The Blackberry Walk

A couple nights ago, I had for dinner a very simple soup. Consisting of only couscous, tomato, peppers, and some diced chicken, this simple soup with no strong stimulating flavours had on me a kind of tonic effect. As an aside, I often wonder if the food of today, through the long supply chains and cold storage is less flavourful than the food of the past; it has been argued that the simplicity of English cuisine originates in accentuating the quality of the ingredients. And the strong flavours of the orient, like the spice mixes found in the Middle East, in India, and in the Far East (excluding Japan, of course), are to mask poor flavourless ingredients. But I digress. Simple foods are a kind of tonic: a tonic against the never-ending feast. What is a feast, then? The feast is where the word festival originates; it's a meal to commemorate or celebrate through the consumption of vast quantities of usually rich foods. A rich food is a fatty food, or a dish designed and cooked with a degree of complexity; in the British canon of cuisine, we celebrate with say a roast, filled with lard-soaked potatoes and a big joint of meat, be it lamb, pork, beef, or a whole bird. For the Greeks - another culture I share through my family - the dishes of choice include lamb and other large pie like dishes like pastitsio, which is a lasagne-like dish laden with cheese and soufletted with egg; or giovetsi, which consists of a stew of orzo (small rice-shaped pasta) and meat in a tomato sauce, which Vefa - the authority of Greek cooking - recommends should be cooked with half a cup of good olive oil and half a block of butter. Even when halving the lipid content, it is as rich and creamy as a stew can be. These dishes are all feast dishes, designed to be served for special occasions. And it's no coincidence that the 'good' cuts of meat are for frying and the 'cheap' cuts of meat are for stewing: we bias the rich dish of the feast over the poor dish of the fast. In the past only the rich could 'eat like kings' and have roasts every day. Now, through advances in agriculture and logistics, the majority of the population can eat like a nobleman, even if they rent a room in an HMO. Our dietary habits have been cut asunder from our material realities. The never-ending feast feels almost natural then. I know from my own experience how easy it is to eat well in the UK. Even if you are poorer or don't have the time to cook after work, there are endless ready meals like creamy fish pies, lasagnes, or coconut curries, all of which need only twenty minutes in the oven from frozen. We feast constantly, even when there's no festival, and we've forgotten what gives the feast its lustre: the fast. I was going to write this article earlier, but decided to wait for the most well-known fast period of all: Lent. Every year, we give up something dear to us for lent; many give up a vice that they've been attached to, but often its best to give up something good for Lent. Continuing with the root of fasting, food, rich foods emulsified with fats, oils, and cream are delicious, and they're good for you. But there is such a thing as too much of a good thing. As a podcast I listen to said, we should be giving up vices all year round, no just at Lent; but Lent is a time to give up something good. And we should consider why would ought to give up something good. We should give up what is good in part to prove we can do without it. What is good for us can soon become a crutch upon which we rest; and in leaning upon this crutch, our own two legs whither in strength. To be strong is to be able to manage without what's good for us, because, just like Job, it can in an instant be taken away. Another reason to give up what is good, is to "pay for sunsets". My favourite quote - which if you've read this blog for long enough, you know will be a quote from G. K. Chesterton - is the following, "Oscar Wilde said that sunsets were not valued because we could not pay for sunsets. But Oscar Wilde was wrong; we can pay for sunsets. We can pay for them by not being Oscar Wilde." We pay for the sunset, and in turn value and appreciate the sunset, not just through morality and chastity, but also by imagining and experiencing what it would be like if there were no sunsets left to be seen. Similar to how one can imagine what life without a loved one would be like, and appreciate the loved one's presence all the more for it, one can experience life without a favourite past-time, or a preferred food. For me this Lent I'm giving up podcasts, since I had gotten to the point where I did little else than listen to them, whether it be on the walk to and from work, or when I got home from work cooking supper. And not only will I appreciate them all the more for it, but by knocking down this great pine tree shading over the garden, the other blossoming vegetation below has the sunlight to grow, and I can use the time now freed to explore new interesting occupations. Fasting has become somewhat trendy in certain circles. Recently, I decided to give some of the water fasting I've read about a go, and I've discovered that my body really hates me for it. Fasting is the full reminder that man is part animal. When at work I set down for my lunch break at the usual twelve o'clock time, with colleagues who were opening their lunches, I was struck with uncontrollable salivation. I felt like Pavlov's dog. All the usual motions for "time to eat" set off a ringing alarm clock in my head, almost begging me to start eating. And I could start to feel a revolt build up inside of me; I could sense that my body was intently pissed off at me. It's a stark reminder that we are not fully in control of ourselves; that, as the Buddhists say, we are merely the pilot upon the elephant. The truth is, however, that our bodies don't always know best; and that our gut instincts, whilst often accurate, are sometimes wrong. Our bodies have interests, desires, aims which are often at odds with our own; they are the passions of the flesh, if you will. The flesh wants to gorge on rich foods, have sex as much as possible, boast of achievements, bully and mock the weak, and wield power over others. The way of flesh is one of savagery and, if it is never disciplined, is the Hobbesian state of nature. To yield to the state of nature is in a sense a pagan feast, where great feasts were alloyed with debauchery. The fast is the antidote to the never-ending feast. I could feel my stomach, the flesh, rebel against my short fast, but I maintained will-power to see it through to the end, showing my body 'who's boss'. To be unsure in disciplining the body simply because the body sends you 'bad emotions' or sends you thoughts saying 'give up', is akin to be nervous riding a horse: the horse won't follow your instructions. Much like the impulses of a child, the body needs wise parenting to set it upon the correct path. A defeatist lassez-faire approach to parenting will never nurture good children. The never-ending feast is a kind of kowtow to the bullying body and a suppression of the reasoning mind, to live in ignominy and reject your higher calling to rule. Many online propound a gospel of the spartan life to bring your body into full submission, but a spartan life as a kind of hyper-masculine robot is very unappealing to me. Spending your every waking moment training, whether in body or in mind, is a kind of waste of our time here on Earth. To become well-rounded people, to become a 'solid guy' or a 'capital chap', you have to 'waste' time to notice beauty and appreciate the sunset. For only when you appreciate the sunset does one start to want to fast.