Mince

Lucy’s column for April 15th
Mincelo…1
I’ll never forget the look of downright horror on the old man’s face when he was presented with a plate of steak tartare.
It was during a working lunch at a rather smart restaurant in the village of Waterhouses. Guest of honour, in his role as designer of the greenery in the restaurant’s new conservatory, was none other than gardener-to-the-rich-and-famous Roddy Llewelyn. And, since it was around the time of his alleged affair with the late Princess Margaret, the Press were out in force. Including me and himself.
The idea was that we each selected a starter, tried it, and passed it on. It must have been that those old faithfuls – tomato soup or prawn cocktail, he never did have a sense of adventure – had already been chosen. So he was stuck with steak tartare, which he, who’d never been anywhere posh enough to come across it before, assumed was something fancy with a dollop of tartare sauce on the side. But as all we sophisticates know, it isn’t.
The dish of raw beef and uncooked egg turned his face forty shades of green. It hadn’t seen so much as a match. To my acute embarrassment, he left the table holding his stomach and his throat. Heaven knows what dear old Rodders made of it, and I thank my lucky stars that the rest of the gourmets had polished it off on its rounds before it got to my turn. I, too, like my meat cremated.
Apart from my choice – lobster, a portion so small I could have got it in my eye – it must have been with priciest piece on the menu. So over to the bureaucrats in Brussels, who are in the process of up-grading our humble mince, a family’s stable standby, to steak tartare standards.
Pretty soon, our favourite low-fat, Scottish beef mince – often two packs for a fiver at the supermarket, and perhaps even cheaper than that at a proper butcher’s – could be in the gourmet bracket. It may be even cheaper to dine on lobster. But lobster doesn’t have the same versatility.
We have mince at Orgill Towers at least once a week, in a variety of guises. What other commodity could a thrifty housewife turn into spag bol, rissoles, burgers, Cornish pasty, cottage pie, meat loaf, chilli con carne, lasagne, or simply turn out in delicious, runny mounds on to mash or rice? Life may be too short to stuff a mushroom, but lop the top off a pepper, or flatten a vine leaf, and they’re both crying out to have their innards lined with the tasty concoction.
The European Union has straightened our cucumbers, insisted on uniformity and labelling for every item of fruit and veg, and taken the flavouring from some of our crisps – not that I ever fancied the hedgehog variety, but that’s not the point.
But they can keep their mitts off the mince which has been the staple of suppers and snacks for generations. And we promise not to mess with their gritty mussels.
End
Domlo..1
There have been pub domino leagues, and the noble game played round our family’s tables, for as long as I can remember. In my childhood, if the grown-ups weren’t playing solo – which was a bit too complicated for kids to join in – they were playing dommies. Which we could. Given a strong wind, a half-decent handful of the spotted woods, and indulgent parents and older sisters, I could run to two ounces of pear drops with a weekend’s winnings by the time I was seven.
According to reports, dominoes is staging a comeback, taking over from computer games, with John Lewis claiming that sales of the game are up 20 per cent. And at £4 a box, compared with the extortionate cost of the battery-powered toys, electronic game consoles, or PlayStations, it’s entertainment value for money. (And on a serious side, it teaches kids how to count, be patient, use their mind and memory skills, and partake in team-play).
Domlo…2
This renaissance of such a simplistic yet joyful game has moved on a tad since we played for one old penny a game. A recent world championship in Jamaica had a £75,000 prize fund. And we also hear that the likes of the Beckhams, the Tom Cruises, and Demi Moore, are embracing it. And they’re the so-called trend-setters.
But it’s never been out of fashion in our neck-of-the-woods, and on a recent holiday in Mallorca, with Derby’s first lady of jazz Mave Pinkney and husband Ken Monk, we spent our evenings, in front of a log fire, arguing, amusing ourselves, falling off the sofas with hilarity, as we practised our skills at fives and threes. It’s a game for all the family.
So when you go shopping next, mums and dads, don’t go for a Wii. Get a box of dommies.
end