Meanwhile, there's chutney

This afternoon, very cold and windy, and errands done, car rescued from snow, I thought that banana chutney would be a good thing to do.  Accompanied by a great audio of Wind in the Willows, I assembled all the ingredients, and set to work.

This is in fact very simple to make. Just put all the items in a heavy pot, cook slowly for ages until it goes thick and spreadable looking, then spoon into sterilized mason jars.  

I boil the jars throughout the cooking time, then just use tongs to get them onto the cloth for the filling.  After they've cooled, they can be refrigerated.

Chutney really needs time to mature but I had to at least try it, and see if it worked, and found that it did.  

Here it's a little snack, yesterday's baked bread, with sharp cheddar, and a nice spoonful of chutney on top.  Sparkling glass of moscato, why not.

Chutney goes well with all kinds of meat.  I don't eat red meat, but I like it with cheese on good bread.  I plan a curry later in the week, when Handsome Son is up for it, his turn to be a bit seedy today, and chutney always good for that. I also got in a good bottle of ginger ale to go with. You can't drink wine with curry, clashes with the spices, but beer is good if you like it.  Ginger beer or ale next best.

The neighbor who kindly cleared off my car then moved it for the plow to dig out my space is on the list for a taste of this chutney. He is not too sure what it is, a good cook, but not a very adventurous one, but he'll taste anything.  And he can identify what's in it from tasting, which I am impressed by.

I'm noticing more and more parallels in literature and other reading to today's political scene. Toad in W in the W, I realized as I listened while cooking,  is a bombastic demanding, grandiose, easily upset character, bragging about exploits which were not quite as advertised...who can that echo.  

And Roderick Spode, in J and Wooster, the leader of the Blackshorts, originally a spoof on Mussolini, giving speeches about practically nothing to fervent followers, marching about but easily upset by people finding out the wrong things about him...again, that's another eerie reminder.  

Colonel Whatsisname, the one who gets murdered in the vicarage, looks as if Agatha Christie had the number of another bombastic, bullying type, proud of his showy home, bought from, it turns out, ill gotten gains.  It's all too eerie and upsetting and makes me long to survive it all. 

But meanwhile, there's chutney.  That would be a good novel title, or maybe a book of essays.