In some ways this is nice; it’s a little trip down memory lane. But in other ways it’s actually slightly scary: the amount of sentiment stored up in what is, at root, junk, is pretty impressive. Of course some of it is good old fashioned false-economy… “Maybe I’ll need that, one day….” One never specifies what contingency might render it necessary to have (say) three feet of sealed-air anti-shock packaging so immediately available that having to order some would constitute personal or professional disaster. But still, there are little tendrils — and let’s get this in perspective, I’m talking about the very tiniest of barely-detectable twinges, not great wracking aches here — of guilt or regret or something like them, wrapped cobweb-like around these things in their places.

I suppose in a way this is like moving. Every time I did it as a kid (plenty, though not obscenely frequently) I felt (in retrospect) the freedom of complete self-reinvention, the discarding of a previous life like an outgrown shell. This is how I came out: on my first day at sixth form, four hundred miles from my comprehensive, I mentioned it in passing, was an object of headline curiosity for a month, and carried on with everything else in life with an iron self-confidence borne of that reinvention. And though I’ve moved since I’ve been in London, it’s always been within the same job, or within West London, or in some way just not really a “proper” move: there has been no sense of daring, with all due love and respect to my former (and brilliant) housemates, no real sense of jumping in the deep end or changing horses.

So perhaps this is my ode to doing something a bit more quotes-unquotes dangerous….

Personally, I spent 8 minutes yelling “ASK HER MORE ABOUT THAT BIT!!!!” at my former self, but hearing her voice again after getting on for 17 years was pretty extraordinary in itself. Thanks I guess are due to whichever of my teachers at Treviglas got me to do it; I suppose it must have been Mr. Firmston (history), but it could equally have been Mrs. Sleep (English).

Anyway, my own personal blast-from-the-past. 1991 or 1992 vintage. I rescued this off tape; how long will an mp3 on the internet last? Makes you feel like a donation to the Wayback Machine, or “rogue archivist” Carl Malamud, or if you like the big picture, the Long Now foundation.

Plymouth in the Blitz

Plymouth in the Blitz

Do yell if this doesn’t work in your browser.

USians will call this a trillion, UKians who’ve been paying attention will have been calling this a trillion since 1974, and all you lovely Europeople will call it a billion.

When I hit refresh, I lost something over £1,000,000,000,000. Trust me, that stung.

For those of you who enjoyed “Tuna and Pasta Bake, Oh My!”, here’s the original from which I shamelessly lifted the idea. And, it turns out, some of the phrasing — though I hadn’t even seen it for about three years when I wrote. Weird, eh? Must be the urbane genius of the original. Note also my mangling of the original title — apologies.

This recipe is copyright Tom Witney.

Lesson 1: Scrambled Toast.

For this simple, yet time consuming, snack you will need:

one sandwich toaster (I find that geriatric ones work best for this
recipe)
4 slices of bread
some of that marvellous low fat olive spread
fillings of your choice

The first thing to do is to make sure that you clean the sandwich toaster
thoroughly using plenty of detergent. We don’t want any nasty grease do
we?!

The next step is to decide on which fillings you want to use. My
favourites are mozzerella, sun dried tomatoes, olives, parmesan, fresh
basil leaves, lime and coriander. (If you’re common don’t
worry. I’ve heard that mild cheddar and HP sauce work wonderfully.)

Now we’re ready to start cooking. Take your 4 slices of bread, I always
make sure I use fresh granary – it gives a lovely nutty flavour, and
spread thinly with some low fat olive spread. (Again, the common people
reading need not fret. Sunblest and lard work just as well I’ve been
told.)

When the sandwich toaster is good and hot, put in the bread spread side
down and assemble the fillings. Close the toaster and leave until the
cheese has melted and the bread is thoroughly welded into the toaster.

Taking care to burn yourself several times, laboriously scrape the bread
and fillings from the toaster and arrange on a plate using a sharp knife.
If you do it properly this can take up to half an hour!

When you’ve scraped all you can, you should find yourself with a plate of
slightly cheesy breadcrumbs and a knackered sandwich toaster. Delicious!
Leave the toaster to soak overnight, then attempt to chip the rest of the
cheese from the cooking surface. Spend a good hour or two over this.
Then throw the damned thing away!

Unfortunately this meal only serves one, but it makes a marvellous starter
at dinner parties (Common people: you can stop reading this now and go
back to The Sun crossword). Make your guests the toast in the usual way in
individual sandwich toasters. Serve hot and still in the toaster. Your
guests can experience the frustration and anger themselves as they try and
scrape the remains of their dinner from the awkward corners!

Enjoy! And remember. The time consuming nature of this dish makes it
ideal for times when you’re really busy. Like exam term perhaps.

Next week: Delia shows us how to burn eggs!

1. To pack, simply sort through your belongings and throw 50% of them out, until you have twice what you started with
2. Whilst packing, you will suddenly remember your favourite shirt/blouse/t-shirt and, despite not having thrown a single piece of clothing out for the last 20 years, will be utterly unable to find it
3. You will make a careful and concise list of what goes into each box, and will label each box clearly with its own unique code. Even as you are doing this, you know with a chilling insight that your list will be wrong and the boxes will somehow arrive unlabelled.
4. As you unpack the contents of your previous studio flat into your new 12 bed semi in Berkshire, you will realise rapidly that there isn’t enough space for all your stuff.
5. If, upon unpacking, you actually look at anything as you take it out, you will think that at least 50% of it could be thrown out, and will wonder why you didn’t do that before you moved
6. All of this will be uppermost in your mind while you are in the process of moving. Having moved, it will settle back down in your mind with other interesting facts you don’t use every day (how to programme the video-tape recorder, which FM frequency Radio 4 is found on in Cheltenham, and the fact that my phone number when I was seven was “Weasenham St. Peter 306″, I kid you not) and in consequence you will approach your next move with a happy-go-lucky and inordinately perilous sense of impending success.
7. Estate agents cannot tell “up” from “down”, “front” from “back” nor, I suspect, in some cases, “arse” from “elbow”

“Like the Murphy’s, I’m not bitter.”

I promise faithfully to get out more.

Beetroot Tagliatelle

8 fresh beetroot
1 cinnamon stick
1 tbsp olive oil
2 shallots, chopped
1 garlic glove, crushed
125ml/4fl oz white wine
250ml/8fl oz chicken stock
250ml/8fl oz soured cream
1 tbsp chopped fresh dill
1 tbsp horseradish cream from a jar
400g/13oz fresh tagliatelle, cooked according to packet instructions
salt and freshly ground black pepper
parmesan, shaved into strips, to serve

Method
1. Boil the beetroot on the hob because the oven’s broken. Make sure there are too many beetroot to fit in the pot so that you spend all your time wiping the stove rather than fixing CruiseControl which you broke earlier. Remember half way through cooking that you spent £1.11 on 3 cinnamon sticks and had better chuck one in the pot.
2. Wipe the stove some more, wait for beetroot to cool, discover beetroot smell is quite pungent, even for a congested nose – open window
3. Peel & chop the beetroot into pieces that are slightly too large. Burn hands and notice red staining, rinse under cold tap for five minutes using soap intermittently.
4. Turn (electric) hob back on at full volume, then start chopping your shallots and garlic. Add to stinking hot pan oil, shallots, garlic and watch it sizzle and burn
5. Add stock. Pour 250ml of white wine into glass which previously had stock. Realise recipe only asks for 125ml. Oh well. Boil and simmer until anxiety increases by half
6. Add sour cream, don’t worry about dill. Throw in a tablespoon and a half of horseradish for good measure
7. Serve badly, seemingly ignoring presentation, realise you’ve forgotten the parmesan. Serve with a large glass of white wine for you and your companion(s) and two more bottles in the fridge.
8. Knock over a full glass of ginger ale resting on the floor from earlier. Spend 10 minutes mopping up.
10. Enjoy cold pasta with tepid sauce.
11. Discover you have beeturia.