Bangers and mash

Due to an unexpected random cold snap here in tropical Melbn, I felt the urge for some comfort food. I made (for the first time) real bangers and mash. It’s all in the bangers. If you’ve got a bad banger, the entire experience is ruined. Insert joke here.

I picked up some fresh sausages from a local butchery (pepper beef) and fried-then-baked them (for the crunchy exterior that I like). The mash was simple fare, just with a bit of milk, butter, pre-fried red onion and chunky cracked peppercorns. Made a peppery sauce too with some wine. I was altogether impressed with myself, especially for a first try.

The whole thing got me thinking about my friend Greg Argent, formerly the chef at The Irish Heather, my “local” in Vancouver. Greg’s one of the nicest people I’ve had the pleasure of knowing. He’s in Toronto now, working at a place called “Rain”. I’ve bumped into his girlfriend once or twice online, but she’s always at a netcafe and too busy to say much. I might have to resort to an actual letter.

Greg story: He and his girlfriend would hang out with me and my girlfriend. About a week before Christmas 2001, we had them over to our flat for gingerbread and mulled wine. I bought four bottles of cheap wine, a shitload of cinnamon and all kinds of other yummy stuff. My girlfriend took care of the gingerbread. Greg and Corry showed up with more wine. We threw everything into a big pot and made the place smell amazing.

Then it was time to make a couple of gingerbread houses. We decided to split up and the boys make one house, and the girls make another. Between gulping mass quantities of mulled wine (justification: the alcohol boils off!) we assembled our houses.

The girls’ house was gorgeous. Everything in its right place, all the lollies decoratively placed, the icing applied in a sensible fashion – I wanted to move in. It was a fantastic house.

The guys’ house – designed by Greg and I – was another story. We decided to make it a white trash house. I thought it was very well done – three different kinds of lollies adorned the roof (mostly because we’d run out of them), there was a shack out back, the front wall was on a rakish angle, and there was a green garden hose still laying across what would be a front lawn if there wasn’t so much dog shit all over it.

I don’t remember what happened with the houses, I doubt we ate them that night. I remember thinking that I was glad I didn’t have to go anywhere to be home – the flat was warm, smelled of Christmas and was full of good friends. Corry and Greg had to leave eventually – I felt sorry for them having to battle the cold outside to get home.

They dropped by our flat a couple of months later to say goodbye – they were leaving Vancouver, as Greg got a job on a cruise line. Haven’t seen them since.

(Then there’s Martin, a true bangers and mash fiend; but that’s a story for another time, gentle reader. I have to do the washing up now.)