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Awful August
When I was young and could eat with impunity, I was rather fond of fish and chips, but the occasion had to be right. I think even the best chefs (well, Jamie Oliver anyway) will say that in the right circumstances, fish and chips are a great meal.
These days however, the old chips and fish is a very rare meal for me, but tonight was special. In my experience, the best way to eat fish and chips is walking home after work on a cold, miserable winter's night. Just like tonight was. The warmth of the white-wrapped bundle, the luxuriousness of the perfect chip, cooled slightly by a westerly gale, is all brilliant.
I chose couta tonight as my fish of choice. This is a small member of the barracuda family, strongly flavoured and cheap, because it can't be easily filleted and so is about the only fish served at the fish and chipperies that comes with bones. But they are big bones that you can suck the flesh off and then throw in the gutter, leaving a satisfying trail of bones and appreciative stray cats in your wake.
I live 50 minutes walk from work, which takes me along the docks where there are many fish punts that sell fresh fish as well as fish and chips straight off the work boats. It was already dark, very windy and with a little rain falling as I left work and made my choice from the available vendors. For $5 (about 1/10th the cost of a restaurant meal, sans wine) I had a fabulous feed, and had the added joy of seeing the faces of cold and jealous fellow pedestrians as they caught a whiff of my meal and saw the look of bliss on my face as I walked along munching perfect chips (made from the finest Tasmanian Sebago spuds if I'm not mistaken) and wolfing down a wonderful bit of Aussie marine life.
I even felt superior to the dolled-up socialites attending some gala Amnesty International function at the concert hall, whose car park I wandered through, one sleeve rolled up to protect my work clothes from the grease as I plunged elbow deep into the wrapper to get the last, salty crispy chips and the odd morsel of fish that had fallen off on the way to my gob.
Normally I'm not much of a salt fan, never adding it to anything, nor cooking with it, but just occasionally I get a salt craving - usually an indication that I've been eating too much rabbit food and not enough fatty, salty, yummy stuff. Tonight I assuaged the craving in magnificent style.
I finished my meal just as I approached the Awful Dread. This is a steep hill at the end of my walk home, and a capital 'B' beast of climbing for a tired worker at the end of a long day. It's 201 uneven steps up the side of a steep hill followed by an equivalent distance of steep hill climb without the steps. In the morning I walk down this hill - if all goes well that is. Lately it's been more of a hobble as my knees protest most strongly at the pounding, then in the evening my calfs and quads go out in solidarity with the knees. It's one of those bastard hills I never quite manage to tame, no matter how fit I am (or think I am). The challenge and the endorphin buzz at the top are great, but it's one of those hills that force you to concentrate on the task at hand. I've not yet got to the top without the hill imposing itself somehow, and it always leaves me dripping with sweat on even the coldest day.
It, or perhaps rather, some seriously fit people there also make me feel very inadequate. A (very) few people actually run up this monster, the worst of them being an under-15 netball team I stumbled upon one day, being forced by their tyrannical and monstrous coach to run the thing several times. What killed me were the number of girls claiming the run up to be "easier" than they had feared. No sad, middle-aged ogling from me then - it was pure hatred.
Bastards. No wonder I hate netball.
At least - and this is significant for me - I actually, for the first time in months, ran down the Awful Dread this morning. Not much of a feat perhaps, but for me it means my knees are coming good again. Either the cartilege has repaired itself or I now have sufficient muscle tone to take the pressure of the bone crunching descent - either way it was a great improvement and a real thrill for me. A small measure of progress, but as brilliant as tonight's fish and chips were.
Anyways, I gots home and polished off a beer and jumped on here and thought I'd write this ponderous, pretentious, self-indulgent piece of nothingness because, well for no real reason than I feel good about it.
Either that or I could have had another beer.
Doh! :mad:
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Awful August
