Cornish Nasties

Recipe for: CORNISH NASTY (PASTY)

Ingredients:

• For the pastry:
• 125g butter, chilled & diced
• 125g lard, diced
• 500g plain flour
• 1 egg, beaten, to glaze
• For the filling:
• 350g beef skirt or chuck steak, finely chopped
• 1 large onion, finely chopped
• 2 medium potatoes, peeled & cut into small dice
• 175g swede, peeled & cut into small dice
• Lots of freshly ground black pepper

 Method:

1. rub the salt, butter & lard into the flour using fingertips or processor until you have fine breadcrumbs
2. blend in 6-8 tablespoons of water to make a firm dough
3. cut into four pieces, cover & chill for 20-30 minutes
4. heat oven to 220C/ fan 200C/ gas 7
5. mix together the filling ingredients + pinch salt
6. roll out each piece of dough into a circle or an oval
7. spoon a quarter of the filling into the middle of the dough, leaving a pastry margin all the way around
8. brush the pastry around the open edge
9. either fold over to seal the pastry at one side (Cornish), or else gather up both sides to meet at the top (Yorkshire).  Make sure the pastry is sealed all the way round.
10. brush the pastry with beaten egg
11. pierce the pastry at the top with a fork to allow steam to escape
12. lift onto an oiled, non-stick baking sheet
13. make the other three pasties the same way
14. bake in the oven for ten minutes, then lower temperature to 180C/ fan 160C/ gas4 and cook for another 40-45 minutes until golden brown

 What else you need to know:

1. can be eaten immediately, cooled & re-heated or frozen
2. serve with LOTS of gravy & a green veg

History Lesson

History Lesson

As the first oven door is opened,

She has to go outside

To recover herself and fight back the tears,

As if the enormity of the crime,

The wickedness of it, the evil itself, still lives here,

And the smell somehow lingers

Within the charnel house,

Where the bodies baked,

In those early days

Before the numbers grew too many.

She comes back in again, re-joins the tour,

To visit bloody Birkenau,

The production-line of murder

Its branch-line running right inside the camp,

Its guard-houses, towers, miles of wire,

Its block-houses, machine guns, dogs.

She sees the selection process,

A matter of seconds,

Watches them shamble over to the showers,

Undressing, stripping, leaving everything behind

To be collected later, or so they think,

Herded together, the door slamming shut,

The screams, the panic, the fear,

A roof-top trap-door opening,

And the casual dropping of the Zyklon,

Waiting for silence,

Removing the bodies,

To the massive fire-pits.

She thinks she will faint,

Standing inside the blackened walls,

Imagines where it happened,

Sees where history was made,

In pursuit of a eugenic final solution,

To wipe undesirables

From the face of the Earth.

To Canada then, to bear witness,

To the residues of countless victims,

Suitcases of personal papers,

Glass cases full of shoes, of clothing, of toys,

Of teeth, of hair and of bones,

And every re-useable, recoverable substance.

Exhibitions, reconstructions, documents,

Photographs, testimonies, memories,

The deniers overwhelmingly denied.

Yet these school-children rush past her,

Shouting at each other, and into their phones,

Crisp packets rustling, coke cans drained,

Laughing and joking, cat-calling,

Oblivious to euthanasia,

Ignorant of this inhumanity,

And for whom the holocaust has little meaning.

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2013

Insomnia

Insomnia

Twisting, tossing, turning,

Side to side, over and over,

Chasing round the bed,

Fighting to find perfect position,

Moving, itching, fidgeting,

Exhausted and desperate to fall

Into the deep abyss,

Where deep nothingness starts,

And the conscious goes amiss.

Too hot, too cold, never quite right,

No tick-tock of the clock,

Minutes and hours crawl along,

Moments passing by at a creep

As if Time is standing still.

Sharp, red digits mocking:

How slowly they change, from one to another,

Whatever I will.

Mind off chasing down rabbit-holes,

Following tunnels and corridors,

Leading nowhere,

Floating, wandering,

Falling, never hitting the bottom,

Past cliff-faces rocky and steep,

Never reaching, never getting there,

Too active to count many sheep.

Night-time is dense, unchanging, unyielding,

Never ending, giving nothing away,

Silent, dark, impenetrably deep.

Eyes and body yearning,

Pursuing short-lived snatches of sleep.

The brain keeps rattling on,

Chuntering, chattering,

An ever-running engine,

Ticking over, never stalling.

Too busy, too many things to do,

Names to remember, tasks that are calling

Slowing down finally, it seems,

A new steady rhythm, a gentle quiet,

Heartbeat regular, breathing softer,

Heading at last toward dreams,

Then suddenly racing and speeding again,

Around the next corner, solving another puzzle,

Remembering names, thinking about tomorrow.

Tired, so desperately tired,

Another tangle of blankets and sheets,

Fighting the covers, thrashing around,

Starting to grope, gasping, grasping for rest,

Snatching at hope after hope,

That somehow this torment will end.

Then, quite suddenly, an alarm ringing,

New light coming in, early birds singing.

Night, it seems, has stolen away,

And bedraggled, be-drowsled,

Not calm, not rested,

Head aching and throbbing,

It’s time to start another new day.

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2013

Reunion

Reunion

So long since I’d seen him, the old dog,

Lost contact for so many years,

The wonders of social networking,

It’d be good to go for a few beers.

He was always the life and soul,

Forever laughing and joking,

Causing lots of trouble at college,

Partying, drinking and smoking.

The leader of the old gang,

When getting drunk wasn’t a crime,

Leading us all a merry dance,

And always up for a good time.

Doing no work, skipping lectures,

Essays usually handed in late,

Always knew how far he could push it,

Lousy student, but a cracking good mate.

Perhaps my imagination

Had done something strange

And built up the expectation,

Left me unprepared for the change,

As I turned up far too early,

And the time for reunion neared,

For I could hardly recognise him,

When he finally appeared.

We got through the pleasantries –

I’m sure you know what I mean –

How was each of us doing?

Really?  How long had it been?

Each of us eying the other,

Looking for any tell-tale signs,

Eyes less sparkling, thinner on top,

Hollower cheeks, wrinkles and lines.

Just a Coke please, no longer drinking,

Gave up smoking decades ago,

Marriage didn’t suit him, no children,

On his own for ten years or so.

Down on his luck, out of a job,

A crazy catalogue of strife,

And at a complete loss to explain

The vicissitudes of his life.

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2013

News From Bromham - Dateline Sunday 11th August 2013

Bulletin From Bromham: Dateline – Sunday 11^th August 2013

Here is our weekly round-up of events from Bromham:

1.       Engineers have been struggling all week to deal with a major blockage in the Bromham sewerage system.  Deep underground, near the High Street, a giant Carrot-berg had become lodged in a narrow part of the Victorian pipework.  “If we had not managed to break it up, using sophisticated cutting technology, vegetable matter could have backed up through the entire system,” commented Alfred Piglet, Senior Sewage Engineer.  “If only people would be more thoughtful about the type of refuse they flush down their toilets, this sort of thing would not happen.  This is the worst incident we have had since the Great Parsnip Blockage of 1963.”

2.       Protests have continued across the Parish at plans by the evil global corporation PIgletCorp to continue exploratory drilling for deposits of treacle.  The controversial process, known as Crackling, involves pumping in huge amounts of publicity, mixed with spin-doctoring and weasel-words to force the treacle up the surface, where it can be collected in lagoons.  Local residents have objected strongly, and have formed a human chain across the entrance to the phone-box on the High Street.

3.       For details of these and all other Bromham stories, don’t forget to listen to local radio station Carrot FM.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2013

Insomnia

Insomnia

Twisting, tossing, turning,

Side to side, over and over

Chasing round the bed

Fighting to find perfect position

Moving, itching, fidgeting

Exhausted and desperate to fall

Into the deep abyss

Where the deep nothingness starts

And the conscious goes amiss

Too hot, too cold, never quite right

No ticking-tock of the clock

Minutes and hours crawl by

Moments only creeping

As if Time could have stopped

Sharp, red digits stand still

How slowly they change, from one to another

But remain, implacable

The mind chases off down rabbit-holes

Following tunnels and corridors

Leading nowhere

Floating, wandering

Falling, never hitting bottom

Past cliff-faces rocky and steep

Never reaching, never getting there

Too active even to count sheep

Night-time has a denseness

An unchanging, unyielding quality

Never ending, giving nothing in return

Silent, dark, impenetrably deep

Eyes and body both yearn and ache

Pursuing elusive snatches of sleep

The brain keeps rattling on

Chuntering, chattering

An ever-running engine

Ticking over, never stalling

Too busy, too many things to do

Names to remember

Tasks that are calling

Slowing down finally, it seems

To a new steady rhythm, a gentle quiet

Regular heartbeat, softer breathing

Heading at last toward dreams

Then suddenly racing and speeding again                                                

Around the next corner, solving another puzzle

Remembering names, thinking about tomorrow

Tired, so desperately tired

Another tangle of blankets and sheets

Fighting the covers, thrashing around

Gasping and grasping for rest

Snatching at hope after hope

That somehow the torment will end

Then, quite suddenly, an alarm ringing

New light coming in, a Dawn Chorus of singing

Night, it seems, has been stolen away

And bedraggled, be-drowsled

Not calm, not even rested

Head still aching and throbbing

It’s time to start the next day

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2013

Zero Hour

Zero Hour

I’m the man that keeps the country going,

I’m a flexible little hero:

I work for every Corporation,

But my contract says only zero.

The company controls everything I do:

In fact they make my life impossibly hard.

I’d really like to argue with them,

But they’re holding every card.

They demand to command my loyalty,

And would like to have my gratitude,

But I need the minimum wage they’re paying,

If I’m to pay for fuel and food.

I stack your supermarket shelves,

With cornflakes, baked beans and cans of beer-o,

And many other things I can’t afford,

But they still treat me like a zero.

Shifts are week-to-week and month-to-month:

I never know when there’ll be some work -

I’ve no sick-time off and there’s a pay-freeze:

In fact they treat me like a jerk.

Some folks call it exploitation -

That’s only one expression I’ve heard.

They have all the powers over my hours,

So slavery’s probably a better word.

I get no holidays that are paid for,

But I’m meant to be of good cheer-o.

My open contract means I can be sacked:

I’m not a person, merely a zero.

I serve out your burgers and your fries,

Yet I’m usually totally ignored:

The smell of the grease will never cease -

All this for so little reward.

I can’t complain or blow the whistle,

They’d just turn round and laugh,

And next week there’d be no hours to work

I’d no longer be part of the staff.

I clean your offices all through the night,

Using chemicals – I’ve got all the gear-o:

That’s how I labour, me and my neighbour:

I’m just a resource, I’m just a zero.

  

There’s nowt I can do – it’s Catch-22,

And it eats away at your soul:

You just can’t beat The Company,

They’ve got me completely under control.

I’m no longer a person, I’m a mere cipher,

They’ve made my life a complete bitch:

They only call me when they want me,

As if I’ve got some sort of on/off switch.

It’s a bind or a devil’s bargain,

And I’m reduced to living in fear-o:

This is the curse of modern commerce -

No longer a human, but a mere zero.

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2013