The Gentleman's Relish

Rummaging around in the larder for some nibbles the other day, I found tucked away at the back the above, a present from Lord Unmitigated, part of a washed-up expat food parcel he kindly sent over yonks ago. The Marmite, PG Tips, decent Cheddar and bottles of ale went the way of all good things almost immediately of course but somehow this slipped through the net. Always thought the best before dates on food labels are a con. This tasted absolutely delicious on hot brown toast. Thank you old chum. All washed down with a big mug of PG Tips, of course!

A Damp Winterish Wedding...

...but none the worse for that!
One of Mrs Combo's cousins, like many thrusting young Italians, works on a cruise ship. He dropped on with a Peruvian waitress so decided to make it legal at a remote 1960s church hereabouts. With typical Italian disregard for the finer points of spirituality the church builders couldn't be bothered to put in a ring of bells so they made do with a nice pair of loudspeakers that broadcast on a loop tape a supremely tinny recording of two clanking bells:
It is also an Italian tradition to use rice as confetti and also to wish the couple good luck as they leave the church. Unfortunately English txtspk would now seem to be de rigeur
The food at the wedding breakfast was excellent....

...as was the grip quality of the lavatory paper used for the bridal hearse.

Mellow Fruitfulness blah blah..

I managed to snap this just before it started raining three days ago. It is still raining. Copiously. General stuff is now starting to be carried down the hill. A small river is running through the cellar and a prodigious hole has appeared in the woodshed roof. A drink must be in order, that'll make it all better.

The Fear of God

With choir on Sunday evening to a distant village to sing a concert. Village deserted, rain lashing down, bar closed, more choristers than public. Usual story. The evening brightened up considerably however when I saw this painting dominating the east end, behind the altar. I presume it's St. Bartholomew. You can say what you like about the Church of Rome, but they do good death.
They also would appear to have a pretty decent sense of humour too. Having been flayed to death, he was made the patron saint of tanners.

A Bad Choice

One of my favourite local-ish wines is Bonarda, from the Oltrepo Pavese district, in the western part of Lombardy, not that far from Comboland. Bonarda is perfect red wine for glugging in quantity, with about 12º of alcohol, nicely acidic and just so slightly fizzy. It'll never win any prizes of course as it's for people with peasant tastes (me) but it's great fun. Doing some idle browsing in a supermarket the other day I chanced upon this Sangue di Giuda (Judas's Blood!) from the same district so I thought, whoopee, I'll have some of that bleeder. Error. It's sweet and foul. Live and learn. Excuse rubbish photo, I was so disappointed with Judas's wine I necked a bottle of decent Barbera as recompense.

A load of old...

The trip to London wrought its revenge with a decent bout of laryngitis which meant three days in bed, no wine and lots of simple, nourishing food.
The Combo Mother-in-Law rustled up one of her staple dishes for me. Tripe with Spanish beans, potatoes and tomatoes.
I can just about remember my father tucking in to a huge steaming bowl of tripa alla inglese, that being great leathery sheets of the stuff boiled for about nine weeks in milk and onions. Intending visitors could be seen running away from the house with a handkerchief pressed over their faces, dry heaving at the foul stink. Then there was my time in the abattoir where I got to know cows' (and pigs' and sheep's) stomachs rather too well, but that's for another day.
This very Italian dish is a lot more delicate (not difficult), but I still have a problem, oops sorry, issue with the texture of tripe. It's not meat but it's not fat either its....hmm, offal in its purest form I suppose.
WH, this sounds like a dish for you. Do you ever cook tripe? Can one still buy it in Blighty?

Waterstones

What is it with Waterstones' counter staff? Are there ANY heterosexuals who work in one of their shops?
I remember when I used to go to their Kensington High Street branch which, several years ago, seemed to have 100% wimmin-based personnel. The emotion of profound, intense dislike that radiated out over the cash till was tangible. And that was without buying anything by Ted Hughes or Jim Davidson.
Last week I went to their Piccadilly mausoleum to buy Under the Sun, the Collected Letters of Bruce Chatwin, for a dear friend. Bruce was, of course, extremely fond of crashing the yoghurt truck with other members of his sex.
Waterstones seem to have slammed their employment policy into reverse in the intervening years. All the counter staff were male. Dressed in black. I tried to choose the least overt. To no avail. "Ooh" he trilled far too loudly, "you will JUST LOVE this!" I looked at my shoes as hard as I could. " Bruce was so, just so impossible, like a chameleon" (giggle) "Which we all are, aren't we" (glancing up at me whilst slipping the book just so into the bag), "whether we like it or not?"
Sometimes it's tough being a man in a bookshop.