Do you thinks it’s just

Blokes

Fucked up on Stella

That beat their birds up all black and yellow

That violence is somehow only inherent

In hard labour and low income?

A doctor would never prescribe

A slow drip of pernicious words

To his wife

The third bottle of Bordeaux

No – a different kind of drunk

He’d never spill blood

‘Don’t worry, it’s just a wine stain’

The same pathology as

‘She just fell’

The same silent cry for help

Met by underfunded shelters

And a culture which ignores that

1 in 4 women are victims

Why not 1 in 4 men are villains?

Now –

What’s your excuse?

Did you take refuge between centrefolds

Which reinforce the notion that all women are whores

As it was easier than listening

To the beatings

Believing him

When he said that the reason she was leaving him

Is because she’s a

Cheating slut

Don’t be a weakly

Boy

Man the fuck up!

Smack that bitch up

When she says no

And know that the violence in this language

Can keep her

Don’t worry though

Even if it gets to trail

You’ll be fine

As 95% of women

Are liars

If this is a man’s world

Then men will have to change it

I have held the memory of you

so often

in the palm of my thoughts

that the image is weather-beat

as creased

as the crows-feet

that stand at the corner of each eye

every time I smile

when I look at it

or grimace at it

as I try to forget

that I’ve edited it

omitted everything that could possibly subvert its beauty

Truthfully I’ve idealised you into nostalgia

Buttered toast and tea in bed

we melted into each other

then lay content

covered in sweat and crumbs

breathlessly admitting

that it was love

Though this anamnesis is composed

five or so separate occasions

collaged into something more picturesque

that I can post on to myself

as proof

of whatever I need it to be presently

and presently what I need it to mean

is that it was as good as it seemed

objectively

I dissolve into air

your hair falling completely around me

leaving only lips and tongues

hat had waited so long to meet each other

longing has a flavour

and its taste was each other’s skin

I need this to mean the same to you as it does to me

so the whole thing doesn’t seem solipsistic

But what use is that now?

as I’ve already played witness in a trail

that has passed its verdict

And how imperfect is memory anyway?

A cherry-picker that picks only the most palatable fruits

that imbues the past with present feeling

then presents it as a timeless truth

that clasps hope as closely

as a refugee his only possession

in the belief that it will somehow keep him afloat in unknown waters

it won’t

So if I can let go of you now

perhaps

I have a chance at swimming to shore

Here to peddle my wares. I’m a WordPress-based web-builder; cook – not chef; lover of the outdoors come snow or high sunshine; writer of words that are better heard spoken.

I’ll build you a pretty site and write it. I’ll cook you what you want to be cooked and match it with what you want to get drunk on. I’ll try and tell where you should go in the mountains, and why you should damn-well do so. I’ll (try) to speak about what you might not want to hear, in a way you might bare to hear it.

First things first…

Before one tackles this dish, one needs something to listen to, and to drink. A late afternoon spent in one’s kitchen, away from the earth, its people and their varying degrees of bullshit, is a little pleasure. So if you ingurgitate some good booze and musics, then it will be a bigger pleasure.

This is what I’d drink and listen to as I cook this sauce. And probably while I scoff it, too. And there is reason for both, other than me being a ponce.

Drink Westvleteren 12 – so what if it’s the world’s rarest beer

 

This beer is exceptional not because of its rarity [though you can’t ignore the fact that as you, or your sleeve-tattooed  beer-dealer, have to drive to their monastery in Belgium to collect it, it gives it a certain prestige].

No. It’s the unbelievable depth of flavour with a refreshing edge. As opposed to pretty much any other Trappist beer, it hasn’t got that treacly texture that can be a bit much – sometimes a little too similar to Special Brew. Westvleteren 12 sits lighter and more refreshingly in the gob.

The flavour? Ooosh. It’s like rich Black Forest and dark chocolate gâteau. So it goes perfectly with the earthy flavor of the morel, and stands up against cream, and the richness of Marsala. Chances are you’ll be smothering this stuff on beef or duck. Guess what – this beer goes with them too.

Listen to Johnny Flynn – especially this:

If you haven’t seen the Detectorists. Do. Like, now. It’s everything that is gentle and kind and silly. Subtle and well observed. The title song by Johnny Flynn just goes with the feeling that comes from woodland and mushrooms and foraging; of the quaint eccentricities of the British. So does a great deal more of his work. Put on his first album Larum. Lilting guitar patterns and a soft-gruff voice. Yes.

Morel & Marsala sauce – Whatcha need

So… I’m not particularity bothered by specifics when it comes cooking – I believe a shit-tonne is a legitimate unit of measurement. However, morels are pretty expensive, so I’ll try and be a bit more thorough with them.

This recipe should be enough for about 6 people. It is to be lavished over either rare duck breast or beef steak. Or for you wonderful veggies, Chicken of the Woods (very seasonal, but hey!). I’ll give a little on the best way to cook ’em after the main event….

Watcha do with it all:

1. In a deep saucepan, melt the butter on a gentle heat. Add the shallot and garlic. Cook with compassion until all nice and soft-like.
2. Turn up to a medium-high heat. Add the morel with the care they deserve. When everything’s ah-cracking and browning (but not burning), add the Marsala. It may may well ignite. In fact, it’s worth trying to do so yourself to hurry it all along. When the flames have subsided, turn heat back down to medium.
3. Add some of the stock, maybe 200ml. Reduce for about 5 mins.
4. Add the cream, maybe about 200ml. Season well, especially with pepper. Reduce for 10 mins. Make sure you’re on a low heat!
5. Now it’s time to evaluate. Taste it. See how much sauce may be there after further reduction. Drink some of your absurdly obscure beer. Relish the alt-folk genius of Johnny… This is where you can start adding things if needed – If it’s too watery, add more cream; if it’s too creamy add more stock; not sweet-rich enough, add more Marsala; not enough depth, put a little chocolate in… Remember though, this is a celebration of the Morel, don’t destroy its unique flavour. 
6. Now it’s time to lavish it all over some beef or duck breast… Se ma recommendations below

For Duck:

– Score fat and season, maybe a pinch of fresh thyme.

– On a red-hot pan or griddle, with a little oil, place skin down. Then place grease-proof paper over the flesh side and weigh down with a heavy pan. This will crisp up the skin.

– Check the skin after about 3 mins, to check it isn’t burning, either turn or cook for longer depending on crispness. Whence turned, cook for at least 2 mins on the other side, going up exponentially in minutes depending on how you like it. Though no more than it takes for medium rare. If you want medium, you’re just wrong.

For steak:

– Season stake

– Place on a red-hot pan or griddle.

– Turn every 30 seconds to get an equal cook

– Do this until the steak is coated in golden brown, but in full knowledge that just below it is red as the day it was slaughtered.

– Medium Rare is barely acceptable. Medium or above is a crime.

– Even though that blatant stock image has rosemary next to the meat, I’d maybe garnish with some fresh thyme. Tarragon goes very well with the beef/morel combo, it’s a pretty unique lemon/aniseed flavour. Make sure you like it or you will have ruined everything.

Now, smother that sauce all over it. Serve it up with some good roasties, some steamed tender-stem broccoli, or blanched and pan fried asparagus… Then put it in your face.

Here to peddle my wares. I’m a WordPress-based web-builder; cook – not chef; lover of the outdoors come snow or high sunshine; writer of words that are better heard spoken.

I’ll build you a pretty site and write it. I’ll cook you what you want to be cooked and match it with what you want to get drunk on. I’ll try and tell where you should go in the mountains, and why you should damn-well do so. I’ll (try) to speak about what you might not want to hear, in a way you might bare to hear it.