Porridge

                                                                                         Italian Bistros
 

 

Dear reader,

Apparently Russian soldiers used a Slavic word pronounced  like "bystry" which means 'quick' or 'hurry' to demand that their food be produced as soon as possible.  The term stuck and restaurants that served simple food quickly became known as bistros.

The food served in bistros is typically simple, but delicious. The focus is on quality rather than quantity.  This means that the portions are usually smaller but the flavors intense. Bistros typically serve a variety of French-inspired dishes, such as salads, soup and bread.

The difference between a bistro and a brasserie is that while both establishments offer some of the best examples of French cuisine, bistros are more commonly associated with a casual ambiance and smaller menus, while brasseries feature a wider selection of food and extended hours.

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Easter Day today.  We went to church which was looking lovely, masses of spring flowers and moss.  Easter Day is my favourite in the Christian calendar.  I think the Christian story is such an amazing one. Jesus Christ rising from the tomb and bringing hope and love and forgiveness to us all. I took communion which I haven't done for five years, and it was a beautiful return especially thinking about Christ's words at the Last Supper.   "Take, eat this is my body which is given to you....."

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From Gilbert White   March 31st 1768 in Hampshire

'Black weather.  Cucumber fruit swells.  Rooks sit.  This day the dry weather has lasted a month.'

From Gilbert White   March 31st  1771 in Hampshire

'The face of the earth naked to a surprising degree.  Wheat hardly to be seen, and no signs of any grass:  turnips all gone, and sheep in a starving way.  All provisions rising in price.   Farmers cannot sow for want of rain.'

From Richard Jefferies  March31st 1880 in Surrey

'Rain at last weeks of the driest weather.  Rain in night and early morning.'

 

 

Porridge

The kitchen maid

plunges thin white arms

into the heavy cast-iron pot,

scours the glutinous porridge

from its insides.

She imagines her mistress

out in her carriage

on pleasure calls,

wearing lilac silk,

freshwater pearls around her neck,

her hands, idle white, in her lap.

She weeps.

 

The housewife scours the saucepan,

eases the porridge from its sides,

brushes the sticky mess into the sink.

She imagines her husband

taking the train, office-bound,

making important telephone calls,

lunching with partners Lucy and George

in that Italian bistro, discussing deals,

drinking white wine, laughing, living.

She weeps.

 

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With very best wishes, Patricia

 

 

 

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