Nihilism, the freezer aisle, cuttlefish and peas
“Everybody knows deep down that life is as much about the things that do not happen as the things that do, and that’s not something that ought to be glossed over or denied because without frustration there would hardly be any need to daydream.”
Claire-Louise Bennett, Pond
There’s a rather pleasing smugness to the shufflers you’ll find poking about the darkest reaches of your nearest M&S Foods. It’s buzzing in here, especially midweek, a pleasing hubbub but certainly not a scrum, lots of checkouts open, and plenty of room in the aisles. It’s certainly quieter than any other shop on the high street during the Easter holidays, they know that, and now so do you. In the great race to the bottom of supermarket pricing M&S seems to be barely playing along. And of course, this crowd aren’t bothered one jot.
You might wonder why I’m in here at all. Hardly high-end sourcing on the one hand, or mucky deal hunting on the other, opposing ends of the shopping-for-food spectrum at which I find myself most comfortably at home and most regularly ensconced. The truth is I’m trapped in a complex and challenging relationship with my local fishmonger.
It started on Tuesday. I walked to the market, which is where the fishmonger resides and made an enquiry for a kilo of squid or cuttlefish to sate a craving I’ve been feeling for a particularly spring-appropriate stew. The fishmonger has been talking up some day boats in Cornwall that have been landing lovely premium squid these past few weeks. He has previously warned me that they’re dear, £30 a kilo, but he similarly has promised me they’re the best he’s had in years. So here I was to put my money where my mouth is, but he’s fresh out.
This stew I’ve been craving is squid (or cuttlefish) with peas - slow braised you understand, which means the squid is soft and yielding, the peas have started to lose all hope, have long ago got giddy drunk on the squid-and-wine broth they’ve been loling in, and have given up most of their sweetness to the sauce, leaving them as soft rich pearls, the squid pliant and sweet, the broth everything you might hope it could be.
I ate this exact plate of food about a decade ago in Santiago de Compostela, in a restaurant called Abastos 2 just off the market square. It was a little later in the year, I think, early summer if my memory serves, and I was there to visit some suppliers and a winemaker. We’d been drenched in a field in the morning, got sunburned at lunchtime, had a bracing swim off a concrete jetty at a distant beach, then didn't have enough clothes on for a walk through some vines in the afternoon, so that by the time we were sat in the evening sun outside Abastos with a glass of Albarino and a plate of the cuttlefish as described above, we felt exhausted but hopeful, full of joy yet shivering a little still. And this is often how April feels, it is how April has been for many of us; hence, I suppose, an annual craving for this dish, a Pavlovian response, if you will, when being gaslit by the British weather.
And the thing is, neither peas nor cuttlefish is quite in season this time of year, are they? And so, out of a sense of duty really, out of an unquestioned impulse instilled through years of obsessive seasonal menu writing, the dish goes uncooked; and by the time peas are at their peak and squid is more widely available the craving for this slow-cooked stew of the two things is largely lost; instead, the grill is out, the old-trusty cross-hatched squid gets served with chilli and lemon and a fresh salad.
The thing is the craving has its claws in this year.
So we’re back with the fishmonger. He’s telling me he’ll have more in stock tomorrow. I ask if he might put some aside for me. Squid or cuttlefish, it doesn’t matter.
I pop back on Wednesday morning, but nothing. He apologises and tells me he’ll almost certainly have some on Thursday.
I pop back on Thursday. Nothing. He makes a big scene of ringing and then texting the poor fisherman, leaves him an excited staccato voice note, and then without receiving a response assures me that the good stuff will be ready tomorrow.
Friday morning’s visit follows a now familiar routine before he tells me there is very little chance of good squid at this time of year and my best bet is to buy a Cornish octopus that he guarantees will make me very happy indeed.
I like the Fishmonger, his stock is fresh and from day boats where possible, and if this were another newsletter I would espouse buying whats freshly caught and available as opposed to pushing for something else that might have been imported from far away or sits on the counter defrosting for the two-tuna-steaks crowd who roll through every Friday for their routine fish supper. The thing is I’ve had my heart set on squid and peas, much as an octopus might do just the job if my rational brain would just bloody speak up from the back.
Is anyone else finding themselves drawn more and more towards a sort of moral and political nihilism though? No, just me? I suspect, though, that it isn’t just me. If you’re part of the generation of young adults coming of age in the current political, environmental, and economic landscape, surely nihilism is now one of only two or three rational responses? And in the food world, much like in other domains, the adoption of worthy or morally sound positions on issues has shown little improvement, or traction even, which leads one to think, fuck it. Take my own little crusades, even the lightest touch of stuff, not buying out-of-season or imported fruit and veg or imported seafood, avoiding all but the highest welfare meat; these and other spuriously researched little decisions that likely have no bearing on anything other than my own virtue signalling are pathetic drops in the ocean whilst it all goes to shit regardless, I mean our supermarkets have reverted to stocking battery chickens through no fault of their own (clue: it’s the politicians and big business what’s cocked it up again!) so what the hell am I doing denying myself squid and peas.
And so it is that I’m in the furthest reaches of a suburban M&S, submerged in a mystical and mythical chest freezer that has squid, of course, it does, but also scallops and monkfish and massive Atlantic prawns and much much more. That they’ve been imported from Thailand and New Zealand and Argentina and god knows where else, no longer seems to matter. It certainly doesn’t matter to my fellow shufflers, and certainly not to the old girl who tasks me with reaching deep into the freezer for the Canadian whole-cooked lobster that she’s had her eye on for her tea. Good girl, I say, go treat yourself!
I treated myself too, much as I don’t feel great about it now, but in the moment I was cock-a-hoot, so here’s a nihilist’s squid and pea stew for this changeable time of year when nature gives with one hand before taking away with the other. If you can buy locally caught squid, cuttlefish or even octopus, then certainly do so, but as I’ve discovered this week, it’s good with the frozen gear too and can be eaten outside, languid, legs crossed, sun on face and cold beer nearby, or inside, huddled around a radiator, fleece on, violent rain rapping at the window and seeping down the wall through the crack that you thought you’d have the luxury of repairing at the end of the summer but might just have to get to sooner rather than later if this weather continues, and it’s good in every eventuality:
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