Something beginning with 'Ch-'

I'm having an all too familiar Sunday night. These generally follow a lovely, busy weekend, in which I've spent little time at home and less time alone. I tend to get an increasingly sinking feeling of doom as I realise that I have done none of the 'homework' I set myself to complete over the weekend. There are things to write, things to wrap, things to stitch, things to design and Pilates to complete. Cassey Ho, my wonderful instructor (via YouTube), is often very disappointed in me on Sunday evenings.

When it hits 7pm I seem to spring into action and realise I must cook something and prepare to face the week, however begrudgingly. Unless I've had a roast (sadly these are few and far between) I'm looking for a hearty, tasty dinner, which can double up as weekday lunch or Monday night dinner. I'm looking for cheap and healthy (tea and cake at Tart may be delicious but two great slabs of cake in two days is perhaps a little excessive). Mostly, I'm looking for simple.

Recently, I've started to believe that all the best foods begin with the letters 'Ch'. My list of Champions (you see?) includes chorizo, cheese and chocolate (obviously) and also chillis, chutneys and chips (admittedly these vary enormously). For simplicity, thrift and sheer versatility, I'd like to nominate the chickpea as my 'Ch' of Choice.

The humble chickpea.

Alone, it may be forgettable, even boring. But add it to almost anything, and it's delicious. How about home-made hummas with home-made, shop bought or improvised (pitta, toasted and torn) breadsticks? Or a curry: a selection vegetables, garam masala, cumin, stock and a mixed curry power, served with yoghurt and mango chutney? Perhaps a cold salad with red onion, cherry tomatoes, chives and chicken?

My 'go-to' chickpea dish of choice is simply known as stewp or stoup. Neither soup, nor stew, I generally turn to this when I have things to do and ten minutes to prepare a delicious dish to throw into the oven. It's great for last minute guests and fantastic when I arrive home cold and wet from an impromptu pub trip / long, long walk / late night at work.

Stewp requires neither a recipe nor a method; just a little sense and some storecupboard ingredients. Tonight, I've chopped some shallots, chilli, courgette, pepper, chorizo and thrown them into an ovenproof dish, with the all-important chickpeas. A drizzle of oil, one tin of tomatoes, sprinkles of paprika and cayenne and good glugs of wine and balsamic, and it's prepared. I'm so distracted, I almost failed to add garlic.

I tend to cook this at around 180°C for anything from 20 minutes to 50, depending on how proactive I become. I'll try to stir it once or twice, but that's not essential.

This can be served with almost anything. Rice is great, cous cous is quicker, and fresh bread is delightful. If I'm feeling particularly in need, I'll just team it with green veg (pak choi, spinach, or beans from Dad's garden in a few months' time).

Sunday night's a slow surrender (thank you, Frank Turner). Chickpeas and their friends make it a little easier.

On Fakery

A few years ago, I arrived home exhausted after a week's work in Birmingham. My housemate was watching something (probably on Channel Five), which was frequently interrupted by adverts for a programme 'for real men'. I rolled my eyes, opened my laptop and started typing. The result was this, which was published, pretty much in this form, in UWE's student paper, Western Eye, in 2011.

The battle between the 'real' and the 'fake' rages on within the media. Adverts for 'real' men and programmes about such men are shown alongside products that rely on the claim that they -and only they- use 'real' women in their advertising (an excellent marketing tactic). These adverts come up against the 'science' of skincare (have you ever listened, really listened, to an advert for moisturiser?) and the ever increasing cosmetic surgery promotions at the back of magazines and, more recently, on television.

It's only when you start questioning such campaigns that their serious flaws become apparent. What is a 'real' man? Must he like sport? Then, is rugby a sport 'for real men', when compared to football? Are 'real men' truly not afraid to show their emotions, even -dare I say it? - cry? Or do these honoured men never act like such 'girls'? What about crying at a football match (clearly rugby fans would never cry at a match): is this somehow allowed? Weekend magazines discuss the Alpha male; the metrosexual; the man 'in touch with his emotions'; and the (often heavily stereotyped) gay man. All 'types' of men range in description and are often contrasted. But all are men. So which are 'real'?

For women it is, arguably, more complex. The Dove campaign shows 'real' women… of all shapes, ages and sizes, moving away from the waif-like (one of the industry's favourite phrases) models often used in fashion promotion. High Fashion is, of course, dominated by the aptly nicknamed 'coat hangers'. Despite protests, slimmer models will, I think, always be used to display the seasons' latest and greatest. Again: which women are ‘real'? Many of these writers would say those that 'don't starve themselves' are true women and, having studied the female form a great deal, (read 25,000 Years Of Erotic Freedom), I would agree to an extent. It's only in the last 30 years that much slimmer women have dominated photography and advertising. Years ago, larger, convex stomachs were considered features of the 'real' woman, as well as the -perhaps more expected- wide hips and full, round breasts.

Nudity aside (I'm sorry to say), the products that clothe us in various ways are perhaps all 'fakeries'. Tattoos, hair dye and style, vajazzling (my new favourite word) and make up are all ways of portraying personality and of disguising ourselves: faking it, if you like. It's not uncommon to find bras that claim to 'enhance' assets by 'TWO WHOLE cups': something I can perhaps understand in smaller sizes, but personally cannot fathom as a DD+. Yet there are still gel-filled and inflatable F cups, which, frankly, I find scary. Similarly, lip-glosses can no longer simply 'gloss' lips: they must now offer hours of plumping or 'collagen' effect, whilst moisturisers produce a 'sun kissed' look. The advertising that really fascinates me, however, is mascara promotion. I'm not quite sure how an eyelash colour can be sexualised but somehow, marketing experts have managed to attempt it. The 'real' woman aims to achieve the 'false lash' effect because, clearly, having longer, fuller, thicker, curled lashes means you're sexier and more powerful. Yet all these adverts use 'lash inserts', which are surely simply false, or fake, lashes. It seems a woman should be 'real' and 'natural', yet, in order to better herself, she must fake it.

Which brings me on to orgasms. Just kidding.