When I was in senior school my English teacher lent me a book of Wilfred Owen's poetry, it made a lasting impression on me about the sadness and futility of war. We are now 100 years on and to a degree we take for granted the freedom we have today thanks to the doomed youth whose courage and honour was the ultimate sacrifice.
Wilfred Owen died aged twenty five, a year younger than my Bert, his mother received the telegram informing her of his death on Armistice day, as the Church bells were ringing out in celebration.
It may sound harsh, but when 'disaster' strikes ie Bert has the sniffles or misplaces his hair gel, or feels tired from working long hours, I sternly admonish him by saying 'at least you're not knee deep in mud fighting in the trenches.' I don't say this lightly, Bert, along with most of us, can never begin to imagine the most ghastly cruelties endured by those men during that brutal conflict. Death and despair touched every family and affected every community, there was no counselling available or a welfare system, if you lost your son's and husband you just had to get on with it.
Those that did survive suffered terrible injuries or neurasthenia (shell shock) not to mention severe depression, but the majority of those men had to soldier on, for them the war never really ended.
I say all of this because I had a little debate recently regarding our misplaced reverence of 'celebrities' which I found interesting. The current series of celebrity big brother, (the connotation lost on many people who have never heard of George Orwell, let alone having read 1984.) Saw the entrance of a character named white Dee aka Diedre Kelly (no I didn't have a clue who she was either!)
It transpires that Dee is a 'celebrity' because she featured in a channel 4 documentary about community spirit in her run down neighbourhood. Dee, a 42 year old single mother of two was on benefits, hence the title 'benefit street.' Dee said that she suffered from bereavement depression (her mother had died a couple of years ago, but she had apparently been on benefits for five years?) rendering her unable to work. However, since starring in the documentary, Dee has obtained an agent and celebrity status, she's been on a four day drunken rampage in Magaluf, (witnessed by both the press and the public but totally refuted by Dee who claims she was only drinking water.) She has made several TV appearances, and is now a contestant in the big brother house.
When interviewed for This Morning and asked how she was well enough for holidays and TV appearances but not well enough to work, she said it was due to her bereavement depression. Compare her bereavement with that of the wives and mothers of those young men and boys 100 years ago, think of Wilfred Owen's mother on Armistice day and it makes you weep.
Contrary to the intimation during my debate, namely that I don't sympathise with Dee's depression, I have a very deep understanding of the disease and lost my mother as a direct cause of it. Unfortunately people who use the term 'depression' glibly negate the very seriousness of the disease and it's often tragic consequences.
We all live with a certain amount of grief, sadness heartache and anxiety, I suffer with bouts of melancholy but depression is totally debilitating. I suspect Dee's agent has advised her that depression isn't telegenic and it seems to have lifted since she has become a celebrity.
Debates and discussions are an integral part of sitting around a table and eating together, therefore my posts aren't entirely tangential. The guy who designed Two Mad Cows, my previous blog, was quite critical regarding my deviation from anything specifically food related, he thought my writing was inappropriate for a food blog, as I've said before, there is enough material out there for people wanting 'recipes' and quite frankly most people are going to Google Jamie Oliver or Nigella Lawson long before they are going to look to me for inspiration!
So, now I am going to talk food and todays post is pertinent because it's one of Bert's favourite recipes, and Bert is the son I'm so lucky to have given that so many son's were lost 100 years ago.
Pork with egg fried rice
Recipe
4 pork loin chops
Marinade
1 tablespoon soy sauce
1 tablespoon honey
1 tablespoon chilli sauce
2 teaspoons chinese five spice
1 thumb size piece fresh ginger, peeled and sliced
4 garlic cloves, peeled and sliced
1 tablespoon vegetable oil
2 cups of rice, cooked according to packet instructions
2 eggs, beaten
Stir fry vegetables of your choice, I used bamboo shoots, baby corn, water chestnuts and spring onions
Vegetable oil
Pulse all marinade ingredients together
Massage into meat, cover and refrigerate for at least 1 hour
Heat oil in a large pan, add chops and cook for 5 minutes each side
Remove chops from pan, set aside covered in a foil tent
In the same pan stir fry vegetables over a high heat, add cooked rice, keep tossing until everything is covered in leftover meat juices/marinade
In a separate pan add a drop of oil, when shimmering add eggs, tip pan back and forth until you have a thin omelette
Shred omelette
Dish rice/vegetables onto a warm plate, top with shredded omelette
Top with chops and juices
DULCE ET DECORUM EST
'Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock kneed, coughing like old hags, we cursed through the sludge,
Till on haunting flares we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest began to trudge
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of tired, out stripped five nines that dropped behind.
Gas! Gas! Quick boys! - an ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
But someone was still yelling out and stumbling,
And floundering like a man in fire or lime...
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.
In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.
If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devils sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gurgling from the froth corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old lie; Dulce et Decorum est
Pro patria mori.'
- Wilfred Owen
Love Donna xxxxxxx
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