Venezuela’s Mr Chavez ’s administration floats off political reefs that would tear the bottom out of much tougher and more serious governments (ships of state? ) Cristina Fernandez, Argentina’s President - the wife of her predecessor Nestor Kirchner - has a comfortable draft of agricultural produce between her policies and danger, with ample space to try out even the wackiest policies. Or not?

This report, from “The Economist”:

“Cristina in the Land of Make Believe”

Maybe there’s a tidy connection between Jorge Luis Borges, Mario Vargas Llosa, Gabriel Garcia Marquez all from this part of the world and classed in the “Magical Realism” school of writing, and South American political culture with strong ingredients of Magic “Reality”. Room for at least one MFA thesis there.

They are favoured by their lands’ bounty and to a great extent, coincidence: they happen to have just the commodities (in large quantities, fuel and food) that the World needs most desperately - during their time in office. They can get away with a great deal of blunders and will try to do so for as long as they can.

Q

Everything else stops. Crowds collect at the roadside, around the switchback corners, gullies and precipices and specially near the water fords . We had forgotten about it this time but two years ago we’d have laid in groceries and settled in for the duration as the roads to our old farmhouse in these Cordoba mountains, would have been closed. This portion of the FIA World Rally Drivers
It is often thought that “El Rally” is about cars, drivers, navigators, raucous fans and curvaceous groupies (such is the power of old memories that the word ‘pit popsie’ creeps in). Nope. Not in Argentina. Here these Rallies, grand leftovers of the glorious days of Open Road Motor Racing aren’t about cars at all. They are about weeks of planning, laying in provisions, studying the route maps and gathering the gang or the family or even alone and getting to the selected spot well before it’s taken or worse, the roads are closed.

Roll back a little, though, to provisioning: it’s almost impossible to describe the delicacy of this operation. While Citroën and Suabaru and Ford and company are pushing their engineers and designers to their utmost and beyond with test benches and blueprints a huge array of experts, even more finely tuned in their art are at work. They may be from all walks and stations of life: wealthy to charity cases; CEO’s to vagrants. The only thing they have in common is that they are (with extremely rare and commendable exceptions) male. Their drawing boards are the counter tops of butcher shops, and their subject matter is beef. They would call it ‘carne’ for meat, in Spanish but meat here is bovine, only and exclusively. Cuts are selected, discussed, examined, by each customer with the butcher, and customer with customer and with hangers on This is a subject in its own right, especially in the small towns here, where there will be an average of fifteen butchers per town square, there are friends or hangers on that sit around on benches provided for them, in the shop. They have deep wisdom not only of beef, but are knowledgeable on most of the town’s affairs: on this occasion they are also quite possibly the best source on the prospects of the different rally teams , as well as the routes, best watching spots (highly kept secrets in general) and any policy changes that haven’t made it into the news. Once the beef has been selected there will follow a slightly quicker, but no less important, addition of sausages, offal (sweetbread, kidneys, and so on) . A very minimum will be one pound overall per person, plus a little more (another two pounds) just in case. Surprisingly to an outsider, even those with apparently low purchasing power will manage to gather enough ‘meat’. Next would be a good stock of wine, red and not usually fussed about very much; reasonably drinkable is good enough, but enough. Lately Fernet Branca, an amaro liqueur with very high alcohol has become very popular. It was supposed to be a digestif but in this case its booze.

The well equipped rally watcher will also have a portable grill which isn’t a problem: most cars have them in the boot all the time (I’ve known cases of the grill being there when the spare tyre wasn’t). Note, there is not much else: meat drink and oh yes, bread. Wives, girlfriends make salads and things. Rallies take a long time to deploy so the different watcher groups would begin to spread out along the route many hours earlier, half a day or more (some camp out overnight). Certainly well before roads are closed. By now it should be obvious that this is the more important part of the event. Cars race by, the leaders then a fairly long interval to the rest of the rally cars roar by. Some arousal among spectators at the first distant rumble, cries of encouragement and boos ripple down the route then quick inquiries, numbers matched to cars, screams of wild excitement as the cars slither and skid, fly and thump and sploosh (nothing like a stream and a mighty splash). Then passionate arguments about positions, possibilities and identities which soon subside. Meanwhile there is one of the group that remains unmoved, the one whose mettle will be tested this day, the asador, tending his grill over the hot coals as he fusses and mumbles invocations over the spread out cuts and sausages. Not long after the first spread of cars have passed the rest will join him and the wine, which has been flowing quite freely all along. After the leaders have past most will remain here, by the griller, who will provide bits gradually but with increasing frequency into a crescendo of food that at some undefinable point about mid afternoon, will have become lunch. It will descend into a pleasant and desultory evening, many a siesta under the sparse scrub of these mountains and well into dark, the roads open again and everyone rolls home.

But this year has been different. It is early to say if the Shadow of Darkness comes creeping over, probably not. But there was no meat. Just like that. Because of soybeans. Not because this nation of carnivores has become suddenly vegetarian, no one seriously wants to eat soybeans, not here certainly but the Asians do, in large quantities and there is the beginning of the stirring unease that even crept into the rally: Farmers began to get good prices for soybean for export, government wants more than it can get off the standard cuts it has always taken so levied an extra tax burden, farmers retaliated with a strike just as the crop is due for harvest, stopped all produce from getting to the markets with all the usual bells and whistles of strike action, pickets, threats and so on. Nothing unusual. Except that the sides of beef did not get to the butchers in time to provision the rally.

I was actually about to write a review on Susan Huffman’s 33 Worst Mistakes Writers Make About Horses today but on the midday radio news there were interviews at the rally roadsides; the leading question was “… and what are you having for lunch?” followed by the most sorrow filled replies: “a little bit of pork … some chicken legs and they are so very small!”. Then the interviewer with a cautious ray of hope to a desperate people “But apparently the trucks are getting through”. If the cars had not been able to get through it may not have been so important. No meat.

Q

-*-

ST. ANDREW’S DAY

Five hundred writers have used St Andrew’s Day to call for Scottish literature, history and language to be given a bigger platform.

Their petition handed in at Holyrood calls for greater emphasis on Scottish culture in the education curriculum. BBC News. Today, 30th. November ‘07

From this blog, my support and hope that this petition is heeded

—*—

St. Andrew’s Societies, Scottish heritage groups, celebrate this day all over the world. Evenings, pipers will march escorting a cook carrying a haggis on a silver platter, in their midst to present Scotland’s most famous dish to a President or Chief of the Banquet. The haggis will be split open with a dirk (a small dagger worn at the kilts waist - not the Sgian Dubh -’skee.an.do’ - worn in the top of the stocking -hose- though it may be used of course) then approved by the Chief and those at the main table. A whiskey toast to the haggis by all, including the pipers in the cooks escort. Glasses thrown over shoulders, smash on the floor and the presentation over, pipers about face and march out, once again with the bagpipes playing.

It is a grand ceremony and I regret that I must be away from these St. Andrew’s Banquets.

One occasion was specially memorable. The haggis, a ’super sausage’ actually, a glistening smooth bag in the centre of a salver, was presented to the St. Andrew’s Society Chairman. As is customary the Chairman offered the guest of honour the privilege of opening it. This happened to be a pompous gentleman from … well, a Very Important Person whose main qualification was being Very Important, much more than being Person. Properly disdainful of these savages in skirts, but ah well … the duties of high office you know. He took the dirk from the Chairman, as the cook (a wee little man, somewhat intimidated) placed the tray just right, in front of him.

VIP raised the blade high over his shoulder and tried to kill the poor haggis with a mighty stab. He missed. The point glanced off and struck the dish. Everyone froze - except the haggis. It leaped off its platter skittered across the ballroom floor at great speed, bounced off the skirting board and disappeared under the diners tables and chairs, on the other side of the room. Someone tried to stop it with a foot and it shot out towards the main table right at VIP. Maybe he was flustered, perhaps he thought it was really dangerous but he still had the dirk in his hand and he stooped for another stab. Touché, another glancing blow sent haggis into the Drums and Pipes Band by the grandstand. Swirling kilts as they stooped and grasped but it slipped away again and settled slowly in the centre of the dance floor. It would have ended there but a young lad amongst the guests well into the spirit of the thing made a flying tackle - which sent it skipping off again of course.

It went on, but finally the haggis, tired and wan, was captured as it got trapped in a corner. It had lost the gleam of its glistening coat and was cold but still intact when it was carved open. It was still very good though.

—*—

Haggis:

Sheep’s pluck : Paunch (or bag, large stomach) heart, liver lights (lung). Lean mutton, some bone marrow. Beef suet. Onions, oatmeal, salt, pepper, cayenne, lemon or vinegar.

Clean pluck thoroughly, drain the blood and parboil the whole. The water may be changed after a few minutes, continue boiling in fresh water. Half an hour should be enough, though the liver can be done a little longer so that it will grate easily. Keep the boiling broth.

Take the heart, half of the liver and part of the lights (trim out any hard or dark parts). Mince them all together, with a pound of good beef suet and four or more onions. Grate the other half of the liver. Have ready a dozen or so small onions, peeled and scalded, to mix with the mince.

The oatmeal (slow cooking, not ‘quick’ and ’stone ground’ is traditional) should be fine. It can be given a light toasting in an oven or in front of a hearth. Two cups should be enough. Spread the mince on a board and strew the meal over it, with the seasoning of pepper, salt and a little cayenne.

The clean haggis back, with the rough surface outward, should be without any thin parts to it 8or it will burst - some cooks use two just in case). Prepare the mince mixture and onions to the right consistency (it should stick together when you take a handful) and fill the paunch until a little over half full. Add a little lemon or vinegar, press out the air and sew up the bag. Prick in places and place in large boiling pot (prick again as it swells . Let it boil about three hours in the covered pot, adding broth or water as necessary.

Sgian Dubh