Last week I expressed my joy at watching an elderly gentleman actually take the time to savour his food. I nattered on for a while about how we should all follow suit and eat slower. But I didn’t actually give very good (or scientific for that matter) reasons for doing so. This is where I rectify that. Consider this as ‘slow food ramblings part two’ or ‘why we would be crazy to not slow down at meal times’. After some extensive research (well if previous discussions with naturopaths, personal experience, ‘scientific observations’ of others and twenty minutes on Google yesterday counts as extensive), I’ve drawn up what I believe to be the three ‘main’ benefits or ‘goals’ of slow eating. This excludes reaping enjoyment from what we eat as a) I talked about it for far too long last week (sorry about that) and b) if you work to reap these three benefits, then the enjoyment will should come naturally. Unless you find some warped pleasure in devouring your meal as though it was your first and if that’s the case, I can’t help you. Because what we’re aiming to do is treat it as your last, savour every last mouthful and enjoy the heck out of it. Continue reading
There is an elderly gentleman who frequents my work a few times a week. His order is exactly the same, rain or shine. Two slices of raisin toast, lathered with copious amounts of butter on both sides, as soon as they come out of the oven, and then run out to him whilst they are still piping hot. His face breaks into the biggest crooked smile when you present the plate of hot, melty-buttery toast to him and you just know that it has made his day. Even when work’s frantic and you’ve hardly got time to breath, let alone be fussed trying to butter both sides of the toast without dropping it or smearing butter all down your front, it’s worth the effort just to see his reaction. And after observing this gentleman for a number of weeks, I’ve reached the conclusion that most of his enjoyment lies in the process of eating the toast. Relishing every mouthful. 
Put your hand up if the word ‘offal’ sends you into a fit of dry retching. There we go, don’t be shy. You’re far from alone. What is it about that particular category of meat that causes so many people to run and hide their head in a cupboard until the threat has passed? Is it the texture? The flavour? The smell? All three? Or perhaps because it has undeniably come from another once living, breathing organism? You can pretend that a piece of steak is a funny looking vegetable or that the cubes of chicken in your curry are magical titbits of protein and flavour, but a brain, well that’s a different story. I’d wager a bet that if you don’t like bones in your meat, you most definitely shirk from the idea of offal. And I must admit that the concept of eating a brain is a little confronting, if not downright nauseating. I think it has something to do with fact that you yourself are able to think about the topic whilst munching away on a fellow animal’s thought powerhouse. I don’t know about you but that a) prompts the reaction “ick” and b) gives me an unexplainable (and most likely sympathy related) headache. But hang on, I actually want to delve into the good things about offal. Yes, would you believe it, there actually are. Let’s get started shall we? 
I do hope that you have a penchant for bread. Why? Well you can expect a whole lotta bread-related recipes to come your way in the following weeks. I have just started working at a local gourmet sandwich bar/café (and before you ask, no, it’s not Subway). Whilst this particular enterprise does a commendable job of minimising it’s food waste there is almost always bread left over at the end of the day. In the beginning it was like Christmas come early – trudging home reeking of putrid dishwashing water didn’t feel quite so bad when armed with bags of soft, pillowy café-style bread. But when that occurs after every shift we begin to hit a slight glitch – our household barely goes through a loaf of bread a week. So slowly but surely our very small freezer has begun to fill with white, multigrain, whole-wheat and rye specimens, all shoved in higgeldy-piggeldy. By Saturday night it had reached a crisis point – now each time one opens the freezer door they are in severe danger of being knocked out by a falling loaf of bread. I almost felt obliged to put up a sign saying “warning bread overhead” but the decided it was probably better to keep the lame rhymes to myself. 
Taste Without Waste 