On our last night in Edinburgh, I abandoned Sir and the Kid Squid and skipped off for a Fabulous Facebook Foodie Fandango at one of Scotland's finest restaurants. Joining me for an evening of gossip, catching-up, political debate and locally-sourced sustainable fare were the Good [Scotch] Egg and the IWOM, recently arrived from Cairo and visibly suffering from the rainy chill that characterizes August above the 55th parallel north.
Our meal was punctuated by rich sauces, deep flavours, and unctuous textures - although her choice of roasted bone marrow followed by a variety of lambs' innards proved too much for the IWOM's delicate sensibilities, these days more accustomed to Mediterranean simplicity than offal-centered northern European cuisine. Though I myself was a bit leery of dishes such as boned-and-rolled pig's head with crispy ear salad, I happily snarfed my bone marrow with snails and girolles followed by saddle of rabbit stuffed with foie gras and spinach. Of gluten-free desserts on the menu there were none (may I point out to carte-composers everywhere that descriptors such as Delice of Blackcurrant are completely unhelpful to gluten guerillas such as myself?), but chef cheerfully put together a poached peach, raspberry, soft meringue and ice cream arrangement that compensated admirably for this deficiency.
We chatted agreeably about this and that, eyeing the large windows at the front of the restaurant and keeping watch for masked brick-throwing looters (none appeared, thankfully - Scots are far too sensible to riot in the rain). We discussed likely outcomes of the revolution in Egypt and the flammability of houseboats on the Nile; the efficacy of rolling pins when repelling would-be boarders; the difficulties of acculturation in foreign parts; and northern Scotland's woeful lack of broadband internet access.
Since in a few days' time the G[S]E and IWOM were due to depart on a road trip to a Highland village somewhere near the Arctic Circle, I presented them with a jar of my home-made blueberry jelly for self-catering breakfast purposes. Tragically, the preserve appeared to have suffered disturbing transmogrifications during its travels: inside its airtight Weck jar was no longer a firm, set, wobbly mass but rather a pool of purple syrup with a blob of jelly floating in the center.
Although my companions accepted my less-than-perfect cadeau with good grace, I was deeply concerned by this turn of events. Before leaving for our vacation I had committed a sample of my crystal clear conserve to the Jelly [Other] category of comestibles for judging at the Great Allentown Fair on Labor Day weekend. Would I get back to sunny Pennsylvania only to discover that all my jelly had separated, thus disqualifying me from Blue Ribbon Glory?
Upon arriving home yesterday, the first thing I did was scurry to the green corner cabinet where I keep my hundreds of jars of precious preserves. I dug out the blueberry jelly and tipped the glasses on their sides, shaking them slightly to assess their condition. Thankfully, they were all still set and potentially prize-worthy - which leads me to wonder what happened to the jar I schlepped across the ocean. Does pectin suffer some sort of reversal in planes' cargo holds? I know that if you cook jams at high altitudes allowances must be made, but I cannot imagine why they would experience any sort of retroactive effect.
I shall be investigating this matter in due course but am in the meantime reassured that I will have something to present for scrutiny in a few weeks.
As for the jar currently making its way north to Gairloch, I assume that a quick stir with a spurtle will restore it to rights - that is, if it hasn't already been frozen solid by the Atlantic's howling gales.
Either way, it's nice to think that I've left a little something behind in Scotland.
Until next time.
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