As I sat on my second of three trains after eloping from
my second of two buses as Littlehampton, I cracked open my Northiam Dairy Live
Creamy Fruit Yoghurt and began to question the appropriateness of my selection
of scotch eggs, cherry tomatoes, yoghurt and creamy coleslaw that my ever-doting yet
somewhat-erratic mother had thrust upon me before my quest to Dorset.
I have always felt, through primary and secondary school
– as I would, day in day out, dig into my unchanging sandwich, crisps and biscuit
– that a packed lunch should be wholly consumed with nothing but the
natural-born implements we are blessed with. The requirement of a fork, knife
or spoon elevates that particular snack to being paired with either dining at
home or in a professional establishment where implements are easily accessed
and cleaned away. Kiwi fruits, breakfast cereals of any kind, and liquid-based
foodstuff, or yoghurt and coleslaw – as I, for some reason, had ought to remain
in these safe havens.
I feel it is important to travel light, so to carry
unnecessary, un-disposable tools with you seems counterintuitive. It might make
for happy eating, but it most certainly does not make for sensible travel. A
light, uncluttered satchel is definitely the way forward to a happy journey.
My incognito consumption also drew my attention to
another issue with this form of eating; it simply feels weird. I found myself
popping my head above the seats to check if anyone was around, stuffing as much
as I could into my mouth before anyone had the chance to get near; so
desperately keen that my peculiar meal was to go unnoticed by my fellow
passengers that the entire experience was ruin for me.
The peach. That’s just occurred to me. Bloody peaches.
The only safe place to enjoy the sweet flesh of a good,
juicy, ripe peach is leaning over a sink, ready to rinse your hands and head after
your delicious treat. And it has to be kept at that – a treat. One cannot make
this a regular habit, for risking familiarity with this system and becoming
tempted to test it on other foods with a high rating on the mess-spectrum.
It is of the utmost importance that we resist this urge
to roll this technique out past the delicate, fleshy fruits. Lest we risk
jeopardising the future of developed society as restaurants employ the use of
bidets instead of tables – the tap ever-ready to spray your soiled features
with a cleansing and refreshing dowsing of tap water they’d happily pass off as
bottled and charged £2 for.
Despite the impending doom western society faces thanks
to my hypothetical situation, I was still travelling with my hodgepodge picnic.
Scotch eggs are such a strange thing to even conceive.
The fungal texture of the egg paired with its sulphurous odour is enough to put
off some of the most world-weary eaters, yet the Scotch decided to add to the
peculiarity by wrapping it in a thick layer of mysterious sausage meat,
breadcrumbs and deep frying.
People of the East and tribal jungle-dwellers eat insects
and have strange delicacies, but few go so far as this odd concoction in
textures, flavours and the mixture of ingredients – spanning from a failed
poultry ovum to arbitrary cuts of pig.
And yet, I found myself sinking my teeth into the
monstrously eclectic mix on a Southern Railway train from Littlehampton to
Southampton, coming to the conclusion that – despite its distinctly compact and
clean consumption – it was very much not
suitable for this place. This particular food must be eaten at home, this such wonder should not even be sampled
at a restaurant.
A Scotch egg ought to be an inherently private indulgence
and I, for one, shall never again taste the eggy, meaty, greasy delight in public,
as long as I can have control over my consumption of food.
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