Post-Cooking in a Post-Truth World

We have entered an Orwellian post truth era where facts and figures are irrelevant and this zeitgeist has taken over my cooking and lifestyle.

I don’t follow recipes, make shopping lists or even plan Christmas, instead I just chuck stuff in a pan which I’ve picked up randomly and hope for the best. Not like a child would with chocolate/tomatoes/banana but more looking at a few ingredients which go together and making something tasty. Over the festive season I briefly endeavoured to canvass family opinion and noted that all parties clamoured for different things and I ultimately purchased the required turkey/goose/panettone/mince pies when I saw them in a discounter. Seasonal “cooking” Champagne was not a military operation, with scouting and numerous skirmishes culminating in a final battle royale; it was whatever happened to be cheapest in one of the supermarkets [this year Tesco].

I hanker for the end of elitist cooking blah Great British Menu/Masterchef et al and long for the  return of everyman acceptable meh that is Ready, Steady, Cook which is actually what most people do when they get home and open the fridge. Especially as we are all skint. Cobbling together is new meticulous planning and a big silicon spoon is the new tweezers. Everything is cooked in a wok.

Even Olive varietals are not obsessed over [except my disgust of dyed black], I mostly consume plain green Manzanilla or plain black Kalamata, preferably pitted for easier eating and cooking cooking preparation.

Some five years ago I wrote dreamily about Sicily [I only know because I reference the arrival of my daughter and she is now nearly six], last Autumn I finally made it over for the Nocellara harvest and found it to be...OK. The highlights were 1. an amazing Dentex which I ate almost all of even though it was the last course of a huge lunch [we more or less emptied the “fishing boat” display at the entrance to the restaurant], 2. top shelf artisanal mezcal [a great match for supersweet Sicilian sugary desserts] and 3. a smiley olive farmer amongst his stunning groves.

As the orange candy floss hair thing prepares to take over the “free” world this seems to be an appropriate final post-everything vignette; 2017 rings in, I am [as usual] watching Apocalypse Now Redux in my shorts with the heating turned up, filled to the gills with strongest red wine [doesn't matter which], The End by The Doors incessantly looping in my head, and Marlon Brando reciting from T.S Elliott's the Wasteland; "the horror, the horror". The End.

ironic [P in] P.S.  just as i had decided I was done with Sicily and done with food I came across a sweet Citron [one of the four orginal members of the citrus family] and realise this was not the End or even the beginning of the End, merely the End of the beginning.