Christmas, Osama Bin Laden and the Humble Brussels Sprout

When it comes to totally pointless traditions us Brits have surely cornered the market. Morris Dancing, The Queen and the Christmas Day Brussels Sprout are just a smattering of things that we continually humour with seemingly little thought to their merit.

But that's the point of tradition isn't it ? It doesn't need any justification because by its very nature a tradition is something we do without question - that's the way its always done. That's why abolishing the monarchy and the Christmas Day Brussels Sprout is unthinkable - they are part of the idiosyncratic fabric of this little island we call Britannia - they are things that make us, well, us.

That's not to say tradition doesn't occasionally need a face lift ... The Queen has taken to using public transport these days and I could swear there is a hint of purple rinse going on too, but what of revamping the humble sprout ?

Thought of with about as much affection as the smell they produce halfway through the Eastenders Christmas Special the Brussels Sprout only seems to rear its bulbous little head once a year in my house. I don't think its inherently evil as vegetables go but years of systematic torture at the hands of amateur cooks now ranks it alongside Osama Bin Laden as guest least welcome at a dinner party.

For that reason this week I'm resurrecting our little friend with an incredible recipe I put together using wine, herbs, garlic and pine nuts. I'm going to eat them while I watch the Queen's speech today and if the worst comes to the worst, well, I can always blame it on the dog ...

Merry Christmas everyone !

X

P.S. Morris Dancing is deeply sinister and is one tradition we can definitely do without ... ;-)

Einstein, the Exorcist and the Theory of Marmite

Einstein once said “the definition of madness is to try the same thing over and over again in the belief that next time you will get a different result”. If that’s the case then I must be totally off my rocker.

For year’s now I have periodically wandered through my local supermarket believing that one day I will buy a pot of Marmite, take it home and ravage with the same gusto that a libidinous Jack Russell usually takes to its owner’s leg. Not a chance. Last time I ascended on this flight of fancy my head didn’t actually spin 360 degrees but pretty much everything else remained faithful to a scene from The Exorcist.

But I want to like Marmite. I want to like it in the same way that I wanted to like olives and Guinness and beer as a child. As with all of these things its about that mysterious concept of “acquired taste”…but why the hell would we train, nay, force ourselves to like something that initially made our gills go green ? Maybe I am alone on this one but that’s certainly what I did with a number of foods growing up as a child. They just looked good even if my taste buds were telling me quite the opposite. And so I persevered until one day I liked them…and now inexplicably I love them !

I suppose a simple explanation is that we don’t acquire the taste at all, rather our palette matures such that one day we are struck by the gustatory epiphany of actually liking our former nemesis.

With that in mind this week I have decided to make another ascension of my personal Mount Sinai in the hope that I too will see my ethereal pot of burning Marmite. I’m not going to run before I can walk though so rather than eat the stuff in its unadulterated form I’m making Marmite Cheese on Toast with Red Onion Marmalade…

Tell me if you love it…or even if you hate it ;-)