Kid Loco, gravy, buttocks, and a soup for the greyest days

Abundance: Thursday 20 February 2025

I can scarcely see neighbours’ chimneys so grey and wet is it. A misty week without a distant view, hugely brightened by an invitation to teach on an autumnal food writing retreat in Italy¹. I am, of course, going.

I hope to finally catch the extraordinary Bernina Express² as part of the slow way I’ll be making the trip.

I’m taking the train because having travelled to Italy by train I know what a pleasure it is. I wouldn’t know that if I flew. I don’t fly for numerous dull reasons³, but before I stopped I did a fear of flying course as flying made me nervous, and I am not very good at not being able to do something.

1999: A Grand Love Story

If you have ever been rattled around in a metal tube many thousands of metres above the ground, you will have made promises to yourself. Midair is no place for an earthquake. Everything that gives you the illusion of stability dissolves. Every nut, bolt and rivet turns to chocolate in your mind. It was here, on a juddery flight back from grape picking on the shores of Lake Geneva, that I was left entirely certain that I was never in enough of a hurry to have to take to the air again.

A decade later I decided to take to the air again, on a fear of flying course. 

The day is split between theory and practice. 

In the morning I learn how many tons of metal manage to stay above many metres of air; how the cabin remains uncrushed by the pressures of the high atmosphere. I am also encouraged to have faith in a few highly trained people to control these many fast moving tons. 

There are stats.

It is, I am assured, entirely illogical to fear flying when we cross the road absent-mindedly every day, and when we get into cars to drive. We don't even notice the changing tones of train engines; every clack over points and track isn't met with a stiffening back and concern about what that noise means.

At coffee, everyone talks. Everyone talks because this is the year that mobile phones are just emerging. The last year that it is odd to have one. The last year that we call a building in the hope that the person we want to speak to might be in it. Everyone is entirely normal and everyone wants to demonstrate it over a Digestive. 

We are all saying the same thing, whatever the words: I'm not mad, I'm not psychologically unhinged, I’m just afraid of flying. No, it's not that I'm afraid; I am wise - I know it's a special kind of madness not to be petrified. 

We're all here for the family, so they can enjoy holidays in the sun. Or because we don't want to have the fear of something that everybody else does smilingly.

The rest of the morning is mostly about buttocks. 

When I was a kid there was a shoe shop in town called Butteaux; pronounced Boot-oh. It was, of course, known by as all below the age of 20 as 'Buttocks'. Butteaux may be a neighbourhood in the 13th arrondisement of Paris, but to us this shopfront was a pair of shiny cheeks. This was made much more amusing by my friend’s mum knowing the man who owned the shop. If the level of boredom crossed a certain threshold the status quo could always be reinstated with a simple 'Your mum still shagging Mr Buttocks?’

Buttocks, we are told, are the key to anxiety management. Tense them up and focus on their tightness, keep them tense, keep them tense…..keep them tense....aaaand release. This isn't easy for me. I am not overly blessed with upholstery. As Dad said when I was young, I had to run round in the shower to get wet. But whatever slim covering afforded my lower back I tense and release. This, we are told, centres your anxiety. It is also a device: a device to illustrate that tension has to be released. It isn't possible to retain tension without stimulus. Your brain is yours, we are reminded, yes not entirely without instinctive reactions nor compulsive behaviours, but many of these can be managed, engaged with, befriended even.

Fear is sensible. We are, after all, contemplating getting into a metal tube, and letting someone else - who like us once in a while accidentally drank too much, is inexplicably crabby, is distracted by hunger/breasts/pecks/crisps/daydreams/fantasies - drive a metal tube at great heights and great speeds. It is sensible to be afraid, but now we have to get a hold of ourselves: planes hardly ever crash.

More stats.

Crash numbers are tiny and decreasing; survival rates are increasing year on year.

Stats don't work though - you are always outside the stat: the only thing that would make you survive a crash is your fear, for you alone have researched what it takes to survive. Which precise seat is best to sit in to maximise your chances, the best technique for scrambling across headrests to get to the doors. You don't actually practice your technique on the sofa at home (you’re not mad after all) but mentally you’ve perfected it.

“Keep them tense as long as it's comfortable, longer…longer.”

She keeps us tensing. Beads of sweat dot foreheads.

“In the end you have to let go! And…release. Whenever you feel anxious, do this exercise. It educates your mind: tension cannot be maintained. Getting into a plane, you may be petrified. Accept it. Don't fight it. Just engage the buttocks.”

The brain cannot maintain a baseless fear, we are told.

“At the peak of your fear, watch what happens: it dips off. And at precisely this point you try to pump it back up because it makes sense to be afraid. You are afraid but nothing bad is actually happening, you will be scared but we are not actually crashing: your brain instinctively wants to let go of the fear - it isn't needed because there is no danger - and every minute that passes tells your brain 'I am still here, I am still alive, therefore this heightened state is not required'. It is at precisely this moment that you may try and reinstate your anxiety. It is at precisely this moment you should employ your buttocks.”

We are encouraged to let go of the greatest conceit.

“When we are anxious, we often try to anticipate everything that might happen, and plan for every eventuality. This is our way of ‘controlling’ it. Don’t kid yourselves that simply imagining the full range of catastrophes that might occur in any way changes the likelihood of them happening.”

This cleaned me out: I thought it was only me who subconsciously immunised himself against disaster; I thought it was mine, I thought I was uniquely wise, that it was only me who could allay these possibilities by knowing them so well that they might not surprise me.

At this moment the room turns a little: we all feel a step or two down the evolutionary chain, part of the drone collective rather than the all-seeing queen.

Lunch is a lot quieter than coffee. I need space and head outside. I take in the air, aware of every white line crossing the sky, aware that the impossible everydayness of being up there, of me being among them, would’ve been unthinkable to my great grandfather. I scrabble around in the pocket of my bag for my mini-disc player. I set it on the album that calms me, that takes me out of the here. I listen to one track⁴, and rewind ready for later, when there will be nothing beneath my feet but the drop.

The afternoon is exactly as if we are heading to the sun. Departures at Heathrow: the process of registering, waiting and hearing information follows entirely as it might for everyone else at the airport. 

On to the plane. All sit down. Heads bob up and heads bob back down.

A man three seats up stands to speak to one of the crew. 

“What are the doors made of? And the seals around the door? How often do they get replaced? When were these last replaced?”

Whatever her answers, he has another question. He is searching for the unanswerable question that will allow him to leave the plane with his dignity intact. He can't find it, so he leaves anyway. As he dashes towards the open door I notice he has very small buttocks.

There are three seats together in each section of row. I am in an aisle seat. I had been by the window but a sweating man asked if I'd mind. As we swapped, I noticed he had very large buttocks.

The pilot is going to talk us through every noise, every movement. The engines start. I'd forgotten the enormity of the noise. It’s like something is spinning so very fast, but the clutch is down: it's spinning so very fast but not catching the air. This is the noise - I’m certain - it'd make if it was hurtling towards disaster. 

“I’m just warming the engines up, we like to give them a little exercise before we start taxiing. Checking the gauges.”

I see him in my mind as the priest at church, conducting Mass with his back to the incoming tidal wave, the organ reaching its crescendo: the baptism scene in The Godfather.

“Out of the window to the left you can see the flaps going up....and going down. And now the right.”

The engines shut off. Hedidn'ttellushewasgoingtoshutthemoff. 

Heads lift up a few inches and then down again like piano hammers. He clears his throat over the intercom. 

“I’m sorry ladies and gentlemen, we're going to have to change planes.”

The entire plane looks like it is bobbing in the ocean. Doors open, and despite panicked or relieved faces, everyone leaves the plane in orderly, very British, fashion. One of the crew lets us know it is due to lack of oil pressure. No-one has any idea how important that is in the scheme of things that can go wrong, but obviously the ramifications in many heads include 'plummeting fireball, while we all live for⁵ being fully aware of our fate’.

Some shake hands with their immediate neighbours and leave. Some stick it out for part of the hour or so before the replacement plane arrives, until the waiting gets the better of them. 

I guess some leave due to too many disaster reruns, or buttocks too tired, or perhaps for some it was more to do with averting imaginary posthumous gatherings, where over a drink or two couples talk hushedly: “I mean what kind of fool gets on to another plane when the one they're in on a fear of flying course has a fault?!”

Perhaps half of us make it on to the replacement plane. Mr Big Buttocks is still there, two to my right, with a woman I guess is in her late 60s between us: a for-my-family flier.

The take-off noise is immense.

Within a few minutes my mind has started working out how many ‘me’s of fresh air there are beneath this metal tube flying at 570mph. Mr Big Buttocks is losing it. Turned away from the window, he is sweating impressively, making his own gravy.

“Oh God. Oh God.”

Mrs Family Flier and I set about talking him down. 

“Clench Mr Big Buttocks, clench. Hold...and release.”

I lean over Mrs Family Flier and tell Mr Big Buttocks about the view. He gravies on me a little. The noise levels right out, inspiring a fresh wave of panic. We all got used to the life threateningly loud, screamingly high pitched noise. Everyone is thinking: “Don't turn it off now. It's quiet; disaster must be upon us.”

Except I don’t feel like that. I am smiling. I look out of the window. It is beautiful. 

Even Mr Big Buttocks is on his feet. In the gangway he looks like a pint in a half pint pot; I suppress a hot flush of claustrophobia. This is fun. And I don't need my buttocks - or that album - anymore.

We head west up the Thames, into a spectacular autumnal sunset.

London is made to be seen from above. I get out of my seat, accepting the invitation to nose around the cockpit. The old man will love it when I tell him how much I enjoyed being on a plane; his biggest dream of being a pilot failing to get off the ground due to colourblindness.

It feels like I’ve learned to speak a little of his language.

Minestrone

Minestrone is a splendid thing to make or eat a drizzly day, as long as you surrender to a good while of dicing and slicing: if you can do that, without rushing, you’ll feel much relaxed as it simmers. I like to cook the broccoli and pasta separately, to keep the cooking of the soup itself to a minimum.

If you make this using pistou (like pesto, but without the nuts) then the soup itself adopts the name ‘pistou’ too. Adapt this as you see fit: it should taste like a bowlful of the month you are eating it in.

Serves 6

6 tbsp extra virgin olive oil, plus more to coat the pasta
3 medium carrots, finely diced
2 onion, finely diced
3 fat sticks of celery, finely diced
2 small leeks, finely sliced
2 cloves garlic - finely chopped
120g macaroni or any little pasta shape
1.2l vegetable stock, hot
200g peas - frozen is fine
230g purple sprouting broccoli
150g kale, leaf ribs finely sliced, leaves finely shredded
6 heaped tbsp parsley pistou, optional (see below)
sea salt and freshly ground black pepper
freshly ground white pepper, optional
a little Parmesan, grated

Cook the macaroni ahead, until al dente. Drain and rinse with cold water and stir in a little oil to prevent it clumping together.

Add the oil to a large saucepan, and over a low-moderate heat, cook the onions, leeks, celery, kale ribs and carrot until soft, stirring often, seasoning well. Add the garlic and cook for a minute.

Add the stock and bring to a simmer.

Half fill a separate, smaller pan, and once simmering, add the broccoli and cook for 5 minutes or so, until al dente: drain and rinse in cold water.

Add the kale leaves and peas and cook for a few minutes until they are just tender, then stir in the cooked macaroni and warm through for a couple of minutes.

Taste and season if needed. Divide the broccoli between the bowls and ladle over the soup.

Add a spoonful of the parsley pistou, below, to transform the soup into pistou; dust with white pepper and shower with Parmesan.

Parsley pistou

Use this to finish soups and stews, just on serving, and if time is tight it makes a pretty good pasta sauce too. You can make this with a pestle and mortar if you prefer.

50g parsley leaves and stalks
1 large garlic clove, finely chopped
75ml extra virgin olive oil
20g parmesan, finely grated
sea salt and pepper

Place all the ingredients in a blender and pulse until smooth. Taste and season to taste. Store in the fridge.

1. I will let you know when it goes live

2. If you are ever in need of a peaceful couple of hours - I can recommend viewing in instalments too - this is the view from the train cab for the whole trip

3. I’m not saying I never will fly, but - in the way I hope never to again play tequila yahtzee from 11am on Christmas Eve, smoke 30 a day or live in a house share like that again - it is not something I intend to do.

Part of the reason I don’t make a habit of telling anyone is that however much you say it’s just a personal choice it can easily be perceived with judgment. I’m not interested in that, and even if I was I’m not so dim as to believe anyone was ever belligerated into not flying/being vegan/not supporting Man Utd.

I told a long time friend I didn’t fly - that I’ve flown 6 times in my life - and she couldn’t have been more startled if I’d proposed. It seems so normal to most of us, but the truth is, it’s not.

89% of the world’s population doesn’t fly. Those that do, mostly don’t fly internationally.

It is a rich person’s pursuit. Just 1% of the global population are responsible for half the emissions associated with flying.

And while the rich can’t buy their way out of the impacts of climate change, the impacts are felt disproportionately at the margins where those with few resources live. The fliers pollute the non-fliers, the rich pollute the poor. Same as it ever was.

So - responding to the urge to narrow the gap between what I believe and how I live - I don’t fly.

You could argue that the biggest climate impacts are industrial, beyond personal action - cement/building, manufacturing and so on - that require government (and above) intervention. Yes, but politicians are dim: they keep reminding us of it, but we mustn’t forget it. They don’t lead; they do what they feel will get them elected again. If we take it seriously, so might they.

You might argue that we should stop eating meat and dairy, and while industrialised meat production is an undeniable wildly damaging, many make engaging arguments that eating meat and dairy from more intelligent systems brings net benefits: there is no ‘good’ version of flying.

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5. Insert how many minutes your research told you you'd be completely aware of being in a plummeting fireball before you make contact with the ocean (for it was always an ocean in your premonition)