Village Events - Part 2: Ken Gibbs

I have been asked by some of my colleagues why I should write about local matters because they are not about UNICEF. Well, in reality, they are very much about UNICEF, or to put it more accurately about life after UNICEF which is XUNICEF by another name. So, please bear with me for a while because to me, this is about the real world.

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Today, my wife decided that we would have fish and that it would be smoked haddock. Pretty straightforward you’d think, but then you don’t know her.

I was informed that whatever width of fish was selected, it was not to be any longer than 8 inches because the dish in which it was to be prepared measures exactly 8 inches. Fair enough – who wants to have the bits hanging over the side grilled to charcoal ?

I went to the fishmonger and I could see that Jan was preparing for a Mary-requirement and she asked what it might be, today ? “Very easy”, said I, “I need smoked haddock, and the piece needs not to measure anything over 8 inches”. There was a pause before Jan said, “I don’t usually sell haddock by the yard, you know ?” Martin, Jan’s assistant, didn’t bat an eyelid as he knows Mary of old; and, besides, he was making sure that the lobsters he was preparing would not savage any clients by virtue of not having had their claws tied up.

When I’d explained to Jan what Mary’s specific needs were and why, Jan found a tape measure and did exactly as required.

As a conversation filler, I noted that this wasn’t so unusual because when Mary had gone in search of a new mouse pad for the computer, she selected promising ones based on their smell. That’s right – their smell. Jan looked somewhat perplexed, so I had to explain that the last mouse pad that I had been given by one of the family, smelled heavily of foam rubber which she can’t stand. Ergo, buy the next one based purely on smell.

Jan shook her head and asked whether I couldn’t have found someone ‘normal’ to marry ? I don’t think this was possible to determine before the marriage and, besides, marriage to Mary is really, really interesting, isn’t it ?

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Today dawned drizzly and the mood was reflected in Mary’s comment, “I’m fed up with always having to decide what to eat ! You decide today.”

Now that’s not a very welcome comment on a Wimbledon day, but there are times when one simply grinds one’s teeth and gets on with it. So, what would be good eating and relatively easy to prepare for Mary ? I thought fish might be the thing as Mary had banned any thoughts of pork or lamb and beef is too expensive anyway. . . . . . .I think you get the scene.

I went to Jan the fishmonger and asked if there was something fresh that could be grilled ? There was cod and haddock and pollack and. . . . . . and because I haven’t eaten pollack too often, I thought that this might be worth a try. Jan agreed because it is quite a bit less expensive than cod. I bought a nicely filleted piece and brought it home, placing it in the fridge.

Mary was out this afternoon, playing bridge with some of her friends and when she got back, she announced that I was to cook the fish. Well, earlier in the day, my understanding was that I would decide what to eat, not cook it. One glance at her face told me that I was going to cook it.

I undid the packet, wiped the fish clean and started to do what I reckoned one did to grill fish – add salt and pepper and wipe it with some olive oil. At this juncture, Jane Grigson’s Fish Book was put under my nose, open at page 85 and I was told to read, mark, learn and. . . . . . .

When so instructed, one reads. I found nothing whatever about how to grill a fish (you put it under the grill for goodness sake. . . .) but I found some very interesting comments about the buying of fish around Boston. The American Boston, not ours. What various “Atlantics” are called is quite important and Jane Grigson lists what they are called both sides of the Atlantic.

She talked about how they measure Atlantic fish by weight and notes that codling and haddock come under the name of scrod. Apparently, they are so sought after, that people sometimes fly across the States for scrod. One keen traveller ran out of the airport and jumped into a cab, saying: “Take me some place good where I can get scrod !”

The cab driver sat back and paused, admiringly: “That’s a question I’ve been asked many times, but never in the pluperfect !”

So, there you have it.

The pollock was delicious.

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