A right sauce of discontent

It’s coming up for what used to be known in news circles as the silly season, when serious stuff packs its smalls, takes itself off on holiday and all kinds of daftness comes out of the woodwork to entertain the lieges during what purports to be the summer season in this sceptred isle.

As things stand, of course, all bets are off on what is seriously serious and what is sheer raving lunacy.

How could they tell? I hear you ask, when trying to differentiate between the two notions, let alone nations. And that’s an argument all of its own…

In the current state of affairs (and, unhappily, in affairs of state), I’m right with you on the confusion front.

Boris Johnson is Foreign Secretary? Donald Trump is a candidate for the American presidency? Mickey Mouse is in charge of Nato? Only the last one, sadly, is not true, although there are times when you think it might as well be.

And that’s only the fun stuff, desperate though it actually could be, leaving aside the truly dreadful things being done in the name of religion, nationalism and so-called unity all over the world.

Yet there are still elements of life as we know it that bring us back to earth with a dull thud and a bit of a rueful smirk as to how we reached this in terms of Charles Darwin and all that stuff – those wonderfully nonsensical parts of human existence that make you think “What the…?”

Apparently, for example, it is still worthy of comment among certain social groupings whether you buy or make your own mayonnaise.

Yup, you heard it here first.

The otherwise thoroughly admirable Miriam Gonzalez Durantez, Spanish person, international lawyer, mother of three and wife of the former deputy PM (and boy, is he glad to be out of that particular den of iniquity) N Clegg Esq, has apparently written a cook book.

Good on you, Senora, I say, as Spanish food is my favourite thing to eat in all the world; apart from tablet and cheese scones, that is, two of the best reasons on earth for being Scottish – not taking anything away from Andy Murray and the Scotch peh.

But she has also found it necessary, in the pages of this culinary tome, to find fault with the fact that the former Mrs Prime Minister (S Cameron of this parish, do keep up) once served her Hellman’s mayonnaise.

Call me a naïve, sentimental fool but I think she should count herself lucky that it wasn’t Heinz Salad Cream, myself.

Although with her other half currently in receipt of over £100,00 a year in publicly funded allowances, they’re hardly going to be trailing the kids down the food bank, are they, so tinned beans, packet pasta and the lower forms of alleged nutrition aren’t likely to come up on the Clegg radar that much.

I am perfectly prepared to believe home-made is probably best in general terms, although there is a recent report out which claims that there are more veggies and less sugar in commercial baby food than that slaved over by conscientious yummy mums.

But I have a question to ask, without, of course, prejudice.

If bought mayonnaise is infra dig, does it matter if you make your own SS6CT with ingredients bought from Lidl or Aldi? Or do these have to come from further up the supermarket food chain to find favour with the flavour police?

We’re obvious all going to Hellman’s in a Waitrose handcart if we allow ourselves to be overcome by that particular emulsion.

And just to add a historic note, salad cream apparently celebrated its 100th birthday in 2014 – although I suspect that might just refer to the age of the crusted jar most of us probably have festering in the back of the fridge.

It’s like that bottle of red Martini in the dim recesses of the drinks cupboard, with one measure out of it. Everyone has one; nobody admits to consuming the stuff.

The upper crust, of course, is notorious for cutting off the crusts. This is, allegedly, de rigueur in the higher social strata, so I understand.

The Queen’s favourite afternoon tea treat, it would seem, is “jam pennies”, little roundels of white bread with, yes, jam in the middle.

I once went to afternoon tea in a very posh house where not only did I have to be “mother” and shake out a flowing sleeve to pour the Earl Grey into the Royal Worcester but was also required to consume little white bread stars filled with, yes, jam.

Whether it was home-made, of course, was another question altogether and not one I felt socially qualified to ask. But of crusts, I have to tell you, there was no sign, much to my chagrin.

In the immortal words of camp Glaswegian comedy duo Victor & Barry, sung to the tune of Sweet Gingerbread Man: “My loaf is a pan, I’m a Kelvinside man.”

We’re obviously all going to Hellman’s in a Waitrose handcart

The thorny issue of mayonnaise caused a bit of a faux pas between the wives of a former prime minister and his deputy.