Bold and beautiful borscht
First Russian Salad, now borscht – you might be forgiven for thinking that The Daily Spud had packed up and moved several countries to the East. In fact, with the weather these days, you could be forgiven for thinking that the entire country had migrated somewhere east and north of its usual position. Not actually the case, though. I’m still firmly rooted in Irish soil and the country would still appear to be residing in its accustomed spot on Europe’s western fringes. It’s just that the snow and temperatures hereabouts make me feel like I’m in a Russian winter (perhaps I exaggerate slightly, but still, my extremities do have trouble thawing out these days).
I was confused earlier today.
As to what I should eat for dinner, I mean.
Of course, it’s not an uncommon dilemma. Much has been written about the complex web of issues that can underlie the seemingly simple question of what to eat. In this case, however, it was merely a case of indecision brought on by the weather. I mean, if the weather can’t make up its mind as to what it is doing, then how, dear reader, can I?
See, first it was warm, unseasonably warm and gloriously sunny for days. Then it started cooling off, before the temperature then decided to take an outright nosedive, accompanied by whipping winds and a biblical downpour that pummeled everything that remained out of doors. Eventually, the deluge abated but it was still cool enough outside that I wasn’t up for ditching my trusty fleece layer. And today, there was sun again and, despite the earlier chill breeze, a bit of warmth in the afternoon.
All of this has played havoc with my internal menu signaling system. I can’t tell – is it time for a summery salad or a wintery stew?
As I boarded my
bus chariot for the evening, I realised that I might have come slightly underprepared on the food supplies front. The journey ahead would normally take an hour and a half or less, but the weather and traffic were abysmal. My chariot driver told me that the same journey the day before have taken him a ghastly 7 and a half hours. Testament to the fact that we Irish cannot handle snow at all. Anything more than a brief flurry and the country grinds to a halt.
Perhaps I should have taken one of these?