![]() ![]() The Net is a wonderful thing when it comes to obscure foods. ![]() So I was stuck with a pair of free floating dangly bits with no idea how to cook them and a growing terror of having to eat them. They weren’t even the kind of joke gift I could politely throw in the bin when I got home they cost a not-so-small fortune and my friend (the giver) wanted the shells for her collection of bits of the beach. I have an aunt with a doctorate in Marine biology who once described eating Geoduck as akin to chewing on muddy leather, so knowing that and considering those castrator’s trophy looks ( the Geoduck, not my aunt) I was more than a little nervous. How anyone thought to eat them is beyond me but then the dietary past of human kind is littered with perverse experimentation and dire depravity. They are more like giant, aquatic penises (penii?), complete with a horribly leathery “foreskin” and obscene squirting action. To describe Geoduck as phallic is like saying the Pope is a bit religious. They are however almost unknown to the rest of the world, despite having been fished commercially in New Zealand (Golden Bay) for a number of years. These giant molluscs are prized in many Asian cultures for their potent aphrodisiac “properties “and surprisingly delicate flavour. This year she surprised me with something altogether more original- a brace of alarmingly phallic Geoduck (which is inexplicably pronounced gooey duck and is neither gooey nor duck). This is a cheese with an uber-cool history and a flavour for which I’d gladly hunt babies. I have one particular friend who takes a certain pleasure in finding obscure comestibles to slip into my stocking last year she gave me a nice fat wedge of hard-to-find and fiendishly pricey Red-cow Parmigianino. Take note friends and family I care nothing for your hippy-dippy goose-loving ethics. I must say though that I’m always disappointed by the lack, in fact complete absence of foie gras. So my summer holidays are usually full of chocolates, cheese and various delectable preserved things. I’ve never been good at faking gratitude for socks and hanky’s, but thankfully it’s got to the point now where nobody bothers to give me anything that isn’t either edible or ovenproof. For me this often means considering how and when to eat the various food items that turn up under the tree on Christmas morning. The newspapers are full of pictures of babies at the beach and kittens found wanting, and there’s nothing to think about other than the next meal. I never feel like summer has truly started until after Christmas, when the whole country (apart from those poor unfortunates stuck in the relentless drudgery of hard-core retail) falls into a lazy sort of stupor. Three weeks off work has allowed me to spend many a languid day in my sunny little garden, idly plucking plums and boysenberries, reading a good deal of trashy fiction, eating mountains of very good ( and largely unhealthy) food and indulging in long, delicious siestas. ![]()
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