conversations with the dead
and a nigel slater recipe
I have a handful of people with whom I keep in almost daily touch, engaging in long, involved, at times comfortingly repetitive conversations, irrespective of the fact that they are dead, total strangers, or both.
One of them is my old friend the late broadcaster Stuart Maclean who died of cancer a few years ago at the age of 68. Nearly 70 is not old enough for a cancer death to be considered an earth-shattering tragedy, except that for me, it was, mostly because I hadn’t called him in over a year. I heard from my father he’d been diagnosed and was receiving treatment and I’m deeply ashamed to say that apart from exchanging a couple of emails, I just… pretended it wasn’t happening.
(He doesn’t even eat saturated fat, I remember thinking, in a fit of illogical, deranged myopia. Plus he can’t die because I just had a baby.)
Or something. Hard Lesson learned.
Stuart was a wonderful friend and also unapologetically weird guy. He was hugely generous, impeccably polite, and a mentor to countless young artists (musicians, performers and editors mostly, he launched dozens of brilliant careers), but he was not a mentor to me. He was too brutal, too honest. I suspect it was because, like him, I was writer who started in soft journalism (in his case interviewing crickets on Morningside) and moved into fiction. It’s also possible I wasn’t very good at the time, or at least not as good as I could be or hopefully would be, and both of us knew it.
When my first novel came out I remember proudly presenting him with a signed copy in his house — a modernist industrial barn-style building at the end of a dead end alley in Kensington Market. He read the inscription, scanned the first page, then smiled and nodded, closed the book and never opened it again. Months later when I mustered up the courage to ask him why he looked confused, as if he’d forgotten I’d written a book at all.
Then his face brightened. “Oh I remember!” he said, “too many adverbs.”
He was right of course.
He did, however, give me lots of strategic advice on other work stuff. Having battled the CBC for years (according to Stuart, they never did manage to get him to sign a contract) he was something of a copyright retention legend. His first rules for creators were as follows: “1) Don’t sign anything. 2) Avoid lawyers.” I’m not sure this wisdom even made sense at the time — Stuart was a unicorn before the term existed — but his advice still makes me laugh, in part because he hisses it in my ear every time I’m signing a contract or talking to a lawyer.
Stuart was (and is!) funny and wise but not in the hokey, Garrison Keeler sort of way you might remember if you ever saw or listened to his touring live radio show, The Vinyl Cafe. In real life he was a bit of darkling, and in death, well, let’s just say he’s really come into his element.
On stage and radio he channeled a kind of wide-eyed sentimental earnestness to great effect (as well as fame and fortune), but in person he was like a hard-drinking pixie crossed with wry Buddhist monk. He was the only person I’ve ever met who took obvious pleasure in an awkward silences. He would just let them “hang,” watching the people around him squirm, waiting, with a look of open curiosity, to see what happened. It was agonising, then creepy, then funny and finally an endearing quality, especially in a minor celebrity. Like his occasional brutal honesty, it took some getting used to.
Back when I was a newspaper columnist I remember once fretting about some minor editorial disagreement with my editor and he said, out of nowhere, “You know you’re already fired, right?”
“What?” I said, startled.
“Unless you win the lottery or write a bestseller, no one quits a national column so you’re already fired. Just remember that kid.”
“Sorry what?”
“You need to process it in advance, because it’s already done. You have to think like a mobster. The moment you feel the cool steel barrel of the gun against the back of your head — and you will feel it — surrender. Don’t think ‘Oh fuck!’ but instead, ‘Ah well, so today’s the day I get fired. How interesting.’”
Irritating. And also excellent advice.
Like everyone who loved him, I’d obviously much prefer to have Stuart here today, but given the unfortunate circumstances, I’ve got to say from my perspective, he’s owning the role. The ghost thing suits his ethereal vibe. He seems into the cosmic joke if it — all those fucking grilled cheeses he didn’t eat! Or maybe I’m just projecting, and it’s all a grand rationalisation born of my own regret over not having called him when I still could have. (He’s told me a thousand times he doesn’t give a shit, but still…) Either way it explains why he hangs around my shed so much.
I hadn’t intended to write about Stuart today but instead, my other imaginary conversation companion, the famed (very much alive) British cookery writer Nigel Slater.
I’ve never met Nigel Slater in person, but I did once see him across a large crowded room at a food awards reception. Our eyes did not meet. He was talking to someone else. I began to walk up to him and as I did, he seemed to shrink into himself slightly. I was heavily pregnant and impractically shod in platform sandals and as I plodded into his peripheral vision I suddenly heard his voice, the careful, wary RP, long-ago drained of the Midlands. His was tone almost plaintive.
I’m so sorry, he said (inside my head). Quite a feat for he was eating a Korean yum bun and chatting to a young woman whom I guessed was his agent. He hadn’t even looked my way but I understood he was acutely aware of my approach.
He continued then, politely. I know you feel you already know me, and perhaps in a way you do. I certainly feel I know you. It’s a bit silly because of course we don’t know each other do we? Except that we do, we do! And that’s just how some relationships are. Often very good ones. Because of that I hope you won’t mind me asking a favour, which is that you just keep on walking and pretend not to notice me. It’s not that I don’t like you, on the contrary, it’s because I’m just not good at this stuff, I’ll probably disappoint you. And I would hate that, really, we both would.
At this point I tried to reassure him but he quietly cut me off.
I promise you, it will be better this way. For our continued relationship. Both in the short and long term, I mean. So please let’s not subject ourselves to this strange, awkward encounter.
But Nigel! I protested. What if this is our only chance?!
He gave a gentle laugh. Don’t be silly. We’ll just instead carry on as before. In here, where we’re cosy and comfortable.
So I carried on to the toilet and Nigel Slater presented his award and slipped out early. I ate some dumplings, threw up in a napkin and then fell asleep in the cab home. In this way, our friendship was cemented and has, since then, only continued to deepen in flavour, like a veal shank simmering in a pot.
Nigel and I talk (rather predictably) whenever I’m in the kitchen. He’s extremely forgiving, a bottomless source of comfort.
“Don’t worry if a bit of shell goes in,” he’ll say, “no one will taste it.”
Or, if my kids are refusing to eat something new and absolutely delicious or worse, pretending to hate something familiar they gobbled up just three days before, Nigel will whisper, My goodness, children are rather annoying aren’t they? On reflection I suppose that’s why didn’t have any.
To which I respond, Yeah, that and your precious collection of Japanese ceramic bowls.
He’ll laugh then because he likes to laugh. Then he’ll tell me I’m not a bad mother, and that my sons aren’t a lost cause. He’ll say it doesn’t matter, that I should just make them some peanut toast if that’s what they want, and let them eat it in front of telly.
He’ll remind me for the umpteenth time that he barely ate anything but processed carbohydrates until he was a teenager.
What kind of child refuses sausage?!
(An extraordinary one, apparently.)
Anyway, here’s a link to one of my all time favourites, Nigel’s Baked Peppers, Beans and Herb Sauce, it’s one of those simple recipes that’s so much more than the sum of its parts. Way more surprising and satisfying than it sounds. I make it at least once a month, more often in the summer, adding in extra veg rescued from the bottom of the crisper and grilled or random herbs and green stuff. Whatever’s going. It’s vibrant and pretty as a picture, no matter how badly you try to screw it up — and trust me I’ve tried.
Best served with cold white wine and toast, to close friends — living, dead or imagined.
Deeply felt, as always
Thank you so much!