Nella Cucina con Dermott IV

So I had some of the local cani over the other night. Just to catch up, shoot the breeze, and stick pins in our cat dolls.

Yes, Cosmo, that's why you've been feeling those aches and pains.

There was one vegetarian. Imagine that? A vegetarian dog?

Boys will be boys. After we'd overcome our shock, we pulled the pins out of our cat dolls and stuck them in him.

Obviously the Boofhead* was Home Economist-less. Barbara was on the phone to a lawyer seeking advice re wrongful dismissal.

What to feed a vegetarian? The Boofhead* rooted around in the frigo and the cupboards in search of something to satisfy the lunatic.

This is what the Boofhead* came up with:

A cauliflower that the Boofhead* cut up into florets, getting rid of a lot of the tough stems; a roughly-chopped tomato; some roughly-chopped Italian parsley; a couple of peeled cloves of garlic; a couple of dried chillies; a glass of white wine and some Extra Virgin olive oil.

And this is what the Boofhead* did with it all. Tossed the oil, the garlic and the crumbled chillies into a padella over medium heat and let them share their flavours for a couple of minutes:

Then the Boofhead* tossed in the cauliflower, stirred the lot around for about five minutes, partly cooking the cauliflower and letting it take up all the lovely flavours. Till it looked sort of like this:

Then the Boofhead* poured in the white wine, put a lid on the padella, and let everything cook for about another ten minutes. Then the Boofhead* added the roughly-chopped tomato -

- and a good lashing of salt and pepper, gave everything a very good stir, before putting the lid on again and letting it cook for another seven or eight minutes.

At which point the Boofhead* checked the seasoning, stirred in the Italian parsley, and put this in front of the vegetarian:

He was chuffed.

Less so when we put one of Barbara's frocks on him, tarred and feathered him, and tossed him out into the street.

Boys will be boys.

*I've noticed more and more pompous, self-important types referring to themselves in the third person. I've joined the club.

Nella Cucina con Dermott III

So the boofy opposable thumbs got itchy again. They needed a workout.

I tried cards. No one would play with me after I kept producing extra cards from my various boofy orifices.

Hence the boofy opposable thumbs got even itchier.

So back into the cucina we went.

We, of course, as regular readers of this boofy bilge will recall, means me and my Home Economist - aka Barbara Cartland nee Barbra Streisand.

When I say we, that's how it started out. That's how it was on the way to the cucina. But, halfway to the cucina, Barbara had what she obviously thought was a better idea:

440,440 winks.

You can't get reliable staff anymore. Not for love or money.

Anyways, it was down to me. The Boofhead flying solo.

What to cook today? I rooted around in the frigo and what did I find?

Two nice, pink, juicy nodini. That's two nice, pink, juicy veal chops to the uneducated amongst you.

Now, in an earlier life, prior to my boofy opposable thumbs, I'd've done my usual boofy thing and, without hesitation, swallowed them whole, raw, as they sat. And eaten the plate for dessert.

Now, guided by my boofy opposable thumbs, I was led to do something much more interesting with them.

First, I tossed a knob of butter and a boofy pawful of rosemary needles into a pan on the stove. Over gentle to moderate heat, I let the butter melt and take up the scent of the rosemary. Then I tossed in the nodini:

And I left them there. Undisturbed. For 7 or 8 minutes. I was letting the underside get nice and golden brown and caramelised.

Only then did I turn the nodini:

At which point I sprinkled some boofy salt on the cooked surfaces. The salt helps the nodini release their juices into the pan.

They got another 5 or 6 minutes cooking time, undisturbed, in this fashion.

Then I whipped them out of the pan to rest on a handy plate, leaving the pan looking like this:

Boofhead Tip: That's where the real flavour is when you're pan-roasting like this. That's bits of caramelised veal stuck to the bottom of the pan, browned butter flavoured by the rosemary and caramelised veal, and crusted rosemary needles.

And it was going to be the basis of the sauce for the nodini.

I tipped a glass of white wine into the pan, grabbed my patented Boofhead Wooden Spoon, and began scraping up all the bits of stuff stuck to the bottom of the pan:

Note to sensitive readers of this boofy bilge with delicate stomachs: I have framed the above photo in order to avoid seeing a boofy hairy paw in close proximity to the food. You can also nick off, you cloth-eared milk-sop softies. My boofy hairy paws are spotlessly clean and germ-free on account of I lick them thoroughly every day.

But I digress. I simmered the liquid for a couple of minutes, stirring and scraping, while it reduced in volume and gained in flavour.

Then I returned the nodini - and all the juices that had accumulated on the plate - to the pan:

I let them simmer gently for another couple of minutes, taking up the flavour of the sauce, turning them two or three times.

At which point, they were done.

At which point, Barbara woke from her slumbers.

She gazed in awe and admiration:


And I sacked her as my Home Economist for sleeping on the job.

Applications for the position of Home Economist to the Boofhead should be emailed to me in plain brown envelopes.

Lie Back And Think Of Vesuvius

Remember this?

The two-legged dogs' attempt to turn their bathroom from a sanitary relic of the Middle Ages into something which left you vaguely cleaner after you left than before you went in?

Yet again, they've outdone themselves.

Now when I pad into the bathroom for a spot of wallowing in the beauty suds and a brisk bit of bikini-line waxing, this is what confronts me:

Something out of Pompeii circa 78AD.

I'm currently hunting e-Bay for a toga fit for a boofhead.

I've circled the Ides of March on the calendar.*

The only good news is that Castigleonfia Firuntinaro - or whatever this village is called - is relatively volcano-free.

In fact, the closest thing to Vesuvius around here is any peto of mine.


* Yeah yeah, history pedants. The original Ides of March fell about 134 years before Vesuvius blew its proverbial cork. Even boofheads are allowed dramatic licence.

Is There No End To The Madness?

You're not voted Best Groomed Boofhead at the local parco without effort.

It takes time. It takes care.

It takes a bathroom.

Yesterday I padded into the bathroom for a relaxing wallow in the beauty suds followed by a spot of eyelash tweaking and nose-hair extraction.

What did I find?

The two-legged dogs had destroyed the place!

They've gone mad. First it was painting, now they're ripping the place apart.

This place is rapidly going to the, um, dogs!

How I Trumped Perry Mason

Woof again. Woof is Dogspeak for hullo.

Woof, in Dogspeak, also happens to mean goodbye. And what's for dinner? Not to mention Iraq's looking like a dog's breakfast, hey? And, frankly, everything else in the human vocabulary. Dogspeak is a very easy language to learn. No gender agreement between nouns and adjectives, no subjunctive, no dangling participles. Not even a clause. Or an adjective. Or even a noun.

I highly recommend Dogspeak as a second language. It's international. Get off a plane in Paris, walk up to the nearest poodle and say Woof. He - or, indeed, she - will immediately agree with you that the country has taken a hard right turn.

Email me for details of my exclusive one-on-one classes in Dogspeak. All for the price of a brisket bone.

But I digress.

Over the past month or so, something should have dawned on keen followers of this blog. Which is to say, I haven't been troubling the ether with many posts. Equally keen disciples of the Comments section of this blog will be aware that the little white rat initiated legal action against me - in the form of an injunction preventing me from posting - on the basis that I had defamed her by comparing her with Barbra Streisand.

Off to court we went. I represented myself, adopting the traditional - if you're English, as I am - barrister's head apparel in the form of a wig:

Shame I washed it the night before.

And Barbra? She didn't even turn up. She forgot to set the alarm:

I've always said she does her best work on her back.

Cupping my oversized paw to my oversized ear, do I hear another defamation action trotting up the garden path?

Be that as it may, I am delighted to report here that I triumphed in court.

Barbra had engaged Perry Mason to argue her case. I immediately jumped to my hind legs and objected on the obvious grounds that Mr Mason is a fictional character. Of course the Judge agreed with me.

Hence here I am posting again.

Woof.

That's Dogspeak for I think it's aperitivo-o'clock.

Those Were The Days (II)

I should point out at this early stage that Roman numerals aren't my strong suit. If these thread titles get beyond about XIII, I'll be coming up with combinations that would have any respectable Roman wetting his toga laughing.

Now where was I? Ah yes. The bane of my life. It wasn't so much that there wasn't room in the house for two dogs. There was. I'm a sociable chap, my level of self-esteem is on the plus side of normal, I can cope with company of my ilk.

Here's the problem. She wasn't a dog. She was a princess. Where did she sleep? On her owner's bed. I hear a chorus of "that's not unusual". How about sleeping on her owner's pillow wrapped around her owner's head? Cupping my oversized paw to my oversized ear, what do I hear?

"Bleeeeeaaaaahhhhhhh!"

Esatto!

Oops. Hang on. That's Italian. I'm not in Italy yet.

So you're getting my drift? As far as sharing lodgings with princesses go, it was like trying to live under the same roof with Barbra Streisand.

And speaking of Barbra Streisand, here she is primed to launch into "Evergreen":

Enough said?

Those Were The Days (I)

Australia might be an appalling, isolated, conservative, racist, self-important, smug, backwater of a place, but it was my home. And I loved it.

Me? A conscience? Pshaw. Two walks a day, two feeds a day. I was, as they say in Dog vernacular, giggling my boofy head off. Call me selfish, I don't care. In fact, call me anything except late for dinner.

On the other hand, happiness came at somewhat of a price.

And here it is:

The white thing on the bed yapping down at me was the bane of my life.

The truth is, I upset her cozy little domestic apple cart. The detail of which requires a small rewind in time.

I had a predecessor, another Old English called Finbar. He died. Cancer. Five years old. He arrived in the house - her house, her domain - at the age of about one and a half. He bowled in the front door, all hair and legs, paws the size of an elephant's feet, and ten times her size. She retreated to the safety of some stairs - and crapped herself. Literally. She hates the story being told.

So I'll tell it again.

She retreated to the safety of some stairs and crapped herself.

Thus she had about three and a half years of Finbar. Then he died. She breathed a sigh of relief, "My house - my domain - is mine again." I suspect foul play. She's that sort of creature. How hard would it have been to slip a radioactive isotope into his chow?

So, one radioactive isotope later, she was flying solo again. She had four years of domestic bliss. Fawned over. A lapdog. Until I arrived. Now bear in mind that Finbar was about one and a half when he lobbed, hence pretty much fully grown. Did I mention that she retreated to the safety of some stairs and crapped herself?

Here's me arriving:

Look at her sizing me up. Can't you hear the little weasel brain ticking over? "Mmmm. Something I can stuff my pyjamas in."

Little did she know, of course, and I wasn't about to tell her, that from cute little furry things do oversized buffoons grow. Which she was soon to learn:

Can't you hear the little weasel brain ticking over? "My God, my pyjamas are still inside that thing!"