Pleasures of the Flesh
Now, those lucky people who have graced these pages before might have been aware of my sudden enlightenment in the area of vegetarianism. It’s been a flash in the pan my friends, and that pan is now rapidly filling up with bacon, beef and chicken. Yum.
The first aromas of change came about with my drunken late night flirting with fried chicken. The late night drunken drumsticks and I have been casually seeing each other for a few months now, and this are going well I suppose. We have our little spats, but after a few beers I’m always back, gracing her doorway, a few gold coins in my hand.
Whoa there! I’m going off on some weird chicken love shenanagins. Back to the story at hand. Soon after eating the late night chook, I decided to at least get a little more healthy and buy the chicken myself and cook it. This resulted in simply the best roast chickens, and the best chicken soups... ever.
The rest was down hill. The pork and beef got re-introduced in Poland in glorious fashion. Pierogis, Polish sausage, and other weird delights. Infact I have a large weak spot for Eastern European food at the moment, which has only been compounded by my local shop selling a ton of Polish food. None of the packaging I can read, but I’m slowly making my way through the aisles, much to the delight of the shopkeepers, who I assume think I’m a Polish guy with an incredibly good New Zealand accent.
The latest craving, which I blame squarely on the weather is pies. Back in New Zealand, the humble pie was almost a delicacy. A gas station staple, in some areas of town filled with some gourmet fillings. In some nice pubs, even promoted up to the ladder as a main course. It was all good. The great combonation of fluffy pastry, some steak and gravy, and if you were game, maybe some cheese through it. Still to this day the best steak and cheese pies we’re the little $1 ones you got from Georgie Pie. (Those readers not from New Zealand, will have no idea what I’m on about, but those who are well... you know I’m right.)
Trying to find a decent pie over here is well, like nigh on impossible. The closet I have found (to be honest, I haven’t looked that hard) is the classic pie and mash shop. For a kick off, the pies are tiny, and you eat them upside down. Weirdos. Next is the extras you can get. What is up with jellied eels man! Fuck that, that’s one English tradition I won’t be throwing down my gullet in the future.
The next in line is a little canned treasure that a workmate put me onto. It’s Frey Bentos, pie in a can thingy. (by the way the neither of those subhumans in the Frey Bentos picture is me. Not by a long shot.) To be honest it could use a lot more filling, but, the pastry lid on the filling, when you open the tin, well is nothing short of a stoke of genius, I actually had great pleasure watching that puff pastry rise in the oven, and even more pleasure demolishing it. It’s all good, and a steal at £1.69. I might however start making my own pies, which are to be reckoned with, and have been known to be a handy door stop, a makeshift discus and will make you feel like you are digesting a bowling ball. Funnily enough my pie making days started when I lived in a cold climate for a few years, not dissimilar to London, England. Good old Christchurch, New Zealand.
Tomorrow I will put foward my case for hibernation.
The first aromas of change came about with my drunken late night flirting with fried chicken. The late night drunken drumsticks and I have been casually seeing each other for a few months now, and this are going well I suppose. We have our little spats, but after a few beers I’m always back, gracing her doorway, a few gold coins in my hand.
Whoa there! I’m going off on some weird chicken love shenanagins. Back to the story at hand. Soon after eating the late night chook, I decided to at least get a little more healthy and buy the chicken myself and cook it. This resulted in simply the best roast chickens, and the best chicken soups... ever.
The rest was down hill. The pork and beef got re-introduced in Poland in glorious fashion. Pierogis, Polish sausage, and other weird delights. Infact I have a large weak spot for Eastern European food at the moment, which has only been compounded by my local shop selling a ton of Polish food. None of the packaging I can read, but I’m slowly making my way through the aisles, much to the delight of the shopkeepers, who I assume think I’m a Polish guy with an incredibly good New Zealand accent.
The latest craving, which I blame squarely on the weather is pies. Back in New Zealand, the humble pie was almost a delicacy. A gas station staple, in some areas of town filled with some gourmet fillings. In some nice pubs, even promoted up to the ladder as a main course. It was all good. The great combonation of fluffy pastry, some steak and gravy, and if you were game, maybe some cheese through it. Still to this day the best steak and cheese pies we’re the little $1 ones you got from Georgie Pie. (Those readers not from New Zealand, will have no idea what I’m on about, but those who are well... you know I’m right.)
Trying to find a decent pie over here is well, like nigh on impossible. The closet I have found (to be honest, I haven’t looked that hard) is the classic pie and mash shop. For a kick off, the pies are tiny, and you eat them upside down. Weirdos. Next is the extras you can get. What is up with jellied eels man! Fuck that, that’s one English tradition I won’t be throwing down my gullet in the future.
The next in line is a little canned treasure that a workmate put me onto. It’s Frey Bentos, pie in a can thingy. (by the way the neither of those subhumans in the Frey Bentos picture is me. Not by a long shot.) To be honest it could use a lot more filling, but, the pastry lid on the filling, when you open the tin, well is nothing short of a stoke of genius, I actually had great pleasure watching that puff pastry rise in the oven, and even more pleasure demolishing it. It’s all good, and a steal at £1.69. I might however start making my own pies, which are to be reckoned with, and have been known to be a handy door stop, a makeshift discus and will make you feel like you are digesting a bowling ball. Funnily enough my pie making days started when I lived in a cold climate for a few years, not dissimilar to London, England. Good old Christchurch, New Zealand.
Tomorrow I will put foward my case for hibernation.
posted by Myk at 10:24 AM
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