APAPS 23.6: Sound and Fury, or All Figged Out

 

One of this blog´s guiding principles is that of continuity. In other words , we try if possible to link one blog with its predecessors. Last week, you will possibly remember, we examined that great German invention, the Eierschalensollbruchstellenverur-sacher. Let us just allow our good friend, Piet Smiet, to remind us of how it works.

And we had expressed the hope that one of our more senior APAPS attendees, Paul ( who has a passion for investing in every new gadget under the sun) might invest in this Eierschalensollbruchstellenverur-sacher too.

But we had spoken too soon because, at the end of our latest breakfast, Myriam produce a similar type of gadget which Paul had indeed already invested in.

But, as you can see, the model differs from the one Piet demonstrated because there is not ze metal thing to pull up to ze top. Instead, one has to pull the whole top of the device upwards and then let it go whereupon it springs back of its own accord and hits ze top of ze egg. In other words, Paul´s gadget is spring-loaded or federbelastet.

So Paul´s device is not exactly a

Eierschalensollbruchstellenverur-sacher;

it is instead a

Eierschalenfederbelastetsollbruchstellenverur-sacher.

I am glad to make that clear. Having done so, we can now move quickly on to Yves´ highly imaginative commentary on Wednesday´s outing. I will try to keep editorial interruptions to a minimum, although he did miss out one or two key moments..

Over now to Yves, that teller of tales.

Golf : a time-consuming pursuit enjoyed by folks braving the worst that the weather can throw at them, from searing heat on well-watered ‘greens’ in the Algarve right up to the wilds of Scottish links where horizontal rain penetrates the toughest ’Sou’westers’ in moments!

We are told that golf did originate from somewhere lost in Northern mists: there may be some truth in that legend; after all, throwing stones at ‘Ghosties, ghoulies and long-leggetty beasties’ involved frighteningly close contact –a stone´s-throw, in fact! It was therefore more effective to keep these creatures at bay by using a stick with which to hit the stones: much greater range, see?

The space so gained gave kilt-wearers much more time to reach the safety of a welcoming pub with a fire, sometimes, by which they could dry their ‘Sou’westers’ and swap stories of derring-do with other liars…

Naturally, and with ‘water-of-life’ helping, the stories gained a dynamic of their own and soon the ‘mine’s bigger than yours’ competitive lie-swapping turned into ‘let’s settle this outside’ challenges. And so, with a small dash of imagination and enterprise from the Pub landlords, aka ‘Their ‘Onours’- why, they even provided old leaky tankards into which the stones would be driven with the sticks- and lo! a ‘sport’ was born!

Time went by and the remorseless spreading of the British Empire saw the ‘sport’ take root in the ‘colonies’, just like that other British institution called ‘Cricket’ but that is a closed book to this writer.

Globalisation saw to it that ex-colonials settling in ‘new lands’ domesticated them and the Algarve is now peppered with many well-watered ‘holes’ in quite a number of places: some folks even practise with new-fangled sticks made of metal these days, although they call them ‘woods’ for some obscure reason…

And this is how it came to pass that yesterday, the troop was missing one of its members: he had hurt himself during a demanding training session at the ‘19^th Hole’; we wish him a prompt recovery!

The Starters minus Dennis; Myriam, Yves, Daniela, Maria, Tanja, Dorothy, Hazel, JohnH, Fabrizio, Samantha

The day dawned in a rather uncertain way: a thin cloud cover hid the sun and thankfully kept its potent rays from the Walkers as they made their merry way up the hill from ‘Pescadores’. We soon reached the ‘Bathroom’ but some uncouth ne’er-do-well has stolen the wash-basin, leaving a forlorn pipe jutting limply out…

In the past Maria had been accustomed to sponging her face at this basin - for the benefits of the mountain dew 

but now the basin is gone.

Onwards through the greening-again hills and young eucalyptus trees: older and learned hands explained to ‘newbies’ the subtle differences that age brings to the shape and scent of eucalyptus leaves but not before one very observant lady remarked that with all that free food about, the absence of koalas was quite surprising! When quizzed gently on the matter, she explained that animals are driven by two major forces: hunger and reproduction, but not necessarily in that order; we concentrated on the ‘hunger’ segment of the exposé!

Koala bears or not, fallen eucalyptus trees induced all sorts of contortions from us

Yves is a modest fellow so I must comment on this next photograph.  When I had managed at last to squeeze past the fallen trees, I caught up with the main gang who were convulsed in laughter.

Some one, for some reason or other, had suggested that Myriam should examine Yves´(how can I put this politely?) .... posterior. She had declined, I believe, but then gave us a short speech on the word "cul" as in the old review show "Oh Calcutta" which can sound in French as "O quel´cul t´as!"

Fabrizio leaves Sam to struggle with the heavy walking gear.

At the top, all is forgiven

And then, for no apparent reason whatsoever, a burst of female cacophony

At least the neighbours did not complain. 

Humans and Walkers being but a soffistikated animal form, hunger and the quenching thereof was uppermost in some folks’ minds as they went past cactus pears –wisely left alone- and figs: never in the field of human consumption have so many figs been dispatched in so short a time by so few!

"When you pick a pear from the big paw-paw, use a claw, not a raw paw"

Norris Mac Whirter is despatching a note-taker and when he/she/they has cleared Brexit Border Controls, the hapless chap/ess will witness the feat officially, perhaps in time for the Christmas sale of this year’s Book?

That´s no way to wear a Tilley

Be that as it may, all the leaf admiring and fig consuming were causing a small group of overseas Walkers to fall further and further behind the Leader, much to his concern as the food –the real purpose of the outing- had to be served more or less at the arranged time! Dona Fernanda has known us for many years: she was not fazed by such peccadillos.

En route, we came by an old soak casually leaning against a pillar of his abode’s atrium; the sad soul was putatively putting out a tatty Silly hat in the vain hope that someone would contribute a few coins to the upkeep of his residence. 

Not a sous

When he can afford such a big place with all-weather air-conditioning, running water and impregnable views over the dirt-track, the Walkers refused to be ‘tricked’ into parting with money; some Walkers are from Yorkshire, don’t you know?

A well-timed extra loop along the canal failed to stir any Silves Pythons into view and so we made for the comforting food and shelter at ‘Pescadores’:

Lo! A sight never witnessed before awaited us there! Not a cuckoo nest-stealing python! Not a winged butterfly! Not a posse of nearly-disabled Geriatrics! None of those things!

Sea shells by the canal ! Why ?

There, besides their car, were two Walkers actually brushing dust and twiglets form their raiment and boots! First time for everything, innit, like? Wonders will never cease! 

But one must look after one´s Ermenegildo Zegna, mustn´t one

The innovating duo might even offer their grooming services to the troop, for a small fee, naturally?

The Track and the Statistics

The immaculately dressed Rod arrives for his inspection of the troops

Myriam and Dorothy display the results of their scrumping, sorry, foraging

In the following mêlée inside, great quantities of food were consumed, more banter filled the room

 and Senhor Bento gracefully offered the usual ‘afters’ of fruit: yet more figs!

Until next week? Be good!

Thanks to Hazel, Myriam, Tanja and Yves for photographic contributions and to Yves´ pen for the story.

APAPS 23.05: Eierschalensollbruchstellenverur-sacher

Do not be alarmed, dear Reader, if the title of this piece is a trifle out of the ordinary. This is still a blog dedicated, in part, to walking and, in part, to the business of breakfasting. But on this occasion, not to the Full English Breakfast. 

Antje and Tanja have probably already guessed what is going on; the rest of you will just have to wait a bit.  But, as Fats Waller used to sing, "Don´t Let It Bother you." Which enables me to do the music bit at the beginning which is just as well since the blog will conclude with some detailed technical instructions to which you should pay careful attention.

Now let us first of all look at Wednesday´s walk. As before, I am very grateful for super photographic contributions from Dorothy, Tanja and Yves, even although the early morning light caused some exposure problems,  and, once again, indebted to the irrepressible Yves for his walk report. He really has got the reporting bit between his teeth, hasn´t he? Long may he continue. Here he goes.

"  “Let’s not make a habit of this, shall we?” said Mother Superior to the Bishop… 

Here goes a loose paragraph on the events of yesterday morning: 

The day yawned reluctantly after the spectacular nocturnal show graciously offered by Madame la Lune… She was retiring discreetly in the hills beyond Silves but still fast enough so  that this scribe could not catch her as he reached Mira Rio; she only left a silvery reflection on the water below the café and His Majesty the Sun soon swept that away! 

Still, there was no time for melancholy: the Walkers were arriving in droves! Much mirth and happy chatter filled the air and the café cats were unsure: ‘friends or foes?’ Strangely, some of the old faithful dogs and one or two younger ones were notable by their absence: still asleep? We let them lie… 

New faces were welcomed; they might have seemed a bit over-awed by the noisy exuberance of the group as the Chief Snapper arranged the mob into a passable formation for the Starters’ photo but that reserve soon dissipated; as mad as the rest of us!

New arrivals wonder what they have let themselves in for

The Starters: 
JohnH, Tanja, Yves, Dorothy, Maria, Dennis, Myriam, Samantha, Fabrizio, Daniela, Hazel.

 It was far too early and the water in the levadas was too cool for Silves Pythons to show up, how disappointing… Still, some Walkers made up for the no-show by sharing and enjoying figs growing profusely along the banks.

Mmm, that fig was delicious

 Others abstained on the grounds that despite their reputation, figs are fattening; they said. One for Google here? 

Ilha Rosario soon drew a chorus of ‘Oohs and Aahs’, bathed as it was in glorious morning sunlight. Traditional group pictures** were taken and no-one fell into the Arade river. We walked on towards golden horizons.

Not before a very brave lady trusted the Assistant Snapper and stood on a rock overlooking rather solid ground and thorny bushes. She manfully overcame her fear of heights and showed remarkable patience; thanks! 

If only the resulting picture had been up to the mark… Next time? A Wagnerian Lorelei flashed though the small mind of the aforesaid Snapper while the Model reflected on Titanic; perceptions do vary. 

The Leader, in his wisdom and experience, allowed many stops to allow laggards to catch up; the Sweeper was thankful for that.

Portraitist at work

The result

Tricky lighting

When we reached the house of the ‘Lady with the Plants’, the welcome was a warm as ever; the magnificent pretty flowers were admired by all, I think, and many were given seeds, cuttings or plantlets for their own gardens. 

The lady even gave handfuls of piri-piri peppers to those with asbestos-lined mouths: these things are small but deadly!

 

Reading the electricity meter. Somebody`s going to pay for this.

We were making good time, too good time actually, so a short extra-loop was thrown in, à la Rod, to ensure that the Chef at the soon-to-be-Michelin-starred Café was not to be rushed in her efforts to produce another breakfast for the annals: fine, it was, and served indoors, too.

We were joined at breakfast by the elder statesmen, Paul and Rod. At one end of the table we had the F.E.B.

At the other end of the table

the more abstemious made do with plain toast and coffee. Chacun ses gouts, on dit.

Vitamin C was also made available in various forms.

 Perhaps, we will repeat the experience this season? And perhaps, our new friends will come again and bring some more new friends? 

My thanks to the Leader and to all the very tolerant victims whose pictures appear here. 

*    Try and shay that after one too many!

       **   Tall folks may see the camera above shorter folks but the camera cannot quite see them; likewise, we see people in sunlight but we may be in the shade; the camera never lies and shady characters remain shady.

Yves."

Now, I mentioned at the beginning that this edition was not going to deal with the Full English Breakfast. No, this time we are going to concentrate on the Soft-Boiled Egg which, oddly enough, dsoes not figure in the traditional F.E.B.

Why the soft-boiled egg? Well, recently, my attention was caught by some correspondence in the UK´s Daily Telegraph, normally a fairly serious newspaper but which on occasion allows its readers free run in the letters pages on some quirky aspect of British life, which the following extracts from the paper will no doubt demonstrate. 

29^th July The delicate art of eating a soft-boiled egg

SIR, Holiday observation has shown that the British decline in standards has reached the soft-boiled breakfast egg.

We have not quite descended to the Alpine farmers´ level of inserting a thumb into the yolk and sucking it, but the residual egg and shell mess on some plates is unacceptable.

The top of the egg should be removed with a precise knife stroke, leaving the yolk undamaged. A half slice of buttered toast should be cut into six soldiers, the first two at an angle to achieve a point that can break through the vitelline membrane of the yolk. Care must be taken to ensure that yolk displacement does not result in overflow. The other soldiers are used as required until the albumen can be whisked out of the shell and the lid with a spoon.

Finally, the lid should be replaced on the empty shell, and the other half of toast consumed with a large spread of marmalade. Somebody has to make a stand.

M.A.

31^st July Never take a knife to your soft-boiled egg

SIR, I agree with almost everything that M.A. says about how to eat a soft-boiled egg – but never use a knife to open it.

Take a teaspoon and deftly tap the top of the egg´s shell, then cut it off using the edge of the teaspoon and eat the white from the cap before eating the main part of the egg. Never allow the yolk to spill over. I´m not too sure about all the accompanying soldiers that M.A recommends.

Finally, after eating the main body of the egg, scoop up the top from the plate and pop it into the now hollow shell.

H.C.

SIR, If M.A. Has any plans to visit New York, he must remember to take his own egg cup.

On a recent visit to the city, I asked for a boiled egg, which arrived rolling gently on a plate. When I requested an egg cup I was met with the disappointing response that they did not have such a piece of tableware.

G.H.

SIR, I would add one further step to M.A.´s guide to eating a soft-boiled egg.

My grandfather, who served in the Merchant navy, always advocated using one´s spoon to make a hole in the bottom of the egg´s shell after eating the contents.

This, he assured us, prevented witches from being able to use the shells as boats, and therefore kept the sailors safe.

M.O.

1^st August   Problem cracked

SIR, For the purpose of delicately decapitating a boiled egg, I have device of stainless steel, which comprises a cone at the end of a 23cm stem on which is mounted a sliding, solid ball measuring 2.5cm and weighing 60g.

With the device held erect and the cone in close contact with the egg, the ball, released from the top of the stem, strikes the cone, which thereby makes a precise, circular cut in the shell of 3cm in diameter.

With teaspoon then in hand, the shell can be lifted off to expose the white of the egg, or it can be scooped out (together with an aliquot of albumen). The unsullied knife can then be used for spreading butter – and, in due course, marmalade -on toast.

P.H.

SIR, Opinions on the best method of approaching this delicacy may vary – but no one has mentioned the spoon.

Only a spoon made of bone can truly convey the subtleties of taste within the yolk, and it is nothing short of heresy to bring metal into contact with any part of the egg.

R.M.J.

2^nd August   Rather a mouthful

SIR, The device described by P.H. was available as a trendy tool in Germany in the1990s, and is called

Eierschalensollbruchstellenverur-sacher (literally “egg shell predetermined breaking point causer” or “punch bell egg cracker”). It is sold by Take2 as the Clack Classik.

P.M.

So there we are; the Eierschalensollbruchstellenverur-sacher explained at last. And it is clear that the Germans are just as pernickety about the protocols of soft-boiled egg eating as the British.

And so the the detailed technical instructions to which I alluded earlier - a tutorial on how to use the Eierschalensollbruchstellenverur-sacher.

These devices are of course available on Amazon d.e.  I wonder how long it will be until Paul acquires one.