Primal

I wasn’t feeling so well when I started on this blog. The last thing I needed was to have to sit down at a keyboard for however long it would take to write. So, then I came across a Wiki synopsis of an Australian film from 2010 entitled ‘Primal’ with the following as its first paragraph:

A group of friends—Anja, Mel, Dace, Chad, Kris, and Warren—embark on a journey into the Australian outback where Dace, an anthropology student, aims to study ancient symbols outside a mysterious cave. They are soon attacked by a bizarre, aggressive rabbit with sharp teeth, which injures Kris before the group manages to kill it. Bewildered, they return to their camp.

The whole film sounded bonkers so my first thoughts were cut and paste the whole Wiki page into the blog and see if that will do. And it nearly did but it was a bit boring after a while and there must be something else that Primal can signify.

According to the texts it can be used to describe emotions, instincts, or behaviours that are thought to be innate or deeply ingrained in human nature. For example, one might say that fear is a primal emotion, referring to the idea that the feeling of fear is something that is hardwired into human biology. If I see a snake I run away.

In the context of psychology it may be used to describe the earliest and most basic part of the psyche, that is thought to have been formed in the earliest stages of human development i.e. The id. It is the part of us that wants immediate gratification. If I see some cheese I run towards it.

In Anthropology, primal societies are those that are thought to have existed before the development of modern civilization, often characterized by simple social organization and a way of life that is closely connected to nature.

In general, primal refers to something that is basic, fundamental or essential, often associated with a primitive or ancient origin. I’m sure there’s a link to slippers somewhere but can’t find it.

Going back to the movies. There is an animation film called Primal described as: A caveman and a Tyrannosaurus Rex end up forming an unlikely bond and work together to survive in a dangerous prehistoric world. It seems very, very popular.

I followed this up today and hadn’t realised that the film was by Russian-American artist, director Genndy Tartakovsky who is also responsible for 2012 Hotel Transylvania.

Reviewers say: ‘This time the director brings us this primeval brutal, savage, magnificently, helmed spectacle.’. ‘You don't need a single finished sentence of dialogue to tell a brilliant, edge-sittingly fascinating story’.

Then there is the 2019 film Primal where the hero seems to be a big game hunter (Really?). Rotten Tomatoes says: ‘Chiefly of interest to Nicolas Cage completists and hardcore B-movie fans, this action thriller suffers from an unfortunate lack of Primal energy’.

Primal Scream are a Scottish rock band originally formed in 1982 in Glasgow. I’ve just watched a few of their videos and songs and they don’t do anything for me. Can’t understand a word they’re singing for a start.

I haven’t any Primal poems so I think this one by Tracy K. Smith will suit.

The Universe as Primal Scream

5pm on the nose. They open their mouths
And it rolls out: high, shrill and metallic.
First the boy, then his sister. Occasionally,
They both let loose at once, and I think
Of putting on my shoes to go up and see
Whether it is merely an experiment
Their parents have been conducting
Upon the good crystal, which must surely
Lie shattered to dust on the floor.

Maybe the mother is still proud
Of the four pink lungs she nursed
To such might. Perhaps, if they hit
The magic decibel, the whole building
Will lift-off, and we'll ride to glory
Like Elijah. If this is it—if this is what
Their cries are cocked toward—let the sky
Pass from blue, to red, to molten gold,
To black. Let the heaven we inherit approach.

Whether it is our dead in Old Testament robes,
Or a door opening onto the roiling infinity of space.
Whether it will bend down to greet us like a father,
Or swallow us like a furnace. I'm ready
To meet what refuses to let us keep anything
For long. What teases us with blessings,
Bends us with grief. Wizard, thief, the great
Wind rushing to knock our mirrors to the floor,
To sweep our short lives clean. How mean

Our racket seems beside it. My stereo on shuffle.
The neighbour chopping onions through a wall.
All of it just a hiccough against what may never
Come for us. And the kids upstairs still at it,
Screaming like the Dawn of Man, as if something
They have no name for has begun to insist
Upon being born.

Copyright Credit: Tracy K. Smith, "The Universe as Primal Scream" from Life on Mars. Copyright © 2011 by Tracy K. Smith. Reprinted by permission of Graywolf Press. www.graywolfpress.org
Source: Life on Mars (Graywolf Press, 2011)

Thanks for reading, Terry Q.

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10.30 Coffee Time, A Very Simple Pleasure

When my dad reached his three score years and ten he must have decided that he might not have many years left, and wrote an essay on the things that gave him pleasure in life.  I can’t remember all the details but I do know I wasn’t really surprised by any of his choices.  Family, food, coffee, maths, chess, books, nature, cars, crosswords, and - the word I skimmed past very quickly - sex.  

My dad loved food - any food.  Although my mum tried to keep him under control he could frequently be found in the kitchen eating chunks of cheese on thickly buttered bread (Camembert a particular favourite - the smellier the better) As my mum had no sense of smell it was left to the rest of us to complain loudly as we entered the house and were confronted by a strong cheesy stench.  Eventually, the Camembert was double wrapped in foil and clingfilm and banished to the lean-to. 

As it happened, my dad had another twenty three years to enjoy those simple pleasures, and enjoy them he did. Every night at 9 o’clock my mum and dad would each have a Cornetto.  If I was staying, and refused one, he would tell me how delicious it was.  Boxes of chocolates couldn’t be left out if dad was in the room.  He had been diagnosed as diabetic, but never took it as seriously as he should have.  Biscuits and cakes disappeared mysteriously with nobody knowing a thing about it. Looking back, I wish I hadn’t nagged him when I was there.  I was concerned for his health, but maybe he’d got it right: his enjoyment outweighed any risk. 

Seafood and, in particular, lobsters, became a firm favourite.  He found that Lidl sold them and asked for a constant supply, panicking if he ran out.  I can still see him with a knife and hammer, cracking the shells, his mouth watering at the prospect of the meal ahead.  Although lobsters were a bit of an extravagance, not all his simple pleasures were expensive.  Most cost nothing at all.  Trips to the library were frequent and regular.  He enjoyed a wide range of genres, from whodunnits and biographies to intellectual books on philosophy and religion.  

My dad was a life long learner, who had missed out on a university education due to his family's lack of finances, and his father's desire to have his son join him in his one man optical business.  Dad would have been an ideal university student, but sadly it wasn’t to be.  Instead, he continued to educate himself, enrolling for Open University courses and thriving on discussion and debate. Most subjects interested him, but particularly philosophy, religion (he was an atheist), and maths.  He would sit at the computer for hours, reading and composing emails to his fellow students.  I think this was dad’s way of validating himself.  He would never admit it but I’m sure his lack of university education was a huge regret to him, especially as his best friend, my mum’s brother, John, was sent off to get his degree (my grandma working three jobs to pay for it) and then follow it with lecturing for many years at Kings College London.

Although I am no intellectual, I can relate to many of dad’s simple pleasures.  I love reading, and guess that came from growing up in a houseful of books, with both parents being avid readers. Food goes without saying, and I also love to learn - but not such intensive and deep subjects as those that consumed my dad.  One thing we had in common was a morning coffee.  It’s not just the drinking of it, it’s the whole ritual of boiling the kettle, heating the cafetière, grinding the beans, making the coffee, heating the milk…….It’s a very special pleasure, and one that I still love.  As the smell of the coffee hits me I think of my dad.

The night before Spamhead suddenly died (yes, that was his nickname for obvious food related reasons), my brother phoned to speak to my mum.  In the background dad called out proudly, “I finished the Telegraph crossword by 10 this morning, and I’m just cooking sausages!”  That summed him up in one sentence. It makes me very happy to think he was still enjoying his simple pleasures right up to the end.

10.30 Coffee Time

Scoop beans

Rich and black

With oily sheen

Pour into hopper

Grind fine 

Savour smell

Freshly ground Continental 

Two large spoons full 

Into heated cafetière

Water boiled

Wait a second

Tip kettle

Gently pour 

Into pot

Stare dreamily 

Through rising steam 

Sniff in sniff in 

Full force of brewing coffee

Lid on

Careful, don’t plunge yet

Meanwhile

Choose favourite mug

Just for coffee 

Not for tea

Pour in milk 

Heat thirty seconds 

Dream of treat to come 

Five minutes

Time to plunge!  

Inhale smell

Coffee brewed

Pour slowly slowly 

Onto milk in mug

Watch as bubbles rise

Let cool for seconds

Before that first delicious sip...

10.30 Coffee Time 

Thanks for reading.......Jill

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The Healing Powers of Cheese

As a family, we have always loved cheese.  Of us all, my dad is probably the biggest fan, waxing lyrical at the sight of a Stinking Bishop or a dark veined Roquefort.  He can often be found by an open fridge door, mouth chomping, a chunk of cheese in his hand, looking slightly guilty. 

Not long ago I visited my parents. My mum has a medical condition which means she's lost her sense of smell, and my dad (probably like most men) wouldn't notice if you let off a stink bomb under his nose.  Hence, my mum's request, every time I visit, to 'have a sniff around and tell me if you smell anything bad.' 

As the front door opened the smell hit me. It was horrendous: a combination of dirty dishcloths and kitchen waste.  Mum's face was a picture, as I gave her a quick kiss and marched purposefully towards the kitchen, nose on full throttle.  Dishcloths looked clean, the bin wasn't full, there was nothing in the sink.  

I turned to the fridge and opened it. The smell didn't seep out, it burst out!  On the top shelf was a large Camembert in a box. I opened the lid and nearly passed out. Inside was the softest, ripest , runniest, stinkiest cheese ever to be contained in a box. Plucking it from the shelf I ran out of the back door and into the garden, as if transporting a bomb.  There I deposited the stinking item onto the path and stood back. Mum and dad peered at me through the window. 

Don't get me wrong, I love strong cheese. Stinking, runny Camembert is one of my favourites, I just don't want visitors to my mum and dad's to be put off before they've even got in the hall.  These days, cheese with the slightest potential for being smelly, is immediately confined to a locked lean-to at the back of the kitchen.  Visitors are warned to venture in with extreme caution.  Or a face mask. 

I've written in a previous post about my visit to France between 'O' and ''A' levels.   I stayed in a Children's Home, high up in the mountains, and, unless it was blowing a gale or pouring with rain, all meals were eaten outside at a long table.  

On the first evening, after we had finished the main course, in an effort to appear helpful, I leaned across the table and began to gather the used crockery.  Shocked faces turned towards me and, gabbling in French, grabbed back their plates.  I didn't need my limited grasp of the language to understand I had made some terrible faux pas.  

As a large bowl of freshly sliced peaches was passed down the table and the children helped themselves it dawned on me that the same plates were used for each course.  It was at this point I offered up a silent prayer to an upbringing that had ensured no meal was over until every plate was scraped clean. As I deposited peaches in the remains of the gravy on my plate, I made a silent note to utilise the bread for a final wipe round before dessert the following day. 

Having eaten the peaches, and just as I was debating whether to risk a second attempt at plate collecting, a huge, circular cheese was produced from the kitchen and a loud cheer went up.  I was a little surprised that both adults and children would be getting so excited by a cheese, but little did I know what was to come.  

If I remember rightly, a barbecue was wheeled out (or perhaps it had been there all the time), the cheese was introduced to it for some minutes, then swiftly removed from the heat and held above a plate. With a flourish, thick, semi melted cheese was scraped from the cut end to plop unceremoniously into the remains of the peach juice. 

Now, I've always loved cheese, any type, any strength, but never have I enjoyed cheese as much as I did that night.  Sitting atop a mountain with a lot of strangers speaking in a foreign language as the sky slowly changed from pink to dusky grey, I broke off a piece of crusty baguette, mopped at the gooey  melted cheese (infused with peach juice) and just for a moment forgot I was homesick. 

The memory of that first night has stayed with me for lots of reasons, but mainly because it was the night I felt the healing powers of cheese. 

The Healing Powers of Cheese by Jill Reidy 

It was strange

That first night 

At the top of a mountain in France

Surrounded by excited children

And serious adults

Speaking in a foreign tongue

I was sad

I felt lonely

Homesick 

I sat at the table 

And ate the stew

Which rolled around my mouth

Was difficult to swallow

And the freshly sliced peaches

Which slid down 

All from the same plate

I thought about home

And roast dinners

My mum's sherry trifle 

In a clean dish 

Tears were just below the surface

Then

The cheer

The huge cheese

The smouldering coals

The scraping of the melted mess

Onto the twice used plate

The crispy bread

Ripped and dipped

Cheese dripping from my chin

Pure gluttonous enjoyment

Laughter

Sky turned from pink to dusky grey

For a moment 

I was lost in a delicious, healing, cheesy bubble

Thanks for reading      Jill

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Cheeseboarding

Cheese. I love it. Time for some fun, it's a 'feel good' foodstuff. Let's go cheeseboarding.

Everyone has heard of Laughing Cow cheese (la vache qui rit) but cheeses from other animals of origin have been slow to join the happy parade. For instance, what about Chortling Goat (la cabre risueno)? Or Sniggering Sheep (le mouton riant sous cape)? Where are they? Some intrepid farmers are even producing pig's milk cheese...Giggling Pig anyone (porcellus cachinnabilis)? And in Sweden they milk the Mildly Amused Moose and turn that into cheese. So what else could intrepid cheese-manufacturers conjure up? Howling Horse Halloumi perhaps? Tittering Buffalo Brie? Any takers for Psychedelia Smith's mind-blowing Unicorn Cheesecake recipe? OK - stop the blog, I want to get off!

Seriously, cheese has to be one of my favourite foods. I eat it every day. A good ripe Camembert with a crusty baguette is a meal in itself. Feta with olives and tomatoes can't be beaten. A piece of Blue Stilton and a glass of port are the perfect way to end a dinner party.

All cheeses start out as milk, most commonly cow's or sheep's. Then with the coagulation of the milk protein casein, triggered by the addition of an enzyme - usually rennet - plus the way they are treated as they solidify and mature, many with bacteria or moulds added,  they become the diverse array of shapes, colours, textures, aromas and flavours that comprise the tantalising array of over 1,000 classified cheeses. At a portion of cheese a day, it would take over three years to sample every different one.

The making of cheese dates back at least 5,000 years. The earliest known evidence comes from Poland where utensils containing sheep's cheese residue have been found and there are references to it in early Greek and Roman literature. For instance, the Cyclops in Homer's Odyssey was a cheese-maker and had racks of sheep's cheese maturing in his cave.

Cheese is portable, relatively long-lasting (compared to milk) and very versatile. As long as it is not eaten to excess, it's an excellent foodstuff, rich in fat, protein, calcium, phosphorus and many vitamins. Soft cheeses are generally thought to be better than hard cheeses as they are lower in saturated fat but there is no conclusive evidence that eating cheese in moderation raises bad cholesterol levels. In fact in controlled trials in Denmark recently it was found that older people who were given a couple of slices of cheese for breakfast each day over a six month period were on average both happier and healthier than those who had  no cheese at all.

Eat cheese, be happy - but not if you're a mouse, apparently. The notion that mice like cheese turns out to be something of a myth. They will eat it if there's nothing else around but they much prefer dried fruit and grains. It is thought that mousetraps were primed with cheese in the belief that the smell would attract the rodents. In truth, they're much more likely to go for a tasty sultana.    



This handsome fellow knows a good Havarti when he sniffs one - but he'd rather have a sultana!

As to the old wives' claim that eating cheese before bedtime causes dreams, that's another myth ripe for the shattering. There is no scientific evidence to support it.

I did toy briefly with the idea of writing Ode To A Wensleydale ( "My stomach rumbles, as a gnawing hunger pains my sense..." etc), but thought better of it. I couldn't get the image if Wallace & Gromit out of my mind. So no poem I'm afraid.

Instead, I bring you this week's fabulous Cheeseboard Top Twenty Chart courtesy of world-renowned cheese-jockey Tom Fromage, including two non-movers and four new entries (last week's positions in parentheses). Yum!

1   (1)  Camembert (France)  Of all the world's great cheeses there's none that can compare!
 2   (2)  Stilton (England)  Best blue on the planet.
 3 (11)  Feta (Greece)  Shooting up the chart on account of its healthy credentials.
 4   (3)  Gruyere (Switz)  Always a rich and tangy delight.
 5   (5)  Parmesan (Italy)  King of Italian cheeses, grate with everything.
 6 (13)  Epoisses (France)  Smelliest of the smelly - banned on the metro - but tastes just fine.
 7   (8)  Chevrotin (France)  Flying the flag for the goat.
 8   (4)  Mozzarella feat. Buffalo Girls (Italy) Slipping slightly but still a subtle treat.
 9 (12)  Reblochon (France)  Former number one making something of a come back.
10  (7)  Gouda (Neth)  Consistently the top cheese from the Low Countries.
11(14)  Cheddar (England)  When it's on its best form, it's one of the best.
12  (-)   Milleens (Eire)  Highest new entry, a soft and pungent Irish beauty.
13  (9)  Chaumes (France)  Gloopy dream of a pongy cheese.
14 (10) Pont L'Eveque (France)  The authentic odour of the cowshed.
15  (6)  Crackerjack feat. Jalapeno (USA)  Monterey Jack with chillis, on the slide.
16   (-)  Sulguni (Georgia)  Fabulous new entry - a pickled cheese.
17 (20)  Beacon Fell (England)  Local Lancashire talent on the rise. 
18   (-)  Limburger (Belgium)  Goes a treat in a club sandwich.
19   (-)  Pecorino (Italy)  Doing it for the sheep. 
20 (17) White Stilton feat. Cranberries (England)  A novelty beginning to fade fast.

Bubbling under... Raclette (Switz)  Perfect for that après-ski fondue.

As if that wasn't enough, here's a musical link to Robyn Hitchcock's cautionary tale: The Cheese Alarm

Thanks for reading. I wish you a tasty week, Steve ;-)

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Everyone Say Cheese

Say ‘cheese’. No, it’s not a continuation of my Selfie blog from last week, though this started at around the same time. It was the typical chat between me and a colleague during one of the rare moments that we had chance to pass the time of day.

“What’s for tea tonight, then?” She asked me.

She took a phone call as I thought about what to do with the left-overs from our Sunday roast.

“Cold meat and boxty, with some cabbage and leeks, I think.” I replied, starting to feel hungry and looking forward to some sauce or pickle to go with it. I remembered the rhyme, but kept it to myself – Boxty on the griddle, boxty in the pan, if you can’t make boxty, you’ll never get a man. – It made me smile.

“I’m doing homemade cheese and onion pie. Not done it for ages.” She was typing frantically and didn’t look up straight away.

“Oh, now you’ve done it. I’ll crave that all week.”

I love my own cheese and onion pie and I hadn’t made one for a long time, either. Served with jacket potato and baked beans, it’s a favourite family meal I have grown up with. I would make it on Saturday. It was only Monday but we would be out for three evenings and Friday was ‘chippy tea’ and not to be missed. If I made a large pie, there would be enough to enjoy cold for lunch the next day.

Cheese and tomato sandwiches are a favourite lunch. If the cheddar is just the right flavour, it takes me back to my childhood and the pub we had up in the hills near Glossop. I attended the local village school that was very close by, and for the only time in my school days I came home for lunch. It would be there, waiting for me on the kitchen table. Fresh white bread filled with grated cheddar cheese and thinly sliced tomato. It might have been an odd choice for an eight year old, but I loved it, even more than chicken paste or potted meat. How lovely it is for something so simple to transport me back to a time full of fond memories.

Saturday couldn’t come soon enough and the afternoon found me elbow deep in plain flour and grated cheese with eyes watering from finely chopped onion. The end result was delicious, with the longed for jacket potatoes and baked beans. Comfort food at its best. The next day, I was delighted to see my toddler grandson devouring strips of the cold pie and dipping it in a tiny spoonful of pickle. Can’t beat Nanna’s homemade snacks.

“Did you make your pie at weekend, then?” My colleague asked, during a lull in the Monday morning mayhem.

“Yes, it was perfection. Can’t you tell?” I pointed out my increasing girth, which of course, isn’t the result one cheese and onion pie.

I found this poem.

 

A Parable

The cheese-mites asked how the cheese got there,

And warmly debated the matter,

The Orthodox said that it came from the air,

And the Heretics said from the platter.

They argued it long and they argued it strong,

And I hear they are arguing now;

But of all the choice spirits who lived in the cheese,

Not one of them thought of a cow.

  
                                                                                                   by Arthur Conan Doyle

 Thanks for reading, Pam x

 

 

 

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So long lives this and this gives life to thee

Do you see my spectacles with their heavy rims?  Perhaps you noticed my quiet, unassuming nature?  You must be aware of my absence at times of literary intrigue?  Yes, it's true.  I am Olive, the plain-clothed bus conductor of 1970s sitcome fame.  What the writers of the TV series failed to explore was Olive's alter ego, Sunflower, so named for her love of chasing the sun.

So, Sunflower is my alter, alter ego and I'm beginning to think this introduction is a little over-contrived.  Sunflowers follow the sun.  I follow poets, like a dog follows the smell of crotch (to add another helpful layer to this catastrophic conceit).  What I most enjoy at present is gathering an awkwardness of poets into a small, quiet room and throwing short writing exercises at them until they a) throw something heavy in my direction or b) write something amazing.  Fortunately for me the crotches, which is to say poets, that I have followed so far have opted exclusively for option b.  

This Saturday, conjunctivitis allowing, I will be herding the awkward crotches into a small quiet room at Central Library.  If, after two hours, I am still conscious, the world will know a new collection of sonnets.  And that is the real super power.  

It's a power I developed after a hair from Ashley R Lister's beard fell into my coffee.  I'm not complaining.  He can't have the hair back.  Facilitating the creation of poetry is akin to a super power.  It certainly feels supernatural.  I yabber on for two hours and BAM! a curdle of new poetry is born.  A curdle which other poets will take with their own cups of coffee which will, in turn, inspire other more curdled poems until the ultimate miracle happens...Cheese.

So, if you have followed the nonsense above, congratulations on your powers of tolerance.  Please find below a sonnet which I created while testing Saturday's workshop.  I do hope you'll join us at the library and I'm sorry for calling you a crotch.


To the Mourners

In February wet clay clads the day 

Dawn’s meagre prayers wrapped tight in dismal clods 

To you this clinging sadness I convey   

Dug fresh from river bed for you to hold

Exhaustion is a cliff edge slick with mud 

I tremble in tired grass before the drop

Then April’s buds bunch close on ruddy wood   

Late morning’s blood burns tracks through sleepy sods   

You see excitement written in the leaves   

Like secrets burst from lips pressed tight too long

A giddiness of bubbles, scales release 

This trembling, root to tip, I would prolong   

Though sadness fills your pockets up with stones

Attention transforms granite into foam

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