a good collective noun

 

The south facing kitchen is illuminated by rays of bright, low autumn sun which are in part diffused by the rideaux on  the window whilst the open door creates a geometric gash of gold on the tiled floor. There is very little sound save for the buzzing of a solitary, weary wasp, unexpected at this late time of the year, as I sit down to a light lunch which would have been described by my grandpa as a “drop of sardines”. This collective was a favourite of my maternal grandfather who was Portuguese and who lived with us from when I was first conscious of people to the day I left home for good in 1966. I had left home for bad in 1962 but glandular fever had stopped play so I was forced to limp back to the bosom of my family. My father was not overly happy about the return of his prodigal as he felt that once breast feeding was no longer a necessity then sons should go out into the world and find their own bosoms in which to nestle. However, it was during this fitful interregnum that I spent some time with my grandfather, then in his early 90’s, and became familiar with his delight in tinned sardines; a last gasp link with his beloved Portugal. Having lived in England for the previous 70 years his grasp of English was extremely firm save for some eccentricities that I’m sure he employed to annoy my father, who had never quite understood how or why my grandfather had been in his house for the last 30 years, but which were wasted as my father was also deaf. I have few interesting culinary memories from my early years as eating was considered as fuel and so, as a subject of interest, entered family conversation as often as the current style of my mother’s knickers. One of those few memories came to mind this morning which is why I was sitting before a “drop of sardines” au Grandpere which he served in the only way that our family’s Spartan larder would allow – a couple of fillets of sardines with oil from the tin ( the only good ingredients), malt vinegar, some slices of tasteless tomato and white bread on a white plate. My current version consists of millésime sardines, thick slices of very good tomatoes, vinaigre de Xérès, good olive oil and very good bread. There is no doubt in my mind that he would have eaten them like that, as a young man, in his home town of Olhao in the Algarve,