The Good Life
Confound their politicks
Pamela Vandyke Price
Aristotle would have been balked by me. For I am a wholly unpolitical animal. But indeed, was Aristotle gastronomic? And as everyone has got to have enough in their stomachs to enable them to become political — if they so wish — I can cheerfully sustain the sneers of friends when I confuse cabinet ministers with Test cricketers, policies with perversions; it's for me to say whether they are going to get a drink and/ or my version of scrambled eggs. (For which, internationally famous names in the scrolls of la cuisine have begged, kindly note.) What with this political-un wanting-to-know-ness and BBC pronunciation, I am quite accustomed to confusing guerrillas and gorillas. But occasionally even I get a bit of political grit in my mental wheels. So while dressing for a party and listening to the news (in case people talked about boring current events), I was astonished and delighted to hear that terrorists had 'struck.' How wise, I thought, for such persons to strike. How sincerely I hoped that their example would be followed by all those who cluttee up gastronomic progress — income tax and VAT personnel, trade union officials (odd, isn't it, that they don't practise what they invoke?), traffic wardens, putterson of plastic bottle capsules, and every single descendant of Alberich, Mime and those malefactors of the gut who are engaged in the plastifying of the sliced farinaceous matter that many poor — and, doubtless, politically acute — persons refer to as 'bread.'
Alas, I'd got the terrorists wrong. They, like others referred to in that regrettably outmoded verse of the national anthem, will pursue their 'knavish tricks' twenty-six hours a day, ten days a seven-day week, so that those of us who strive to march on our
stomachs are continually reminded that the doctrine of original sin may have something in it.
But as the disruption of life, whether one is simply trying to go on working, or indulging in political extravaganzas, does require that people should be kept going somehow (they are much more of a nuisance and expense to the community otherwise), here is a recipe for a delectable soup that I evolved after I'd turned off a party political broadcast (poor articulation, voice dropped at ends of phrases, weak grammar, too much 'knocking copy,' far too many abstract nouns, and nothing that couldn't and shouldn't have been said in four sentences of easily assimilated syllables). My two constant readers will know that I am intermittently fascinated by the cauliflower; this may be because it sprang to life in one of the most delightful villages of Cyprus, and also because some of my most authoritative gastronomic friends seem to regard it slightly de haut en bas — and doll it up when they do give it any space.
This soup is good hot or cold, and is sufficiently 'stick to the ribs' to be useful for those electioneering, as well as people' just liking a comforting plateful. It can
be augmented with chopped hardboiled egg, grated cheese, crumbled crisped bacon, toasted almonds or peanuts if you need added protein; trimmings of croutons, chopped peppers, cucumber, tomatoes and onions, as with a gazpacho, if you are serving it cold and being 'polite.' The only possible disadvantage about this soup is that it can be slightly flatulent. But doesn't it therefore merit the name of Political Cream?
Steam or pressure-cook a medium-sized cauliflower for four to six servings. There should be about pint of water in the pressure cooker; if you use a steamer, keep the same amount of water. Put the cauliflower and the water through a sieve, or blend in a liquidiser, add salt, pepper, a grind of nutmeg, a few drops of Angostura Aromatic Bitters, what I'd describe as a dollop (about a tablespoonful or slightly more) of dry white wine, the juice of half a lemon and a dessertspoonful of chopped parsley. Then add 2 cartons of soured cream. If the soup seems too thick, thin it with white wine rather than milk or water. The 'sour-sweet' flavour is refreshing as well as satisfying, and if you want to make a 'meal in a mug,' toast rounds of French bread rubbed with garlic, spread them with a little Marmite, cover with grated cheese and heat under a grill, before floating them on the soup. This panders to the 'boats in bath' tendency in us all and if you and your guests (or canvassers) need hotting up, you can add a little paprika, cayenne or curry powder as well.
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