I'm playing along. I don't know what I'm doing, because it's all about Google docs and spreadsheets, and thankgod I'm old enough not to have to know what that all means.
But Sam at Becks & Posh invited us all to blog about why English food isn't a joke.
We all know English food was a joke for decades, if not more. It took the careful archaeological uncoverings of Elizabeth David to prove that we were prejudiced and wrong — and even then, she was all about French food.
I will leave aside discussion of the Two Fat Ladies, and even (oy) Jamie Oliver. Also that guy who loves candy too much (Nigel somebody?). Oh, and the whole-pig blokes.
Anyway. I'm not English. I have no excuse and no excuses.
I don't even have any English food traditions. I will make a roast beef for Christmas, but Tiny Tim might cringe. I've done a few Yorkshire puddings that pleased me, but the Queen might disagree. I'm competent with shortbread, and I've stewed up oatmeal... Oh, wait. I do love Lyle's Golden Syrup.
Ummm. What else. I drink tea?
One thing I know I can get right. And it suits me: Beans on toast.
Comfort food of the simplest (and therefore highest) degree. Open a can (Heinz vegetarian, of course). Toast up a few slices of bread. Shave some cheese (today it was Montgomery Farm Cheddar from Neal's Yard Dairy). Run it all under the broiler.
It was necessary because our kitchen is being dismantled. We are packing stuff into boxes for an anticipated move. The magical dual-fuel convection oven/range is being donated to the new owners, and we are out there in "where shall we move to" land, moiled in that real estate uncertainty that makes earthquakey California so — unsettling.