Anything-and-everthing-sauce
a few rounds of what the f*** is that, and a killer TV adaptation.
As Friday nights go, gently stroking your dog while he’s induced to vomit in the back of the vets surgery is not to plan. A home cooked meal, a bottle of good wine, and finding something to watch that won’t rot the brain (too much) was the actual plan.
That was how I ended last week, with a rush to the vets, an out of hours fee (because this dog doesn’t do office hours), and an impromptu quote for some unrelated canine dental work that makes me wonder, is it too late to train as a dog dentist?
Dinner isn’t something you’d perhaps think about after looking at the contents of your dogs stomach, the vet pointing and poking at bits with a gloved finger as we played a few rounds of what the fuck is that?
All the same it was needed, and had to be grab and go. And so I found myself in the car, the dog in the back having a post vom and opioid induced kip while I ate bao buns from the local servo. Usually soft and springy when I’ve bought them during the day, at some time after 7pm, when they’ve been moved from the cafe to the front fridge, they are puck-like. Not wholly unpalatable, just not how I saw things panning out.
I like highlighting these moments as some people have the misconception that a life in food media is all long lunches, lavish freebies, and attempting feats of culinary excellence in the home kitchen. It is not.
I’m so often asked to write guides to the region in which I live. Editors want big-ticket Margaret River winery dining, coastal cafes, breweries, and cellar door stops. But I crave the day when someone commissions me to write the definitive guide to Western Australia’s servos, with a sidebar on bain marie fare and the correct construction of the Truckers Wrap.
Back to Friday night, and to heap more salt on the metaphorical wound I’d failed to notice a favoured falafel truck was trading from the servo forecourt. I finished dinner watching happy punters mingle around the truck, as I chugged a can of coke with the sole intention of it keeping me alert for the road home and the roos that seem to exist solely to test my reactions.
The last few days became more about keeping an eye on the dog - he’s fine by the way - and getting some real-life stuff done at the expense of, well, writing to you. On the home cooking front there was a huge pot of anything-and-everything-sauce, a kind of meat sauce come not-so-hot-chilli that we could also call the multipurpose meat sauce because it’ll go with pasta, rice, on corn chips, toast or as a toastie. Now I think, I’ve also baked an egg in it as well.
I may write about it further if I can pin down a recipe for it but really it’s made to mood, time, and what’s available. One week it may be meatier than the last, with beef or kangaroo, and another the veggie level may be upped to clear the fridge or just becuase that’s the craving. For heat it can always be pimped last minute.
This week the big pot came out, as did onion, carrot, fennel tops, eggplant, lots of tinned tomato, passata, butter beans, beef, olive oil, salt and pepper, but no other herbs or spices, garlic or wine. All off which on another week might make the cut. It’s nutritious, wholesome, quick to prep, and can be left to simmer. I currently have sixteen portions stacked in the freezer. It’s an easy one to pull out for the nephews (and their parents), but most of all it’s one of those dishes where you thank past you for taking the time to have cooked for present and future you.
And finally…
In the spirit of finding something to watch that won’t rot the brain (too much), the weekend was spent watching Ripley on Netflix. A series I stumbled on without the aid of any publicity. I’d worked out from the blurb that it was based on The Talented Mr Ripley novel written by Patricia Highsmith in the 1950s, and known to most because of the 1999 Anthony Minghella adaptation starring Matt Damon, Jude Law and Gwyneth Paltrow.
With two epsiodes left to view I’ll only say that this is the rarest of television. Much has been made over the past decade of the golden age of television, and also more recently the death knell of that age. It’s perhaps a premature call. In Ripley, you’re presented with a series shot in black and white, unafriad to go to subtitles, where using the word exquisite when you talk about the cinematography, the pacing, and Andrew Scott’s (can he do any wrong?) performace doesn’t seem to fully capture the sheer brilliance.
Once I reach the end of the series I can predict a few things. I’ll rewatch the Minghella film, and probably give this series another watch to drink it all in again. I’ll devour as many interviews on the series as I can find, and I’ll read each of the five original novels. You might not be as obsessed, so maybe just start with Netflix.
I live and write on Wadandi Boodja, home to the Wadandi people, Traditional Owners of this corner of south west Australia. Saltwater people, their connection to land and sea is deep, and continuous. I acknowledge their elders past, present and emerging.
I watched the trailer the other day and wondered if i should, and i now shall so i know who to blame if it’s rubbish…
I would 100% read a petrol station food guide to Western Australia!! Isn’t Ripley ravishing?! 🖤