wines that are not burdened with overripeness and the consequent alcoholic, blockbuster style.
Now then; temporary remedies for backache...
