I've never really known what I wanted to do with my life (and at 35 am unlikely to now have an epiphany) beyond not be very poor nor very bored.
At 14, when I did my "options", I chose a broad-base of O-level subjects that I knew (a) I would probably pass and (b) wouldn't count against anything I decided to pursue. That worked, and later I was off to Teesside, doing a broad-based course of journalism, "media techniques" and a little bit of legal stuff that could propel me, I thought, into print or radio journalism, or slightly further off into radio or television production. I'm grateful for the skills I learnt. I'm a very good sub-editor, even if I do say so myself; I can spot such intricacies as libel-by-juxtaposition from 100 feet or so; and I can deconstruct a television drama... although this, I admit, is of no fucking use at all. What didn't happen was an actual career in journalism. I got my qualifications and my NUJ membership and went on to the dole. Then I worked for the Employment Service, the TSB, the fag-end of British Rail/NIMCO/Jarvis and a toy company, all in admin jobs. I'm very good at admin, processes and systems, but that's my dad's genes rather than anything I was ever taught. Then I spent 3 years in a very high-pressure marketing job, almost died from the stress - literally - and shifted over to my current job, editing international business directories for a major multinational publishing house. So the skills are useful there, too. But it's not journalism. And I'm happy. The realisation that I actually didn't want to be a journalist hit me about halfway through the course. In every subject at school, they teach you how to become a teacher of the subject, not a master of it. O-level maths contains various parts that, in 15 years of non-school life, I have never used and nobody who took that O-level ever used... except if they became maths teachers. French O-level, which I failed, was full of learning how to say "please clean the blackboard for me" and "put all the chairs on the tables before you leave", very useful for teaching a future O-level class to say such crap, but of little utility in a restaurant in Paris. Unless I owned the restaurant, I suppose, in which case bravo to the school system for having such faith in me. Of course, I couldn't actually order anything off the menu in my own restaurant, let alone chat up any of the cute waiters I would be employing, but by god I could make sure that the specials board was clean and the floor prepared for mopping each night with confidence. Further along the system, post O-level, they start teaching you things that might actually be useful. The problem was, if I was to be a journalist, it was to be at the Grauniad or the Indy; the lecturers had this insane idea that I'd be starting out in the dismal local rags and freesheets, rewriting press releases. Of course, that's the correct career pattern, but it's hardly edifying. At the very least, local newspapers are truly, truly dire. Very little happens locally except in the big cities. And even there, little happens each day to justify a full newspaper. The Middlesbrough Evening Gazette, held up as a shining example of newspaper to aim at writing for, was full each day of stories like "Kimberley, 19, hits out at yobs" over a story about some slapper who'd got off a bus a stop early because it was a bit noisy then rang them up to complain, and "Council 'plans drastic cutbacks'" over a story about how local X-party councillors had issued a press release about what would happen if Y-party won the next election. I was always very good at finding angles for dull subjects when challenged to write them up, but it was clear that to get anywhere you had to ramp-up the drama and tone down the facts lest the story be exposed for what it was: desperate filler. I can't do that: I may not have all that many morals, but one I do have is that actively and purposefully lying to people to sell something (newspapers and advertising space in this case) is wrong. And, yes, I went on to work in marketing, so don't bother pointing that hypocrisy out. Also, the stories, once you learn to read local media, are always at their root very very dull. Imagine an entire career of that, I thought. No way.So I've been spared having to write stories like the one pictured. And as a (great) sub, I've been spared having to invent such desperate headlines. Happy days.This comes from my mum having been an accomplished chef herself and her having taught me the basics of the kitchen. Also, she had a collection of 1950s and 60s cookbooks from the likes of Woman's Own and Good Housekeeping which were full of recipe collections like "Eating To Put On Weight", "How To Set A Table For When Royalty Visits" and "Food That Wards-Off Polio", such is the wonderful way of 1950s and 60s magazines. As an easily-bored voracious reader, I devoured these books as much as I did my Target Doctor Who novelisations.
I get a vegbox every week from Abel and Cole. I got put on to the idea by Scott, who I goaded by Twitter into signing up first so I could hear back whether it was worth it. It was, so I did. And it remains so.
This week's box had leeks, potatoes and onions in it. Well, it almost always has onions in it, and always has potatoes in it, but the leeks are reappearing after a break. That means, to me, the opportunity to make my mum's chunky Cream of Leek and Potato Soup. Also, for some obscure reason we're really not keeping up with the milkman at the moment and if I didn't find a recipe that could use 4 to 8 pints of semi-skimmed very quickly, by Monday there was a real risk of drowning.
The joy of this soup is that it is so very very filling for so little little money. A huge batch made in a big pot lasts for days and days, because with [cover Lord Woolton's eyes, someone] a couple of slices of bread, a bowl of it fills you up for literally hours and hours. Have it late and you may not need breakfast. It reheats well for a long time after cooking, and it freezes well too. Who needs anything more?
Since, it turns out, this new blog is going to keep the foody element of the last one and just add insults and politics, here's the recipe.Start by making a roux (a white sauce) from the butter/oil and the onions and garlic. Keep adding more and more milk until it's as much as you could see yourself eating in the next few days. Crumble in the stock (and salt and pepper if you cook with salt), add the leeks, add the potatoes and very, very gently bring up to the boil.
It's milk. If you turn your back, it'll rush up at you and go everywhere, or else it'll look placid whilst catching on the bottom. Be gentle with the heat but vigorous with the stirring. Once it starts to bubble vigorously but before it starts to rise at you, take the heat off completely, cover and wait. The soup will cook under its own heat in the next half hour.
After half an hour, uncover, give it a stir and put it on the smallest burner/ring at a low temperature and gently bring it back to eating heat - not boiling. It's done when the largest cube of potato you can find is soft all the way through, but that should've happened earlier than now. If it's not soft, keep it on that low heat, stirring to stop the soup from catching, until it is.
Serve with crusty bread and some brie if you're feeling flush.