spudger

Origin — Food — Drink

1900 — tacos, quiche, schwarma, pizza, osso bucco, paella, tuna, goulash, hamburger, mousse, borscht, grapefruit, éclair, chips, bouillabaisse, mayonnaise, ravioli, crêpes, consommé — Coca Cola, soda water, riesling

1800 — spaghetti, soufflé, bechamel, ice cream, kipper, chowder, sandwich, jam, meringue, hors d‘oeuvre, welsh rabbit — tequila, seltzer, whisky

1700 — avocado, paté, muffin, vanilla, mincemeat, pasta, salmagundi, yoghurt, kedgeree — gin, port, champagne, brandy, sherbet

1600 — omelette, litchi, tomato, curry, chocolate, banana, macaroni, caviar, pilav, anchovy, maize, potato, turkey, artichoke, scone — tea, sherry, coffee, sillabub

1500 — marchpane (marzipan), whiting, offal, melon, pineapple, mushroom, salmon, partridge

Middle English — venison, pheasant, crisp, cream, bacon, biscuit, oyster, toast, pastry, jelly, ham, veal, mustard, beef, mutton, brawn, sauce, potage, broth, herring, meat, cheese — muscatel, rhenish (rhine wine), claret, ale

Old English — cucumber, mussel, butter, fish, bread — beer, wine, water

The evolution of terms for food and drink is an interesting reflection of the history of cultural contact between English-speaking countries and the rest of the world (G. Hughes, 1988).

“London about me gazed at me spectrally. The windows in the white houses were like the eye sockets of skulls. About me my imagination found a thousand noiseless enemies moving”

Henrique Alvim Corrêa (1876-1910) - Windows Like Eye Sockets

1:34.

Not too bad. But not sleepy at all. You step out of bed (not even that makes you tired), slide your feet into your slippers and wander out of your room.

Perhaps it's because you can't separate work from home. You love your job - of course you do - and living directly above the bakery results in the world's easiest commute, but the images of mixers and ovens that need to be awake and working at five AM and the piling bills and not-piling income torment you as you try to sleep. So you succumb to the whim of the bakery, and go downstairs.

At least this gives you a chance to experiment - you preheat the oven and tie your apron around your waist. Then you twist open a tin of tomatoes and start reducing it in a small saucepan on the hob when you hear a tap at the window. It's probably just a conker, you tell yourself as you unwrap a bar of dark chocolate.

You rock your knife over the chocolate chopping it as fine as you can, then you slide it from the chopping board into a small glass bowl which you set over a saucepan of simmering water.

Three purposeful taps at the window. But you're tired, you're probably just imagining it.

Three more taps.

'We're closed!' you call out, 'And it's two in the morning!'

Silence. You stir your shards of chocolate until they become a glossy liquid, then you take it off the heat and set it on the counter. The fragrance mingles with the tomatoes in the air. As you walk to retrieve the block of puff pastry you made yesterday from the fridge, you notice a figure standing outside the front door.

He's wearing a dark hood over his strangely large and angular head, obscuring his face.

'How come the lights are on?' he says. He sounds young - a teenager if those voice cracks are anything to go on.

'I'm just making some stuff for the morning.' Your hand is on the fridge but you can't open it and comprehend this at the same time.

'May I try some? You're the only place that's open.'

This guy might rob me, you think, maybe he's faking that voice crack to appeal to my caring nature. And we are not open. You think too highly of yourself. Really you're just paranoid. Why would a teenager choose a bakery with the lights on to rob - and what do you have for him to take? A cold block of uncooked puff pastry?

You walk to the front door. 'It won't be ready for a while yet,' you say, opening the door. 'But you're welcome to wait.'

He speeds past you, not letting you see his face, and sits at one of the booths. Maybe this was a bad idea. No-one moves that quickly unless they've got something to hide.

'Won't your parents be wondering where you are?'

'No,' he says, 'it's the middle of the day for me.'

You say nothing and shut the door, instinctively flipping the sign to say 'OPEN' as you do. 'I'm just going to finish off those pastries, then you can take one home with you, okay?'

The boy says nothing.

You take out the puff pastry from the fridge and, working quickly so the butter doesn't melt, roll it out into a large rectangle on the counter. Using a pizza cutter, you cut the pastry into equal squares. You spread the cooled melted chocolate into the centre of each square and dollop a lump of the reduced tomato paste into the middle. You fold each square into a pinwheel then put them in the oven. You don't go out into the seating area until the pastries are cooked.

After fanning them down a little so the boy doesn't burn his tongue, you place three golden pastries into one of the cardboard takeaway boxes and take them out to him.

He's taken his hood down, revealing, protruding through his hair, enormous brown antlers framing his face like a wreath.

'Oh my word!' You drop the box of pastries.

'I'm sorry!' he says hurriedly, getting up from the booth. 'I thought you couldn't see me. They'll drop off soon, when winter arrives - I'll be less scary then.'

'No! You're not-' you stammer. 'Let me just get you some more pastries.'

You run back into the kitchen, your breath quick and heavy, and stand with your back against the wall. After a few glances back to the boy to confirm he does, in fact, have antlers (though he has since put his hood back up), you pack him another box and take it back out to him.

'Am I too sleep deprived-' you ask setting the box down on his table, 'and i hope I'm not being rude - or do you have antlers?'

'I am sorry,' he says. 'I truly didn't mean to scare you.' He pulls his hood down - definitely has antlers - and takes a pastry from the box. 'It's a shame those other pastries will go to waste now.'

'Nah, I'll have those for my breakfast. It's only floor.'

He laughs, and takes a bite. His facial expression is hard to discern, his eyes are completely black and his face is totally still.

'Is it... okay?' you ask tentatively. 'It's a new thing, something I just came up with.'

'It's...' His eyebrows twitch as he chews and swallows. 'Outstanding.'

'Goodness me!' you cry, relieved. 'You worried me there.'

'Amazing,' he mumbles, pushing another mouthful into his mouth as he stands up, and tucks the box under his arm. He fishes some change out of the pocket of his hoodie and shakes my hand, holding it into my palm. 'Thank you so much.' He smiles, then, as quick as he entered, leaves the bakery, and you can't see him in the dark outside.