Best thing since…

Bread

Who will save me from this misery?

Today is the birthday of Otto Frederick Rohwedder, born 1880 and went on to become a famous American inventor.  Don’t recognize the name?  He invented the automatic bread slicing, and wrapping machine.  Yes folks this is the man who changed the English language forever.  Before he came on the scene all you could say was that it was the best thing since……bread.

This bread I break; by Dylan Thomas

This bread I break was once the oat,
this wine upon a foreign tree
plunged in its fruit;
Man in the day or wine at night
laid the crops low, broke the grape’s joy.

Once in this time wine the summer blood
knocked in the flesh that decked the vine,
once in this bread
the oat was merry in the wind;
Man broke the sun, pulled the wind down.

This flesh you break, this blood you let
make desolation in the vein,
were oat and grape
born of the sensual root and sap;
My wine you drink, my bread you snap.

Hymn to Ninkasi

Beer

One of the oldest pieces of literature we have is the Sumerian Hymn to Ninkasi.  It is a hymn but it is also a recipe.  It is an instruction on how to make beer.

In a pre-literate society poetry, song and prayer were all useful mnemonic forms.  Encoding a recipe in a prayer makes it into a duty.   The woman of the house is bound to supply her husband with his daily bread and beer.

The beer in question was not a sparkling Czech Pilzner lager.  It probably looked more like a bowl of porridge.  Still, beer is beer, and beer is the oldest drink made by mankind.  Made by womankind more like.  In primitive tribal societies it falls to the women to make the bread and the beer.

The archaeological record demonstrates that the arrival of farming led to arthritis in knees and hips, elbows and wrists, particularly for women.  They spent a good part of every day on hands and knees with a quern stone grinding wheat and barley.

The men became priests and were clever enough to turn the production of Bread and Beer into religious duties.  That made a reluctant wife into a blasphemer.  It was a control mechanism to keep women in line.

However if its’s blasphemy you want deny beer to a poet.  The pen is mightier than the sword and hell hath no fury like a thirsty poet.

 

A Glass of Beer ; by James Stephens

The lanky hank of a she in the inn over there
nearly killed me for asking the loan of a glass of beer:
may the devil grip the whey-faced slut by the hair
and beat bad manners out of her skin for a year.

That parboiled imp, with the hardest jaw you will ever see
on virtue’s path, and a voice that would rasp the dead,
came roaring and raging the minute she looked at me,
and threw me out of the house on the back of my head.

If I asked her master he’d give me a cask a day;
but she with the beer at hand, not a gill would arrange!
May she marry a ghost and bear him a kitten and may
the high king of glory permit her to get the mange.

 

 

New food from old

Playing around with Christmas leftovers today.  I invented some kind of potato, stuffing and bacon fritter thingy.

I had a lot of mashed potato left over, and some roast ones.  I chopped the roast potatoes very small and mixed them with the mash.  Then I mixed in leftover bread stuffing.  A bit of self-raising flour to help bind it, and an egg.  Finally some finely chopped Christmas ham.

Mix it together, roll it out in a sheet.  Cut it into bite size squares.  Heat a baking tray in the oven with oil and butter.  When it is hot pop the fritters on the tray and bake until golden brown.  Turn over and make sure they are golden on both sides.

I do this a lot with just mashed potato, or potato with cheese.  I am calling these Post-Christmas Potato Cakes.

Biscuits and Milk

Turkish Tanks

My brain is taking a duvet day.  It is a time for me to sit down and eat some biscuits and drink some milk.  It’s just that nobody is giving me biscuits and milk.  When I say I need biscuits and milk they look at me funny.  They don’t know what I am talking about.

Walt Whitman used biscuits and milk the way Jesus used bread and wine.  Simple grounding staples of our society.  Foods that bring the ego and the id closer together and nourish me, who I am, myself.

In Freudian psychology the dream state is envisaged as a time when the id floats free and projects away from the physical world.  In this projected state it can interact, through dreams, with the pre-conscious layer of the mind, the buffer zone between the sealed unconscious and the waking conscious state.

Think of ISIS as the unconscious state, we really have no idea what is going on there in ISIS.  What do those guys want?  It is a dark and scary place.

So, the Turkish Border, with the Patton tanks lined up on the hill, that is the Conscious state,  hard, grounded, real, factual.

The Kurds in Kobani are like the Id, floating freely in the pre-conscious, wishing they could wake up to the sound of Turkish Tanks firing shells at ISIS.  In Kobani the Kurds want security, safety, surety (good alliteration kiddo).  They want biscuits and milk.  Breakfast food.  Simple, uncomplicated, bland, plain breakfast food.  They want to get their heads together.

Now do you understand?  I don’t actually want you to put a plate of biscuits and a glass of milk in front of me!  I am not hungry for food.  I just need to get it together in my mind.  So when someone asks for Biscuits and Milk, give them a bit of space.

Song of Myself; by Walt Whitman
Stanza 46
I know I have the best of time and space, and was never measured and never will be measured.

I tramp a perpetual journey, (come listen all!)
My signs are a rain-proof coat, good shoes, and a staff cut from the woods,
No friend of mine takes his ease in my chair,
I have no chair, no church, no philosophy,
I lead no man to a dinner-table, library, exchange,
But each man and each woman of you I lead upon a knoll,
My left hand hooking you round the waist,
My right hand pointing to landscapes of continents and the public road.

Not I, not any one else can travel that road for you,
You must travel it for yourself.

It is not far, it is within reach,
Perhaps you have been on it since you were born and did not know,
Perhaps it is everywhere on water and on land.

Shoulder your duds dear son, and I will mine, and let us hasten forth,
Wonderful cities and free nations we shall fetch as we go.

If you tire, give me both burdens, and rest the chuff of your hand on my hip,
And in due time you shall repay the same service to me,
For after we start we never lie by again.

This day before dawn I ascended a hill and look’d at the crowded heaven,
And I said to my spirit When we become the enfolders of those orbs, and the pleasure and knowledge of every thing in them, shall we be fill’d and satisfied then?
And my spirit said No, we but level that lift to pass and continue beyond.

You are also asking me questions and I hear you,
I answer that I cannot answer, you must find out for yourself.

Sit a while dear son,
Here are biscuits to eat and here is milk to drink,
But as soon as you sleep and renew yourself in sweet clothes, I kiss you with a good-by kiss and open the gate for your egress hence.

Long enough have you dream’d contemptible dreams,
Now I wash the gum from your eyes,
You must habit yourself to the dazzle of the light and of every moment of your life.

Long have you timidly waded holding a plank by the shore,
Now I will you to be a bold swimmer,
To jump off in the midst of the sea, rise again, nod to me, shout, and laughingly dash with your hair.