Alici in Tortellini

My mother used to have a large platter with a recipe for “Alici in Tortellini” on it and I used to think it was the Italian for “Alice in Wonderland.”

But I digress.

In “Alice in Wonderland”, one of the many receptacles labelled “Drink me” contains something which, we are told, had, in fact, a sort of mixed flavour of cherry-tart, custard, pine-apple, roast turkey, toffee, and hot buttered toast”.

I have been reflecting on whether said drink would have been a thing of great delight or of revoltingness unspeakable. Whichever, it strikes me that the description is reminiscent of some of the more extravagant accounts of fine wines. Perhaps in this case a Royal Tokaji. Now THAT deserves the words “Drink me” on every bottle.

Mixing

The thought of mixing can make the heart sink or lift depending on the skills of the mixer. Pineapple and cottage cheese; potato salad and hard boiled egg; clotted cream and fudge; the thought of all of these, you might think surprisingly, at best cause indifference and, at worst, repel me. But other mixes interest me enormously. Baking meat into pastry. Scraping the residue of a tomato salad - chopped onion, tomato pips, olive oil and the tomatoey juices - into a saucepan of just drained pasta or into gazpacho.

Pineapple

Both exotic (the one piece of fruit in the fruit bowl no one touches without permission) and as ordinary as tinned fruit (pineapple chunks or pineapple rings) it is my favourite of all tropical fruit. And it can be so variable.

I used to have one blue packet of pineapple juice with a crude yellow and green shape delivered at school on Monday mornings for about five years. On reflection, it tasted a little woody.

One year, I was living in lodgings within the cathedral precincts but some distance away from where my juice was delivered. Having collected it, I had taken it up to the library and left it with my other stuff while I chose some books.

When I returned, Anthony Michael, a curly headed Greek boy, had pierced a hole in its side and drunk about half its contents. He admitted his guilt with a wink. Exasperated as much at the thought of having to carry a leaking carton of juice through the cathedral precincts as at the naked theft, I picked up the carton and squirted pineapple juice over the essay he had been writing. 

Revenge was sweet but it led to cold fury. "Would you like to step outside?" in dangerous tones. I remained in the library, my sanctuary. He did not forget my crime, complaining how I had ruined his work, forcing him to rewrite it. A few days later, I felt a kick from behind.  One of the girls in the same French set admonished me for failing to retaliate.

Flowers good enough to eat

The idea came to me at Victoria station. I found myself in need of a bouquet and had a little time on hand before my train. So, for the first time in my life, I walked around the perimeter of the flower stall surveying what was on offer. I think it was the sight of something relatively unusual in the context - some large blackberries - that inspired me. This would be an edible bouquet.

I took the stall holder into my confidence and she led me round pointing out the possibilities. On this occasion, besides the blackberries, there was lavender, there were sunflowers (seeds? oil?) and, weirdly striking, a fluorescent purple pineapple.

I suppose a horse would regard any bouquet as edible but this bunch of flowers could not, in truth, have been eaten. Culinarily themed is perhaps the more accurate description. Whatever, it went down well.