The end of WMPC???

And yet again there has been a lull in the movement that is Where's My Pork Chop? Just like the aftermath of a party, the good intentions and ideas behind this little project now, seemingly, lie littered on the floor amongst streamers, fag butts, chicken bones, empty wine glasses and empty tupperware boxes. As always it's fun at the time, chatting, laughing, drinking, doing the hokey cokey with my fellow bloggers. But lately whenever I go on these mad expeditions or food swaps, I keep finding myself perched on the edge of the bed nursing a fuzzy head the next day, fingers over my eyes, thumbs rubbing my temples desperately trying to get the ol' grey matter going. At the root of this particular hangover lies a simple question that I ask myself before sitting down in front of the computer. 'How am I going to write this one up then?' It's probably something that a lot of bloggers ask themselves, wanting to keep their posts fresh and original. Personally, this has meant going off on whimsical flights of fancy, scribbling down nonsensical journeys into the inner gubbings of my mind and sometimes the content is not always related to food. And as a result this has started to become a bit of a mute point when it comes to writing up a WMPC post. Brainy from the Numbskulls is starting to run out of ideas to put in the suggestion box. I don't want to say for a second that the party is over because I love meeting and connecting with people under this wonderful umbrella of food. But I think for WMPC to continue, I need to focus a bit more on the blogger and about reviewing the meals they send my way, to be perhaps a bit more succinct and not get too tied up in trying to fire off some witty parable. So there, I've said it. WMPC will carry on but in future it will be short, sharp and to the point.

And besides how could I even think about jacking it all in? Especially now that WMPC has gone international! Yes I received my very first food package from abroad (well second if you consider Scotland) way back in December all the way from Holland! Boo Yah! Man, it's a druggy cliche but the shit that Luc Martin sent me was amazing. I haven't had this much fun since the time I swallowed 12 space cakes at Glastonbury '94 and ran off to the Green Field wearing my sister's dress, screaming that I had transformed and shrunk into Willow Ufgood. It took my mates 3 hours to talk me down from an ancient oak tree that night but we still laugh about it from time to time....................... (stop it FU, stop it)

Erm yes, so I am now swapping food across the seas having engaged and bonded with Luc over the magic of Twitter. In his blog Roast Chicken and Red Wine, Luc displays a fondness for the unusual and is therefore a man after my own heart. For instance, his account of cooking hare is both funny and informative in which he praises the flavour of the animal whilst all the while highlighting the necessity of using a clothes peg when preparing it. And Luc certainly knows how to get the most out of ingredients. In return for his food packages he requested that I send him the finest black pudding in all off Laaandan Taan. After much deliberation (maybe too much) I couriered over some slices of blood sausage from Stornoway and a selection of Henderson's mini black, white and chorizo mixed puds, all purchased at Borough Market. Over a period of about 5 days, I could only watch my screen in amazement as he tweeted (with pictures) various meals, all with a black pudding element. Ribeye burgers topped with black pudding, eggs benedict and black pudding, black pudding on pizza and finally steak and black pudding...pudding. I really didn't think I had sent him that much. But he obviously enjoyed it for which I am glad as this iron-rich, colon busting package was sent in thanks for the Dutch goodies Luc had sent me a few weeks previous.

Unfortunately I wasn't so creative with the smoked salami-type sausage and pancetta that he sent me, along with some aged Gouda cheese and yep you guessed it, some black pudding. We received the package during the full on festival of gluttony that is Christmas so rather than knocking up some fancy meals like ol' fancy wooden clogs Luc, the FU clan used the meats and cheese to graze on as we were want to do throughout the whole fattening period. The charcuterie was very good indeed and survived the journey well, the sausage was smokey as to be expected but also with a nice spice. The aged Gouda really was interesting as this was quite hard and salty, similar to Parmesan in some respect and totally different to the creamier, rubbery texture I have encountered before. The closest I got to cooking and conjuring up a meal was when I fried the black pudding and constructed an open sandwich using a slice of rye bread, some of the cheese and a fried egg. Typical hangover breakfast material really but the blood sausage with delicious. Dense, iodine and supreme savoury. I am bit perplexed in fact as to why he was so eager that I send black pudding his way.

Thanks again Luc for sending your contribution over the waters and apologies to the delay in getting this post done. Believe me there have been many incarnations.

And lets get the International Preserves Exchange underway. Now that's something we could both get our teeth into.

And last but not least, let's get on with some more WMPC adventures, are you interested in feeding me?

Vac-packed goodies from the Netherlands

Hangover brekkie

Aged Gouda

Dutch charcuterie

Grazing

A Letter From Ameri......Ooooh No Aberdeen!

When I was at university, I shared a house with a bunch of guys who were a great laugh but hygiene, food hygiene in particular, was not high on our list of priorities. We were absolute slobs. And the kitchen certainly rivalled the scene from Withnail and I - FORK IT! It's a wonder that I didn't contract e-coli or something like that. Or maybe I did but I would always put the galloping trots down to the horrible but cheap 'Graphite' cider we used to drink. Anyway, one of the guys, who for the purposes of anonymity shall be named Greg because that was his name, used to get a regular package from his parents every week. It would contain a letter, some cash, couple of Pot Noodles, a few sachets of Cup-A-Soups and a pair of clean pants. Which was sweet and endearing but the whole escapade used to baffle the hell out of me. Did his parents really think that those meagre dried and totally unhealthy rations would sustain him throughout the week? Did they really think he would spend the money on decent food? And why did Greg get a clean pair of pants once a week. What happened to the other pairs? Did he wear those pants for the whole week and then throw them away? I never did pluck up the courage to ask him. Not even after a couple bottles of that crap cider.

But why am I harping on about the past (yet again). Well not that long ago, say only about a month ago, well maybe longer, I received my very first WMPC contribution by post all the way from bonnie Scotland! This filled me with no end of excitement, largely because of all a sudden I could see this project going global. Yes, first Scotland, then Wales, maybe Ireland, Isle of Man? The sky was the limit now. I started thinking that perhaps I could start to expect packages from all over the world, containing strange and exotic foods such as Armadillo Roadkill from Texas, Crocodile Curry from Thailand or Mole Crickets from Mexico. I got all these perfectly postable suggestions from here by the way. OK maybe this is all a bit much to be asking for just yet but you never know what's on the horizon. And oh to be a blogger of international fame. Sure call me ambitious, call me big headed, call me vain, vapid and vacuous if you like but seriously to push WMPC onto the world stage, well it would be a dream come true. Sigh But let's come back down to humble beginnings and have a delve into the wonderful Celtic treasure trove that Lyndsay of White Wine In The City sent me. First a little bit of background.

I originally got in contact with Lyndsay via the magic of Twitter having got embroiled into some debate over Danny Dyer of all people. I still say he's a prick Lyndsay but anyway I detected a sniff of interest from her to participate in WMPC. People should really keep their guards up really because give me an inch and I'll take a mile. So we got into this email exchange where I soon discovered that beneath the hardened shell of an maintenance technician who works for an offshore oil company beats the heart of a passionate foodie By her own definition, Lyndsay is originally a Weegie who has moved up and settled down in the fair Granite City of Aberdeen which is far more than north than I have ever been. Actually the furthest I've got in Scotland has been the Trossachs and once you've been caught by the trossachs, you daren't go any further. I digress. Frustrated by the lack of a decent food scene in Aberdeen she began to develop a strange compulsion to look and paw at food blogs when she's supposed to be dieting for her wedding. And of course she started to write her own blog which, cooking and gardening experiments aside, displays a slavish devotion to fish fingers which I think is brilliant because I love them too.

So after just a couple of days corresponding, Lyndsay sent me a tweet saying "Therr's a wee boax a goodies on therr wey, ah hope they dinnae git foosty" and low and behold the postman came knocking on the door the next day with a box labelled FRAGILE and addressed to 'Mr Food Urchin and Family'. I was over the moon. As I opened it, a soft yellow hue shone outwards, lighting up my face and my ears filled with the sounds of bagpipes. Inside there contained -

A can of Irn Bru
A packet of Aberdeen Rolls aka Butteries
A roll of Charles Macleod Stornoway Black Pudding
A squat but perfectly formed little Macsween's Haggis
A patty of butter
Some raspberry jam
Two Gingerbreadmen
And a packet of Scottish Fudge

The real nice touch was the handwritten letter from Lyndsay, giving me a brief and funny overview of everything. I was particularly tickled by her tale of having worked with an American chap who used to regularly eat 6 butteries for breakfast and more with his fish and chips for lunch. Apparently he was also a rather large chap which is no surprise given Lyndsay's estimation that they contain roughly 2 million calories a bite. Essentially this was a traditional breakfast package and she recommended creating a stack of fried potato scone, fried haggis, fried black pudding and topped with a fried egg. All to be washed down with the Irn Bru. Now at this point, I don't want to cause a diplomatic incident by saying this but fucking hell is it no wonder that Scotland is the coronary capital of Europe?! Still I am always game for eating, however unhealthy it may all sound so a couple of days later I set about frying up a storm early one morning for myself and Mrs FU. I didn't get my hands on any potato scones or farls so I decided just to slice up and saute up some charlottes that I had knocking around. And just for a touch of colour, I decided to throw in a pinch of chopped parsley, like a proper English tube. I have to say it was all indulgently wicked. The haggis was very good with warm spice and peppery notes that cut through the plump oats and lungs. The black pudding was surprisingly light, crumbly and very moreish, so much so that we sliced some more up afterwards and whacked in the pan. Cutting through the soft fried egg, the yolk escaped and oozed down into the morass which made everything taste even better. The tatties did their job in upping carb overload (and the parsley added a certain fresh zing to proceedings). Drinking a glass of fluorescent, possibly toxic orange fizz at that time of day was unusual but I do like a can of teeth coating Bru and it washed everything down fine. Afterwards, we were fairly full up but I decided to plow on with some toasted butteries and jam. Interesting, they were like a cross between a plain white roll and a croissant, very nice thickly spread with jam in fact but how you'd get through 6 of them is beyond me.

Mrs FU also reported that the fudge was some of the best she's tasted so high praise indeed. As for what the twins thought of the gingerbread men is anyone's business, I can't understand them at the best of times but they are only two years old. I think the clue lies in the fact that they demolished them in seconds.

So thank you Lyndsay for your excellent contribution to WMPC, it certainly knocked the socks and pants off what my mate Greg ever got sent to him in the post. I know you've been waiting a while for the post and I feel bad for that. I also haven't been able to reciprocate yet with a package of goodies from London but in the meantime I've sent you a signed copy of this photo which I hope goes towards some way of making things up. I am sure you'll find it much more sexier then that tube Danny Dyer.

Box of Delights

The haul and handwritten letter

Cardiac Attack Breakfast

Very buttery 'Butteries'


One is the limit