Cheese

 

Cheese

                                            Casu marzu

Image courtesy Wikimedia Commons

WARNING

Do not read further if you have a weak stomach.

Cheese comes in many different consistencies and flavours. Some are mild and nutty, gentle on the palate. Others have a strong and salty flavour, while some may be acidic or ammoniac. Sometimes, fruit or herbs are added. Cheese may be soft, hard, or crumbly. With around two thousand varieties of cheese available worldwide, there is bound to be one to please even the most refined taste.

Cheese is usually made from the milk of cows, sheep, goats, or buffalo but occasionally other mammals, like horses, camels, yaks, or reindeer, provide the milk.

I had never thought that cheese might be considered unsafe, unless for those with an allergy, but there is such a cheese. It is a Sardinian delicacy called ‘Casu marzu,’ designated ‘the world’s most dangerous cheese’ or ‘the forbidden cheese. Casu marzu means ‘rotten cheese.’

This pungent sheep’s milk cheese is dependent on the cheese fly, Piophila casei, for its unique character. The cheese starts life in the usual way and resembles pecorino. Cheese fly larvae are introduced to the cheese and proceed to digest it, which leads to fermentation. This results in the cheese becoming smooth, even sometimes semi-liquid.

When the cheese has reached the zenith of its maturing, it is cut open and served with bread and a robust red wine. The sight of wriggling maggots may deter some people from eating it. Those who are not put off are advised to wear glasses and put their hands underneath their noses in case the maggots launch themselves into nasal cavities or eyes. Remember, they’ve been working away in the dark and the light disturbs them!

People who still wish to try the cheese, but without the maggots, can put a piece of it in a paper bag, and once the sound of larvae beating themselves against the paper ceases, because the maggots have suffocated and are now dead, they can eat the cheese.

Should the cheese be found to have no live maggots when opened, it must be discarded as it is now considered toxic.

It is illegal to sell the cheese and is banned in most countries, for fear that live larvae could survive the digestive process and create problems in the gut.

There are several other cheese varieties produced in similar ways.

Messages

 

Messages

I watched ‘Adolescence’ recently. It addresses the effects of the toxic masculinity, misogyny, and opposition to feminism promoted by Andrew Tate which are reflected on websites, blogs, and other online forums, and which is affecting the way young people conduct relationships. The effects are further enhanced by messages sent to and about people, becoming another way to bully someone. It was superbly acted and was deeply distressing to watch. I did not enjoy watching it, and the questions and problems the drama raised remained with me and disturbed my sleep for a few nights.

Nonetheless, I think that anyone who has any contact with adolescent and pre-adolescent children should make the effort to watch it.

I understand, from my twelve-year-old grandson, that it is being widely discussed among children in school. He is currently watching it with my daughter and separately with his elder stepsister. My instinct is that it should be screened in schools, in carefully controlled episodes, followed by group discussion.

An interesting facet of the production focused on the use of emojis and made me question my own use of them. I blithely scatter emojis hither and yon without any thought to the deeper meaning they may carry. Of course, I am not texting impressionable adolescents, but I have often wondered about some of the more obscure emojis I see in their text messages.

There is a ‘red pill’ that references the film ‘The Matrix.’ It indicates an awakening to the ‘truth’ and a call for action by the ‘manosphere.’  The red pill receiver/sender sees the world ‘as it truly is’ and understands the malign influence of women.

The dynamite emoji refers to an exploding red pill to indicate that someone is an incel. An incel is an involuntary celibate, made that way because women are to blame for a male’s lack of success in engaging with females.

This supposed failure is explained by the 100 emoji, which claims that eighty per cent of women are attracted to only twenty per cent of men. Therefore, the 100 emoji is another way of telling a boy/man that he’s an incel, and that most women are off limits to him, so he will always be an incel.

Heart emojis are innocuous, one would think. (This one did, anyway!) They come in different pretty colours, like flowers, but in the manosphere each one carries a message. Red, of course, means love, but purple indicates lust. Yellow reveals that the sender is interested and asks if the recipient is likewise engaged, and pink says, ‘interested, but not in sex.’ An orange heart tells the recipient he is going to be fine, whatever that means.

There are other emojis with different meanings and some relate to the procurement of illegal drugs, although these are not addressed in ‘Adolescence.’

We cannot protect our children from all harm, but it is important to try and understand what pressures they are under and how and by whom they may be being influenced. Above all, we should be listening. Sometimes, children only express a worry or a concern in passing, as though it’s not really of any great import. Sometimes, it’s a shouted insult that indicates that not all is well.

I shall watch ‘Adolescence’ again. I have youngsters in my family who will be engaged (already are, in the case of my twelve-year-old grandson and great-granddaughter) in the world of texting and Snapchat and TikTok and various other modes of communication. Cutting them off from their phones and iPads will only isolate them and make them resentful. It could even turn them into targets for the crueller or weaker of their peers.

We welcome our babies with such joy. What a shame they have to learn to navigate our often wicked world. Doesn’t every generation have fears for its young?

 

 

Welcome to the world!

Welcome to the world!

Another member of the family made her entrance on Friday.

Hailey Evelyn, little sister to two-year-old Melia, was born on 21^st March. She had made a few attempts to become independent of her mummy for several weeks, but was persuaded to stay in situ for a little longer.

She is now at home with the rest of her family, still unfurling like a leaf and completely helpless.

 She is the youngest of six grandchildren to our eldest daughter, and thus our sixth great-grandchild.

Murder most strange

 

Murder most strange

There were fourteen place settings. The hostess had served fish and on every plate there remained skeletons with varying amounts of flesh still clinging to them.

From her position at the head of the table, the inspector surmised that the victim was the lady of the house. Her hospitality had been poorly repaid, he mused.

It was clear that there had been a hasty exodus from the dining table. Crumpled napkins had been dropped on the floor, a couple of chairs had been knocked askew, and a wine glass had spilt its contents – red wine, the inspector observed, with snobbish distaste. Had the guests departed before or after the attack, and where were they all now?

Following his preliminary assessment of the scene, the inspector approached the body to seek further insight into the murder.  The woman, middle-aged, grey-blonde, was slumped sideways in her chair. A scarlet flower bloomed on the left side of her head, a rose of rich, dark red. The inspector swallowed hard. He had seen many such scenes before, but always the bile rose in his throat at the sickly, sweet smell.

A lemon wedge - evidently the victim had not squeezed it over her fish – was splashed with red. Her fork was smeared with crimson and – yes! There were clear fingerprints on it and on the plate. So, death had not been instantaneous. Had she grabbed the fork in a vain attempt to fight back? If so, who had replaced it so neatly, so grotesquely, next to the plate?

The inspector scratched his head and decided he’d better try to locate the rest of the party. He opened the door opposite the table and found himself in a large, square kitchen. It was crowded with people, all smartly dressed and obviously expecting him. He nodded at them, not sure what he should do next.

‘Well,’ said a tall, thin man. ‘What are your thoughts?’

A murmur of voices added, ‘Who do you suspect?’ and ‘It wasn’t me,’ and ‘Confess, Thomas.’

The inspector gazed at them and grinned suddenly. ‘It was very convincing,’ he said.

The ‘victim’ appeared behind him, smiling. ‘Sorry about the smell,’ she said. ‘I know you loathe tomato ketchup, but we had to make it look authentic. Come along now and have a stiff drink and join us for the rest of our meal.’

Everybody laughed and made their way back to the dining room. Murder Mystery dining events had become very popular recently.

Carrots!

 

Carrots!

‘Carrot’ is one of the words our dogs understand. When the cats have their elevenses or their threeses, the dogs are pacified with chews or carrots. Both dogs take their chews to their beds in the sitting room, but when they have carrots, Roxy prefers to eat hers in the kitchen, while Gilbert proudly carries his to his bed.

This morning, they had carrots, but look at what was hidden among them. What is this misshapen root? Is it a hand, pointing to some unknown entity? Might it be a mediaeval building, with towers and an annex?

. It wasn’t part of a ‘wonky vegetables’ selection. I don’t know how it passed quality control if there is such a thing. It was good, though, crunchy and carroty. Gilbert looked quite nonplussed as I munched it.

A repost to raise a smile

 

A repost to raise a smile

I don’t know where I found the following joke, but it made me smile. However, if you are blonde, or easily offended, or both, it might be better to skip this post.

With apologies to all the blondes I know and love . . . male and female.

 

Blonde on a plane

A plane was flying to Toronto when a blonde in economy class got up moved to the firstclass section and sat down.

The flight attendant asked to see her ticket. She then told the blonde that she had paid for economy class and would have to return there.

The blonde replied, ‘I’m blonde, I’m beautiful, I’m going to Toronto and I’m staying right here.’

The flight attendant went to the cockpit and told the pilot and co-pilot that there was a blonde bimbo sitting in first class who had an economy ticket but wouldn’t move back to her seat.

The co-pilot went to talk to the blonde. He explained that she would have to return to economy because she had only paid for economy.

The blonde replied, ‘I’m blonde, I’m beautiful, I’m going to Toronto and I’m staying right here.’

The co-pilot returned to the cockpit and told the pilot that he should probably have the police waiting to arrest this blonde woman who wouldn’t listen to reason when they land in Toronto.

The pilot said, ‘You say she’s a blonde? I’m married to a blonde, I’ll handle this, I speak blonde.’

He left the cockpit and spoke quietly to the blonde. She said, ‘Oh, I’m so sorry,’ and got up and returned to economy.

The flight attendant and the co-pilot were astonished and asked the pilot what he had said.

‘I told her, first class isn’t going to Toronto.’

 

The targe

 

The targe

                                               Image source

The targe was a circular shield used in battle by Scottish Highlanders. It was the main means of defence in battle until it was banned after the Battle of Culloden in 1746.Frequently, the central boss held a removable steel spike, which proved to be a lethal weapon at close quarters.

Flora MacCleod knew all this because she had grown up knowing the history of her clan. The targe in the photograph had been in her family’s possession for generations and there was now no way of proving its provenance as a MacLeod shield, though everyone believed it to be so.

At the centre of the boss was a long rope of hair. As a child, Flora had been allowed to handle it occasionally and had always marvelled at its silky softness. She was a romantic girl and imagined it to have come from a well-loved horse, though it was too fine to have come from a Highland pony.

On her parents’ death, Flora inherited the targe. It had been wrapped in MacLeod tartan, stored in the attic, and looked dusty and neglected when she uncovered it. Reverentially she cleaned it, turning it over in her hands and admiring the workmanship that had gone into its creation. The deerskin on the back was worn but still intact. The leather on the face had been skilfully tooled and then strengthened and decorated with bras studs. She wondered if there had ever been a spike on the boss. Now that it belonged to her, she could investigate it thoroughly.

Flora twisted the screw that secured the cord to the brass centre plate. She wondered if there might be some information under the plate to tell her a little more about this lovely thing. She hoped for a maker’s mark or a receipt.

It was hard to release the cord from its fastening and Flora’s fingers were sore by the time she managed to free it. Her breath caught in her throat as she glimpsed a piece of paper tucked inside the boss. As she carefully teased it out, she wondered if she were the first person to see this since the targe had last been used in battle.

Excitedly, she unfolded the paper but what she read made her grow pale with horror. Feverishly, she wrapped the targe in the tartan and resolved to dispose of it. She considered selling it but supposed that, even with its history, few collectors would wish to buy a shield displaying an ornamental human scalp.

            Targe presented by the Duke of Perth to Charles Edward Stuart,                                     'Bonnie Prince Charlie'
                                                Image copurtesy Wikimedia Commons