I've never been a fan of the dog. They may well be man's best friend, but that speaks volumes about man's inability to form strong and emotionally meaningful bonds with his fellow man. (The fact that women have cats as companions is an equally worrying scenario: I instinctively distrust any animal that cannot be put on a lead and led.)
Of course, there are beautiful canine beasts: Rhodesian Ridgebacks, Great Danes and those other big ones with the ears. Then there are those referred to officially as 'toy dogs'. These are dogs we have genetically altered, dogs with bulbous eyes too
big for their comically small heads; dogs whose octave-higher yap has replaced their once minatory bark; dogs that aren't really dogs at all.
It is safe to surmise that I am not what one might describe as a dog man. That was until I met Oscar. Lovely little Oscar. I spent a couple of Twixmas days – that's days between Christmas and New Year, in case you were wondering – with my dear friends Craig and Susan in rural Gloucestershire. The tranquility of their abode, Craig's legendary cooking skills and Susan's unquenchable appetite for vintage clothing make for the perfect break. Craig had decided to get a puppy for Christmas. I should be clear, Craig is not a dog lover. He explained to me at great length that he had been impervious to the charms of all things canine all his life. That was until he met the eight-week-old Oscar.
Now, I love Craig. He's a great guy. I trust and believe him. But I'm sure he could see the cynicism in my eyes as he related the love affair that exploded instantly between a fully grown man from Blackpool and a newly born whippet. I'm not one to judge. (Out loud, at any rate.)
I doubted that I would feel the same about a dog. How wrong I was. It was a fairly predictable ploy on the part of the wily whippet puppy. When we went to collect him he jumped up into my lap and snuggled down before falling asleep in a matter of moments. His warm little face was nestled into my forearm and I felt an inexplicable sense of connection with Oscar. I tempered my affection with rationality and reason based on a lifetime's aversion and/or fear of dogs. He couldn't really like me. His snuggling sleeping was a one-off, a unique and unrepeatable event. That was until he repeated the event, when we got back to the house, making it completely un-unique. Me and Oscar are now friends. We get on. He likes me. And I like him. A new chapter of canine connection has started in my life. Who knows where it will lead?
The milk of human resigned-nessI've changed. Life and experience have taken their toll. My rough edges have been gradually knocked into some semblance of smoothness. I know now not to question that which I cannot alter. Energy is expended on causes not yet lost. Hence my acceptance of packets of UHT milk. The old me would have railed against such impropriety. Milk ought to be fresh. I do not wish my cow juice to be treated, and certainly not treated
by heat, and ultra heat at that. I always felt that if you were going to go to the bother of brewing delicious, fresh coffee, you might go the whole hog and organise a wee jug of proper milk. Nowadays I realise that my surname isn't Canute and that it's pointless fighting the unbridled ubiquity of UHT. Spilt or packeted, there's no point in crying over it.
Braised beauty swells the flock of lamb lovers If there's a single meat I have cooked more than any other, it has to be lamb. In fact should I be granted the privilege of knowing my final meal, I'd be at my mum's house consuming my body weight in her astonishing lamb curry. And while pork may have stormed in straight at number one in my meat charts, I still love lamb for versatility and ease.
On Monday I was cooking my last meal of 2008. Wary of the preponderance of dry, flaky, white meat that seems to dominate late December, I relied on lamb to deliver my guests from turkey, hopefully leading them into lamb temptation. And how better to guarantee the moist lusciousness of the meat than by braising. I've been braising for years; in fact one of my first real explorations into traditional British cooking was a slow-cooked braised lamb dish. Braising involved liquid and time. Most of the flavour comes from the thing that is being braised. Braising lamb can be as easy as a handful of shallots, some garlic and a clutch of herbs. The rest is about patience. My lamb leg was bathed in a more complex blend of white wine, white wine vinegar and chicken stock. The liquor was brought to the boil, half a dozen chopped anchovies
added and then a three-hour appointment with a slow oven. What could be simpler? And what could be more delicious? A robust, hand-torn loaf and some lightly steamed greens and you have the complete meal. My guests were like lamb to the slaughter.
Minding my iPod ps and qsI hate rudeness. No doubt I have been guilty of rudeness from time to time. It is seldom intended. Yet I am in a quandary. As I walked the crisp, sunny streets of Edinburgh listening to the amazing James Yorkston, left, on my iPod, I found myself posing the following question: if someone talks to me while I am earphoned up and I fail to respond because my head is full only of the sound of beautiful music and lyrics, am I being rude? (It is similar to those folk who decide to strike up a conversation while you are on a mobile phone.) I am awaiting advice on how to proceed.
