Yam Yam

It was a friends Thanksgiving dinner the other night. A very non-British pursuit, but high on novelty factor. Any excuse for a party and wacky food.

I decided to find an American wine to match the theme. After being disappointed by a particularly unhelpful off license that's horizons did not stretch beyond France, I found myself falling into a newsagent. There in front of me was the expected bunch of odd bottles, all at around £3 to £5. Suddenly, a shining beacon of kitschiness stood out, evoking fond memories of the 80's....

Paul Masson California Carafe. Perfect.

It was one of our first widely advertised American wine imports, cleverly packaged in a 'useful' carafe, subliminally compensating for the questionable contents.

The meal was a traditional Thanksgiving fare of turkey and homemade cranberry sauce, followed by a dish which had 'only in America' blazoned across it - 'candied yams'.
Yams have an identity crisis. They look exactly like sweet potato, but do not share the same Morning Glory plant family. These limp impersonators nevertheless tasted great roasted with marshmallows.

As the carafe was opened it occurred to me that it might well have been sitting on that dusty newsagent shelf since the 80's, shunned by discerning Blue Nun buyers until now. I sipped the Paul Masson Californian sunshine, washing down the yams, past episodes of Columbo and CHiPs reawakened. It was more like Alcohol-free mouthwash than wine. Still, the carafe would be useful for the bladder bursting gridlock when trying to get anywhere in this country, the results might just taste better.

A Wing

I spent last weekend in prison, well the old Victorian prison in Oxford converted into a luxury hotel.
My room was in the A Wing, a lattice of iron multi-layered walkways passing low cell doors recessed into the featureless walls. The door to my cell was original, wooden fronted with a metal backing cell side, bearing marks of years of frustrated entombment. The room was actually three cells combined, all with curved brick ceilings. It was kind of eerie watching the beams of light cast a sombre glow from the high cell windows set in thick stone.

I slept well in my incarceration with the knowledge that I had my rock hammer and poster of Raquel Welch hidden about my bed.

A former inmate of Melbourne’s Pentridge prison has just bought back the cell where he spent 7 years for embezzlement and armed robbery. It is in the same part of the prison that is being converted into wine storage that will eventually hold $50 million worth of rare wine.
I looked at my complimentary bottle of wine knowing that despite its lack of calibre, it would be in pristine condition.

I woke up relieved to find that the guard had not bolted the door, and I strolled down to the basement for breakfast. The fellow inmates looked well-heeled, but very unfriendly.