When announcing a visit to Britain, one of the first comments an American will make is a grave warning of the many dangers the unprepared visitor will encounter. This may include, but not be limited to: rain, fog, knives, NEDs, socialism, and black pudding. While these dangers all exist, I knew Britain had more to offer than perils to my dry clothes and capitalistic upbringing. Consequently, I went on a mission to unearth this jewel of a culture and decided to tackle one of Britain’s most negative stereotypes: its food. (I will admit – I was also trying to disprove my fiancé’s negative stereotype of my culinary capabilities following a recent smoky upset in my own kitchen. The fire detectors only went off twice, and despite the small flames, not even worth mentioning, the oven still works. Needless to say, however, I had a reputation to save). I found my chance after a girls’ night out with my friend Christina, who lives in Glasgow. The following morning I discovered Christina in a rush to get ready for her cousin’s wedding.
In an effort to help and to reclaim dignity, I begged, “Please, let me cook breakfast!” But apparently local fire reports had reached international tabloids, and Christina hesitated.
“Oh, no… no, you don’t need to cook! We could have a professional make it… and not have the Glasgow Fire Deputies on standby.”
With time pressing for Christina to get ready, however, I managed to successfully convince her that my culinary skills had only flourished from every failed experience. (Isn’t it funny how, in a girl’s mind, makeup always trumps food?). Rushing down to the Tesco Express, we grabbed what Christina told me were the bare essentials of a “small Scottish fry-up”: eggs, bacon, sausage, toast, beans, and haggis (a lovely blend of sheep innards and herbs, mashed to a pulp and served with just about anything fried in pounds of cooking oil).
The mountain of food and the pressure to impress a native was a bit alarming, but the challenge had been set. I couldn’t have argued anyways because Christina had long since run away to start the arduous hair and makeup duties. I was on my own in a kitchen with zero adult supervision. It only took 10 minutes to discover that the stovetops were gas and required matches to be lit, and another 5 adrenaline-pumping minutes of discovering the “whoosh!” sound of starting a gas stovetop, to my ever-growing amusement. (There’s something exciting about the small element of danger in starting a gas fire. If you turn the ignition on full, the flame could be too small to matter or big enough to singe your eyebrows off. I liked living on the edge of the unknown).
It took another 30 minutes to open a can of beans. Can openers here, it should be stated, are made by the devil. They start off working wonderfully, and then after 3 cm of opening, they completely stop working. I cannot explain this phenomenon, but it happens every time I try opening any can in the UK. (May I say I am quite the expert can-opener back in the States). The small hole taunts you, being not even large enough to fit one small bean through.
As I was fuming about this, Christina walked into the kitchen to check on my progress. What she found was a crazed American screaming at a tin can with scissors in one hand and a sharp paring knife in the other, desperately banging on the lid and denting it into a pathetic, hole-less, blob. Giving a big, annoyed sigh, Christina in one fell swoop reclaimed the sharp weapons in my epic battle against The Beans. She flipped the can over, made 3 sharp clicks with the opener, and rushed back to finish her hair.
Another half hour later, the bountiful brunch was complete. The bacon was crackling, the teapot was whistling, and the sausage was brown (if not a bit black, in some places). However, the encouraging discovery was that it was edible; in fact, it tasted quite good. In that shining moment of triumph, amidst the scattered remnants of my gastronomic battle, I learned a valuable lesson: you will never appreciate British food until you have personally put your sweat and blood (and various metal objects) into a home cooked fry-up of your own.
Oh, and can openers should be left to the professionals.
No comments:
Post a Comment