They Said What?

Former Keith Noel 136 Committee chair and current Minister of Something, Stephen Cadiz, speaks up somewhat tangentially on the Highway Reroute Movement - A highway system is part and parcel of the economy growth of any country and I am pleased to be part of a Government that has recognised that

 

 

 

 

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Seems like it’s excellent good meals that gets me blogging nowadays. I’m in Tobago for the Blue Food Festival (Sunday October 19), as I have been for four of the last five years. It’s always worth the trip. Every year, I’m blown away by how much more inventive people who are undeniably classifiable as “village cooks” have become in just 12 months. Over the last five years, I’ve watched – and tasted – the dishes grow from dasheen ice cream to dasheen lasagna, dasheen kurmah, dasheen everything-you-can-think-of…. And, every year, they’ve thought of more!

But, quite apart from the inventiveness of the dishes at the BFF itself, the meal I have the night before it has been a source of real delight. Three years on, I still think fondly, like a woman I met at a ski lodge, about the local pork bellies

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People who’ve never been to one often mistake the special event fancy restaurant dinners reported in the social pages of the newspapers as the high life. Usually, they’re far closer to low-key and very definitely work, not play, events, and for good reasons: the sponsor normally puts up as few bottles of whatever they’re promoting as they can get away with; the restaurant wait staff don’t bend over backwards to serve tables that aren’t going to be presented with a bill and, ergo, won’t be tipping; and the chef generally uses the opportunity to clear his larder of as many slow-moving or cheap inputs as he can, resulting in dishes like, “Cassava Flour Gnocchi in a Peanut Butter Reduction with Flecks of Orange Marmalade”; it’s almost a given that the chef won’t throw quail into one of those dinners. Usually, you go to these things and hope to get at least enough to drink to ease the frustration of waiting too long for a meal, the highpoint of which is that, on the weary drive home, you tell yourself that at least you didn’t have to pay for it.

Last night’s Patron dinner at Cin Cin on Barbados’ West Coast was as far from that as sardines are from scallops. When I’m not supporting Trinidad & Tobago or Barbados in CONCACAF football, I support Mexico – and I wouldn’t be surprised

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Every now and then, I stumble on a film that’s so very bad it gets good again, along the lines of Ed Wood’s Plan Nine from Outer Space, a recent example being Glitter, Mariah Carey’s ridiculous and unintentionally hilarious self-indulgence, which I actually was able to recommend in my BC on TV Sunday Arts Supplement feature – but as an unintentional comedy, not as a biography. Quite by accident, today, because modern operating systems sometimes open anything on your computer your cursor hovers over without your clicking on it, I opened a Netflix film called, God’s Not Dead. This is not a film that’s so bad it gets good again; this is just a really bad film; made all the worse by its devout earnestness.

Cardboard caricatures of clichéd characters – the Muslim man forcing his daughter to wear a veil, the African missionary

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One of the unpleasant surprises about Barbados for me, especially coming from Fondes Amandes, St Anns, as I do, was what passes for soil here. Viewed from a taxi coming from the airport, the freshly ploughed cane fields look black and rich; viewed from the top end of a garden fork, though, the picture changes. The first time I stuck a garden fork in it, six years ago, and, St Anns/former cocoa estate style, yanked the fork back, the wooden handle snapped off and the steel tines of the fork itself remained unmoved: the Bajan “soil” had it in its death grip. It’s like rock.

Unless it gets a little wet. Then it turns into, not mud, but something like super-sticky

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A trip to Trinidad, for me, begins and ends with Chinese food, the cuisine of happiness of my childhood: Happy Chinese Food Sunday meant my parents weren’t arguing and we had enough money not to be literally hand-to-mouth. (My father made some money in his life but there was a period of about three years or more, from when I was about ten, when the UN would have classified us as living below the poverty line; I certainly didn’t have a US dollar a day; I got 25 TT cents every three days; during the school week.)

In Barbados, the Chinese food largely sucks, as compared with the Trini version, so the first and last places I go to eat are the same: Sunday Kitchen, the takeaway

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