Praise The Gorge

A jar of autumn: sloes steeping in gin under my stairs

I have always been one of life’s gorgers.  I gorge like there’s no tomorrow (which I believe is the point).  I am incapable of loving something and being able to moderate my consumption of it, especially since I have my own money to buy whatever shiny new thing has caught my MTV ravaged attention.  For example, last year I saw ten minutes of The Wire at a friend’s house and three months later I had watched all 65 episodes.  That’s one and a half episodes every night for ninety days and when your wife ‘just can see the appeal’ that is a lot of late night and early morning viewing.

I’m the same with food.  Three months ago I was giddy with the thought of BBQs. The medium rare burgers, the blackened sweetcorn, the marinated racks of ribs, the buttery roasted new potatoes, the crispy and pink shoulders of lamb, the burst and browned sausages, the braised lettuces, the spatchcocked and tikka’d chickens.  Are there three letters that look as good together as the double B to the Q? 

Well, having gorged for the summer I am now officially over the garden grilling.  It is so last month.  My tongs have been put away for another year, my amusing big breasted BBQ apron has been moth-balled and I am patting my tummy and drooling in anticipation of my absolute favourite eating time of year, autumn.

The move from summer to autumn eating has been greatly eased by a terrible burger experience at the Bucks County show (the word ‘gourmet’ has never been so devalued) and the treat of some of the current Mrs B’s early homemade plum jam.  I don’t know if it was the glory of the May and June sunshine or the dampness of the August but the plum trees in Weedon have been producing the most wondrous early fruit all of which has been jammed already and most of which has been eaten.

Next will be the blackberries and the apples, which will be conserved or crumbled.  The pumpkins will be souped with a touch of Buckinghamshire chilli from the farm between Whitchurch and Winslow.  I’m already fantasizing about the Waddesdon game that the Parrot boys will tempt me with.  I fall asleep dreaming of the rabbits that will be roasted and turned into batches of ragu for autumnal pasta lunches.  I close my eyes and can smell the aroma of roasted or casseroled pheasants, depending on whether my neighbour, Martin, will finally relent and give me the recipe for his highly prized pheasant stew.  And please don’t get me started on puddings.

I cannot help it, I am trapped in a delicious cycle of gluttony daydreaming.  Perhaps I need help, a support group of some kind.

Hi, my name is Matt and I’m a gorger

By the way, if you have any favourite autumn recipes then please message or email me.  There is absolutely nothing I like more than chatting about food.  

Praise the gorge and pass the gorgonzola.