Summer indulging

Ignore the implorations of the ‘fret set’ and food police and enjoy your summer indulgence, urges Jim Hopkins. Heat, drink and be merry, that’s the real summer recipe, and better to face the problems of affluence than the catastrophes of famine. 

Let’s be honest. Most summer food is junk. Not the smartest thing to say in a tucker mag, but c’est la brie. It’s true. Or is it? Is it true? 

Is most summer food junk? Well, no, on second thoughts, it’s not. Cancel the shock announcement and shout yourself a burger. 

There’s no such thing as junk food. A junk diet, yes. Eat nothing but chocolate and you’ll end up in Zit city. Your six pack will become a flab slab and millions of swine flu bugs will pounce. 

We know that. It’s common sense. Balance is good, imbalance isn’t. There are junk diets, but no junk food. All food is good. Some’s better than others, sure, and we can debate how to cook what we scoff. But pay no heed to the Fret Set. 

‘Junk’ food doesn’t exist. Don’t listen to the finger-wagging Thou shalt notters when they start carping this summer. Most of them are paid by the taxpayer to tell taxpayers off. Ignore them. Don’t jump on their ban wagon. 

Particularly not the food one. Food is one of the fret set’s favourite no-no’s. They’re mega-keen to police what we eat. We’ve replaced the Spanish Inquisition with the Spinach Inquisition and got a prissy new priesthood, telling every wicked and won ton consumer what they must not consume. 

No pies, no fries, no chocs, no chips. No fatty stuff upon your hips. Let mung beans only pass your lips. And out there, somewhere, hear them mutter, “There should be a ban on butter!” 

Ahhh, sod ‘em. No way, gourmet! There’s no ‘tut’ in butter - and no ‘I’ in cream, either. Whip it up this year. Remember,“Good King Wenceslas first looked out, On the Feast of Stephen.

” Not the Fast of Stephen, oh no. Stephen wasn’t telling folk to stick to tofu. He wasn’t warning us about the dangers of eating hundreds and thousands of hundreds and thousands. There was pork at his feast, both crackling and scratchings. There were mead and potatoes, plum duff and pav (possibly). 

Speaking of plum duff, a childhood summer food memory. When we were kids, Mum would save sixpences all year (back when we had £.s.d, pounds, shillings and pence, boys and girls). Then, come Christmas, she’d pack the pud with her secret silver stash. When the waifs and strays and squabbling brats sat down for dins, (usually round 2 p.m.) Mum would dissect the pudding as precisely as a brain surgeon, scrupulously ensuring each urchin got lots of sixpences and Dad got none. Though he always got his revenge. Each year, he’d try to distract us before discovering not a sixpence, but a whole half crown! And wherever he found it, in pudding or mouth, we’d all chorus, “Ohhh, Da-a-a-d! It was in your pocket! We saw you take it out!!” 

One more memory - dimmer this, on the horizon of recollection. It’s just before Christmas and there’s great excitement in the kitchen of the vicarage in Temuka. The once-a-year treat has arrived. No 1 son is warned not to touch. This delicacy must remain in pristine condition till Christmas Day, when we eat...(drum roll, please)...the chicken!!!!! 

Yes, Virginia, chook was extraordinary tucker once, for special occasions only. Now it’s morphed into a KFC so commonplace we gobble whenever we can’t be bothered to cook. 

New Zealand’s changed. It’s a more affluent place. We’ve lost some innocence and gained some weight. Which gives the wowsers ample opportunity to wowse. But hang about. Santa’s always been chubby, yes? That hasn’t stopped him coming down millions of chimneys every year. He doesn’t get stuck. You don’t see Jenny Craig yanking his ankles to get him to the hearth. 

So don’t let the disapprovers priss you off. Of course, moderation makes sense. There are things we shouldn’t eat - like other people (unless they’ve been lightly poached in a white wine sauce and drizzled with that jus Nigella Lawson likes). 

Such caveats aside, better to face the problems of affluence than the catastrophes of famine. Less is more deadly than more. If our Inquisitors were honest, they’d go straight to the maternity ward and stencil a simple message on every newborn’s forehead - GOVERNMENT HEALTH WARNING. BIRTH CAUSES DEATH. 

Eventually. Until it does, go for it. Eat, drink and be merry. That’s the real summer recipe. Heat, drink and be merry. 24/7. Do what you do and chew what you chew. Romp and chomp and have your guilt trip later. Winter’s the time for gloom and doom. Don’t sully summer. With a beer by your side and a sossie on the barbie, lie back and enjoy its lazy, hazy crazy days - always assuming we actually get some of that global warming the Copenhagglers are worrying about.

Oh well, even if we don’t, we should still give our tastebuds a treat. For reasons well explained by that jolly duo, Flanders and Swann, in their 1950’s gustatory tribute - 

Food, food, glorious food, Nothing quite like it for cooling the blood 

Okay, the rhyme’s a tad dodgy. It should be - 

Flood, flood, glorious flood, Nothing quite like it for cooling the blood. 

Err, thanks, guys, we’ll take a rain check on the flood. You’re right about food, though. It literally gives you life!!! And plenty of it, whatever the woofters say. We’re living longer and doing more than we ever have. So, wherever you are, folks, discard your hair shirts and wear your “I don’t care” shirts instead - inside, outside, on the beach, in the boudoir, at the barbie. You won’t live longer if you worry, it’ll just feel like you have. 

Whatever you eat this summer, enjoy it. There’s no point eating it if you don’t. Whatever you do this summer, enjoy that as well. There’s no point doing anything if you don’t enjoy it. And there’s no point living it, either. Summer 4 eva. 

Bon appetit.

Summer 2009

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