If You Get A Chance To Eat Shortcrust, Don't

An old photo of Napoleon's Nose, circa 1890

View from the cave on Cavehill

McArt's Fort overlooking Belfast

Elder Blickenstaff enjoying the weather

Here are some randomly selected memories from our ventures this past week.

I read the following in the Belfast Telegraph:

“More than 900 people were attacked by dogs last year across Northern Ireland, shocking new figures have revealed.”

I was not one of them (referring to the people, not the dogs), but I was not here all year either.

I finished my latest read through the Book of Mormon this week. As I read the book this time, I tried to focus on every instance where it mentions the Saviour by name. It is such a good book and I have started over to read it from the beginning.

One morning I received a call requiring my presence at the Centre to unlock some doors. I climbed in the car, drove through the morning rush hour traffic and unlocked said doors. Two electricians were there and needed full access to fix several lights that had stopped working sometime during the past 30 years. I stood in the car park chatting with the electricians for a few minutes, then said goodbye. They turned to get materials out of their truck and I hopped in my car to drive off.

I pulled my door closed and started to insert the ignition key. To my shock, there was no longer a steering wheel in the car! I had a brief moment of puzzlement before I noticed someone had moved the wheel to the passenger side of the car. This was embarrassing, as I had jumped in the left side of the car, only to discover it’s pretty hard to operate the controls way over there on the right.

I looked up to see the electricians still had their backs to me so I hurriedly jumped out and nonchalantly walked around to the other side of the car. This time I found the steering wheel in the expected location and drove off. It has been a long time since I totally spaced the drive-on-the-wrong-side thing.

I came home and shared my mishap with my companion. When I was finished, she said, “Well, now that you have shared that with me, I have a little adventure of my own to share with you.”

“Yesterday while you were in the shower I decided to take the rubbish out to the bin. I locked the flat so you would be safe alone. I walked out, emptied the rubbish and came back into the building. I walked up the stairs and inserted my key, but I couldn’t get the lock to turn. I stood there fiddling with it for five minutes. I got really frustrated because this had never happened to me before. I pulled the key out and reinserted it several times. I twisted the doorknob and shook the door. Nothing worked. I even moaned rather loudly, ‘Oh, come on!’

“Finally I looked up and saw the number on the flat door. It was number 12, not number 6. I had walked into the wrong building. I hurried back outside and looked up. The curtains were open and a light was on inside of number 12. I felt bad but hurried off to number 6 and let myself in without further incident. You were still safely ensconced in the shower, none the wiser.”

One night this week we cooked a Sainsbury’s Chicken Pie with Shortcrust. I don’t know what shortcrust is but I only want longcrust from now on. It was not edible and we proved that by not being able to eat it.

Later, I determined from a little research that shortcrust is a type of pastry often used for the base of a tart, quiche or pie. It does not puff up during baking because it usually contains no leavening agent. Fat (lard, shortening, or butter) is rubbed into plain flour to create a loose mixture that is then bound using a small amount of ice water, rolled out, then shaped and placed to create the top or bottom of a flan or pie. Ideally, equal amounts of butter and lard are used to make the pastry, ensuring that the ratio of the two fat products is half that of the flour. The butter is employed to give the pastry a rich flavour, whilst the lard ensures optimum texture. Shortcrust pastry is made with the addition of sugar, which sweetens the mix and impedes the gluten strands, creating a pastry that breaks up easily in the mouth. Unfortunately for me, when the pastry broke up, it actually caused me to have a little throw-up in my mouth so I am not a big fan of lard and sugar wrapped around chicken. I will stick with Joel, who likes a little meat wrapped around his meat and now I know why. The primary issue I had with this dinner was the fact that it was 95% shortcrust and 5% chicken. You can call me crazy but I’m one of those people who think that a chicken pie ought to have a little chicken in it. Am I right? Is this asking too much for the general public, that we be allowed to have a piece of chicken in our chicken pie?

One day, at the crack of noon, we initiated an ascent on Cavehill. Cavehill is a basaltic knoll overlooking Belfast from the north side. It rises to the majestic height of 370 metres above sea level (an altitude of 1,214 feet). Its most prominent feature (other than the cave) is an outcrop of rock on the top that resembles the profile of Napoleon. The locals know this as Napoleon’s Nose. For readers under the age of 40, it does not refer in any way to Napoleon Dynamite. The Northern Irish will tell you that after Jonathan Swift marvelled at the Nose, he was inspired to write Gulliver’s Travels in 1726. (Jonathan Swift (1667-1745) was an Irish satirist, first for the Whigs, then for the Tories – not to be confused with the Richard Torries, who are half Redd – who was an ordained cleric and the Dean of St. Patrick’s Cathedral in Dublin – Jonathan, not Richard – Richard is my LDS cousin.)

We picked up the sister missionaries and drove to the car park at the Belfast Castle, on the lower slope of the hill. It was a cold, windy, overcast, blustery, rotten kind of a day but none of this quelled our anxious enthusiasm to summit Cavehill. A member of our ward accompanied us and served as our guide.

The trail wound over the river and through the woods (to Grandmother’s house we go) until we walked out of the tree line overlooking Belfast Lough (a lough is a harbour in British English). Here the wind speed appeared to have doubled. We were cold but still enthusiastic as we would our way upward. We eventually came to a cave, which was accessible only by scaling a rock face for about 10 feet. Everyone managed this except me. I can’t scale since my surgery-induced neuropathy eliminated the feeling in the end of my right foot. I can’t feel where toeholds are. I stayed below and prayed for those who went up to peer in the cave. Apparently my prayers were effective as the same number of people who ascended descended. There are also two other caves on Cavehill.

I thought this cave was the extent of the adventure but I was wrong. We continued skyward up a very steep track. Faced with the option of either breathing or hiking, I stopped a few times and breathed, which I found quite helpful to staying alive.

Eventually we walked right the way to the top! We walked out onto the summit, which is called McArt’s Fort. It is an example of an old ràth or ring fort. It is protected on one side by a precipice and on the others by a single ditch, 10 feet in depth and 25 feet in width; a vallum of large dimensions. (Vallum is a term applied either to the whole or a portion of the fortifications of a Roman camp. Isn’t it astounding what you, dear reader can learn if you stick with me?) The enclosed area is nearly level. The flat top of the fort is 150 feet from north to south, and 180 feet from east to west. It is believed that the fort's inhabitants used the caves to store white foods (by which we mean potatoes) for the winter and may have served as a refuge during times of attack.

On a clear day, which this was not, you can see both Scotland and the Isle of Man from McArt’s Fort. Today, we could barely see Belfast but we could not see Carrickfergus Castle at all. It was extremely windy and cold and I could not stay on the summit longer than five minutes. As we made our way back off of McArt’s Fort, we found a BM from 1918 marking the boundary of Belfast. Alert readers will assume this is a bowel movement, but in this case, they would be wrong. It is a benchmark or permanent survey marker. However, it is fair to say that several hundred dog BMs are scattered on Cavehill so one does have to be careful where one steps as this type of BM has nothing to do with metal.

We made our way down Cavehill on the eastern slope and ended up at the back side of the Belfast Zoo. Then we hiked around through the woods to come back to our original starting point. We enjoyed a great deal of good conversation along the way and found it to be a brilliant experience.

Oh, that reminds me. On our way to the central bus station one day, we passed a business on the Ormeau Road with an exterior sign that read:

Massage

Tuna

Chiropractor

I have no idea what kind of business is going on in there, but I would really like to find out and report back. The only problem is that I am a wee bit scared to go in it.

Northern Ireland is known for its poets and storytellers. Here is one of me own wee contributions:

When e’er life weighs me down

and tempts me to be sad,

I just remember I’m not Warren Jeffs

and then I don’t feel so bad.

Bear with me, faithful reader; you are almost done, but I can’t help myself. I know I should quit, but this next vignette is just too good; I can’t make this stuff up.

We had an appointment to have our car serviced. When we got there, they told us we made the wrong kind of appointment. The conversation went something like this:

Me: We have an appointment to have our car serviced.

Them: Do you want it serviced now?

Me: Yes, that is why we are here.

Them: You made the wrong kind of appointment.

Me: What?

Them: You made an appointment to have your car serviced.

Me: Yes, that is what I just told you.

Them: You should have made an appointment to have your car serviced while you were here.

Me: What?

Them: Usually people make an appointment to have their car serviced while they wait here, but you made an appointment to have your car serviced later.

Me: What?

Them: If you want your car serviced while you are here, you will have to make that appointment for another time. We are too busy to do your service now while you are here.

Me: What?

Them: Don’t worry; I will help you make that appointment now, while you are here. Then you can come back to have your car serviced while you are here. When can you come back to have your car serviced while you are here? (At this point I actually thought I was taking part in a Dr. Seuss book.)

Me: What?

Them: Can you come back tomorrow to have your car serviced while you are here?

Me: No. I cannot come back until Tuesday. (This wasn’t true, but I felt pressured into saying something besides, “What?”)

Them: If you can come back Tuesday at 10:30 we can service your car while you are here.

Me: Well, Bob’s your uncle on Tuesday.

Them: What?

Elder Blickenstaff