Frooty

I cooked today.
That’s not really true.
I threw a load of stuff in the slow cooker, fucked off, and left it to it.
It had Lamb, apricots, pine nuts, 8 whole cloves of garlic, a load of spices I considered ‘North African‘ and a carton of sieved tomatoes. It nearly had prunes, until I realised I wasn’t quite sure what a ‘Prune’ was.
I know it’s a dried something or other, but a dried ‘what,’ I’m not sure.
The picture on the packet didn’t shed any light either, if fact it showed something vaguely testicular.
They were slung back in the cupboard.
Housemate consensus is that they are plums. Which, again, directs my mind to the testicular.
So, I’m glad I didn’t use them.
I also roasted a load of garlic and spuds in some fennel and lime rind.
It turned out surprisingly well.
Food always makes me think of my family.

My Great Grandmother also lived in the house I grew up in.
She had her own room on the ground floor. Her trick was to grab you in from a game of; ‘running down the hall and sliding on your knees or socks, as hard as possible with out hitting a door’. This was achieved by turning and trying to run back the way you have just come as you passed the end of the radiator.
If you got it wrong you’d end up perilously close to her door.
Her timing was uncanny, she would open her door and you’d slide right in before you could stop yourself.
The door would be shut in a flash, leaving your siblings and cousins pissing themselves on the other side.

She was lovely but her room smelled funny and was quite dark.
Bright light hurt her eyes. So if she came out, she wore a green visor thing, like card dealers in 30’s and 40’s movies.
Cracks me up when I think about it now, then, it was the most normal thing in the world.
Our job was to look on the floor for dropped hairgrips and coins.

Payment was in Newberry Fruits and slices of apple smothered in sugar.
She had an antique sugar shaker. Glass body with an ornate silver top.
Her eyesight being crap and the room in semi-darkness she couldn’t see it coming out.
Being a practical woman, she picked up a fork and stabbed the fucking shit out of it, ripping the holes bigger.
Some refugee relative had carried it a 1000 miles from one of the ‘old countries’, wedged in the crack of their arse.
Or something like that.
My Nan went mental!
At ME!
The 7 year old, just coming up on an e number rush, was supposed to stop the 95 year old, who had survived pogroms and the Blitz, from savaging solid silver with a fork.
Unlikely!
I think I clapped a bit and said, ‘Crikey Nanny!’

Aaaah, the good old days of additive frenzies and sugar rushes….
I can still go clubbing on just a bag of Tutti Frutti’s thanks to this woman!