Hi.

i am a film photographer, writer, artist, calligrapher and baker. through my experiences i define that which makes us human: the raw hungry desire to live and love… and its satiation

thank you for visiting my blog, i hope you enjoy your stay!

a most (un)dignified lunch

a most (un)dignified lunch

this obsession with dignity can ruin your life if you let it*

a long road from here to there, a scintillating lake running alongside, a luxurious possum fur and merino wool beanie warm against the crisp 4C, a blue-gray sky with long white clouds scudding over it, snow-capped mountain tops peeking through the dense greener-than-green foliage, daydreams of happyness interrupted with

"whitebait"

i looked at him curiously

"its a baby fish, really difficult to catch, really expensive and really tasty. a New Zealand speciality. is that something that would interest you for lunch perhaps? if we can find someone selling it at this time of the year that is"

who i was to argue with my lovely 64 year old Welsh New Zealander tour guide?

after a meandering walk through a beautiful old rainforest, the modest handwritten sign, which you could have missed in a heartbeat flashed at us as we drove out

"whitebait" i said happily

"we are in luck" he said, shortly after turning onto a gravelly path

a small makeshift shed stood near the water with handmade shelves and a few other accoutrements. the pride and joy was a flat plate BBQ

"looking fer some whitebait are yer?" the cheery voice reached us just before the tall, blue-eyed Kiwi did

"whitebait" i said

"the traditional way" said my tour guide

"yip no other way to have it" said the Kiwi, his strong hands delicately scooping the tiny fish in its eggy batter into a sizzling saucer shape on the barbie. flipping over the patties, buttered slices of regular supermarket white bread soon followed to be lightly toasted. he laid down paper napkins in anticipation. my mouth was watering. 

"there you go" said the Kiwi, placing the hot fragile pattie onto the toasted bread 

"salt and pepper and a squeeze of lemon" said my tour guide nodding at me

"mmmmmm" was all i could say

it was so simple, so splendid and so tasty and two bites later i had disappeared into some kind of parallel universe where

all lunches were whitebait open sarnies

"another one?" i said moments after devouring mine

"another one" nodded my tour guide moments after devouring his

"yip another one" said the Kiwi, his eyes twinkling

the barbie sizzled as another saucer shaped pattie cooked. my tour guide chatted amiably with the leathery friendly Kiwi fisherman about this New Zealand delicacy made in his rustic old shed while i sucked on the most unusual and incredible sweet-lemony lemons. the Kiwi explained how the fish can only be caught once a year "the fish are running!", for about ten weeks under strict regulations; how its a competitive setup but with no mobile network coverage one might get lucky as the news can't get around; that there are complex wooden bridges which are lowered into the water for just this purpose and; that those ten weeks of work keeps the families on the go for a whole year

half an hour later, i gave in. i couldn't help myself. they were addictive. a tender, crispy, buttery, sweet, salty, peppery, lemony, melt-in-the-mouth addiction

"another one?' i said

"another one" said my tour guide nodding

"yip another one" said the Kiwi with a broad grin

dignity be damned

 

*from the book The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society

photographs as art ::degas::

photographs as art ::degas::