Wonders did not cease on Wednesday

So you know what's funny? There were zero problems with the trains getting here. None. Nada. Easiest train ride I've ever had in this green and monkey-stuffed isle. And one of the most pleasant, because all three trains were very close to empty. Thank you, British "journalism", for ensuring everybody was too scared to leave their homes and giving me whole train carriages to stretch out in. But now I feel as though I have a karmic debt that I will be paying off when I try to get home on Sunday.

It's nice here. I've never seen it snowy like this before and it's pretty. My grandmother doesn't remember me, or much else, but I think that makes her like me rather more. So good for both of us.

Preparing for adventure

So I'm off to the fucking UK tonight and it will be an adventure, because they're having one of their seasonal national meltdowns due to the cold and snow. I'm due in at Scarborough around midnight, and I guess I knew there was always likely to be some sort of snag involved in managing that. And what with winter acting up, it's anybody's guess where I actually sleep tonight. My guess is York. I think I'll make it as far as York. And then maybe I'll sleep in the Royal hotel, because I have travel insurance. Although a nice B&B wouldn't come amiss. As long as I get bacon for breakfast. Mmm, bacon.

God, that country is stupid. I complain a lot about Belgium, I know, but honestly the real debate going on inside my head is whether it's Italy or the UK that's stupider on a national level; Belgium isn't even in the running, too many things go right here (though not Electrabel - the retarded bastards are still billing my missing-presumed-dead boss for their services despite his mother telling them he was gone a couple of months ago. What are you going to do, you stupid fucking cunts, ruin his credit rating? God, they're cunts).

At the moment, the UK is winning the debate, mostly because of this nugget from their prime minister from the afore-linked article, responding to claims that the country is in the grip of a gas crisis, as private citizens have been asked to limit their use while the (of course, privatized) gas companies emergency source from the Continent:

“There are always difficulties when we have a long spell of bad weather.”

In other words, a developed country, one that prides itself on not falling victim to Continental mischievousness like functioning public services, strong trade unions, and reasonably representative democracy, loping from crisis to crisis - and that the sort of crisis that could lead to people freezing to death.

(Slow clap)

Best fucking mashed potatoes on the planet

I've heard other people - many other people - say exactly the same thing about themselves or about their girlfriends, or in one case about their common-law husband, but in my case I'm pretty sure it's true: I make the best fucking mashed potatoes on the planet. And now, kids, you can too.

This mashed potato mania was brought on by what passes for winter here - a fucking brutal, wet mess of a season that leaks into all the houses through the picturesque Art Nouveau windows. We are always cold and always seeking to eat things that seem to promise some sort of insulation. It was also brought on by a weekend trip to Petits Riens, where the F-word and I scored one of those hydraulic orange presses and a potato ricer, both apparently untouched, for a grand total of 10 euros. We love Petits Riens. It's the perfect place to simultaneously indulge our charitable, acquisitive, and parsimonious urges.

And finally, it was brought on by stoemp, which must have the funniest name in the culinary world. It is said to be a Flemish working class staple; one of the few signs that Brussels used to be a Flemish city rather than a mess of expatriates being listlessly served by Francophone mental debiles is that stoemp continues to be served. My recipe is a variation on it, with the usual cream and butter and meat stock replaced by buttermilk. This creates the same silky, rich taste, but with the two added bonuses of a very mild sour cream flavour contrasting with the chives and onions, and of the ability to take a shit within the next twelve hours without any really significant quantities of animal fat jamming up the works - a quality in buttermilk I really adore, and a general requisite for me to consider food good.

10 medium sized potatoes
A cup and a half of buttermilk
Two stalks of celery, split down the middle and finely chopped
A handful of chives, finely chopped
Two cloves of garlic, finely chopped or grated
A spring onion, finely chopped

A teaspoon of sea salt
A teaspoon of thyme
Chili pepper to taste - the three ground down together with a mortar and pestle

Soak the potatoes in lukewarm water for ten minutes and then scrub them off, cutting out the eyes and gross bits. Boil them until they're soft enough to run through the ricer - ten minutes at pressure in a pressure cooker will do it if time is of the essence. Drain them.

In a large saucepan gently heat the buttermilk, and add the vegetables, salt, thyme and chili pepper. Whisk and then rice in the potatoes, whisking each one in before ricing in the next.

This recipe is flexible in potato skin terms. The ricer catches the skin so there's no need to peel the potatoes at any point, making sure you don't miss out on the "inner skin", where all the good nutritional stuff is. But then we also use organic potatoes; non-organic potatoes pick up an inordinate amount of chemical shit on their skins so - well, I don't know, there are probably worse things for you, like breathing in a city. For extra roughage, which obviously I'm in favour of, salvage the skins from the ricer, chop them up fine, and throw them into the finished product, whisking those in too.

And then voila, you've got the fucking best mashed potatoes on the planet.

Next step in my mashed potato adventures is perunasoselaatikko, a Finnish casserole made of mashed potatoes. I had it once there at the worst time of year for it (June) and still loved it, and now it's time for it here. The Finns are a people who have managed to make it through history without blowing their own heads off too frequently to breed despite their atrociously dark winters, so I intend to copy them to deal with my seasonal depression. Saunas and a decently insulated house would help too but beggars can't be choosers.