Can there ever be anything more English than rare roast rib of beef? It is after all St George's day on which I'm proud to champion my roots and celebrate an identity that can be much maligned but is every bit as legitimate as others. True we are all British, and for a little while longer European. The battle to celebrate our day and our flag and rescue it from people of hate who espouse hatred and attacks on others different to themselves. The world seems full of hate. So on this day I will celebrate peace, relaxation and kindness to others by the only way I know how; through food.
Tonight Sarah is coming round. The potatoes are roasting away. I will sear the beef of both sides then roast for half an hour or so then rest. With luck a beautiful rare joint will ensue. Whilst we are gaining quite a reputation for fine white wine and fizz, red is not our forte. So I will go to my old friend Spain and drink a hearty Rioja.
Already people are lining up for what is left. My colleague Sue will be getting some. Some may go home with Sarah. And some to the pub. What's left for me will go into a Vietnamese pho.
The long weekend is over. A week of tragedy in Paris and Sri Lanka has shocked the world. There have been so many shocks over the last years I feel not as compassionate as I could be. Well perhaps not not compassionate just powerless to do anything about it.
If there are two things that mar my battle with mental health it is insomnia and powerlessness. That terrible combination. Yet today you find me more at ease, less anxious and feeling more stable than for a few weeks.
On that note I must leave you and tend to my cooking. See you soon.
I Heard a Voice.
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