Ed­i­tor’s let­ter

EDP Norfolk - - Editor's Letter - Do­minic Cas­tle Ed­i­tor, EDP Nor­folk Magazine 01603 772758 / 07725 201153 do­minic.cas­[email protected]­chant.co.uk

FOOD has dom­i­nated the month for me. It has been an epic, epi­curean few weeks as we en­tered the home straights of our an­nual food and drink awards.

One of the things I had to do was judge one of the award cat­e­gories which meant that my fel­low ar­biter and I tra­versed the length and breadth of the county try­ing out some magnificen­t del­i­ca­cies.

I'm not look­ing for sym­pa­thy here; no-one has been hold­ing a bun to my head or threat­en­ing to bat­ter me with a bat­ten­burg. But there have been con­se­quences.

In truth the signs have been build­ing up for a while, ever since I took over the ed­i­tor’s chair in Jan­uary. You see there is a sig­nif­i­cant part of this job that in­volves con­vivial con­sump­tion; break­fast meet­ings, lunches, din­ners, af­ter­noon teas, din­ing re­views and so on.

The con­se­quence has been a grad­ual, but in­ex­orable rise of the old av­oir­du­pois. For a while I blamed a change in the wash­ing so­lu­tion favoured by the present Mrs Cas­tle, be­liev­ing it was hav­ing a fore­short­en­ing ef­fect on the waist­band of the old trews.

But the proof of the pud­ding, sadly lit­er­ally, came the day be­fore the black tie gala. I slipped into the satin stripes just to make sure all was well (I have had the same DJ for 15 years) and de­spite some man­ful tug­ging, could not get the ends to meet in the mid­dle.

A panic dash into town fol­lowed and, joy of joys, I found a store which had the fore­sight to put in, shall we say, a cer­tain amount of flex into the waist­band of their trousers, so al­low­ing me to buy with­out the shame of go­ing up a size. God bless ‘em.

Thus I was able to ad­dress guests at the evening from the podium with­out the stress of a) only be­ing able to ex­hale for five min­utes or b) risk­ing a but­ton ping­ing off and tak­ing some­one’s eye out.

It was a splen­did evening, full of de­light and cel­e­bra­tion. It can sound a lit­tle glib to say that we have a fan­tas­tic food and drink in­dus­try, but it is true. As our ex­pec­ta­tions rise, as we be­come ex­perts thanks to Masterchef, the Great Bri­tish Bake-Off et al, they are met by the culi­nary bril­liance of our chefs, bak­ers and mak­ers. It’s won­der­ful.

On my tour of Nor­folk I didn’t have a bad ex­pe­ri­ence and hand on heart (or hand on bulging stom­ach) that has been true ev­ery time I’ve con­sumed some­thing with ‘Made in Nor­folk’ on it.

Any­way, one thing I failed to do on the big night was share a food joke, which I will put right now, with thanks to my col­league Andy Rus­sell.

A fam­ily of pota­toes is liv­ing in a Nor­folk field. One day the el­dest daugh­ter comes home and says: “Mum, dad, great news – I’m mar­ry­ing King Ed­ward!”

“Won­der­ful,” say mum and dad. “He’s got prospects.”

Sec­ond daugh­ter ap­pears the next day. “Mum, dad, great news – I’m mar­ry­ing Jer­sey Royal!”

“Won­der­ful,” say mum and dad. “Roy­alty’s all right.”

Third daugh­ter ap­pears the next day. “Mum, dad, great news – I’m mar­ry­ing John Mot­son!”

“WHAT?” say mum and dad. “You can’t marry John Mot­son!” “Why not?" sobs the daugh­ter. "Be­cause he's a com­mon-tater!" I’m here all month – have a great Oc­to­ber.Š

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