Smoke

I’ve never been a regualar smoker, although when I was little I did enjoy chewing the cellophane from cigarette packets, and I associated the smell of tobacco with Martin, so I had a certain fondness for it. He gave up fags years ago, though, and enjoys a cigar only rarely. Now that smoking is banned in all public spaces in Scotland, I don’t even notice it on people’s clothes. These days, if a visitor does smell of tobacco, I find it quite unpleasant.

As for smoking fish, I have mixed feelings. I’m not fond of a really strong cure, or the stuff that’s artificially coloured, but a mild smoking does something rather fine to a haddock. Like salting, it concentrates the flavour and firms up the flesh, making it denser and drier. The smell of a good kipper is enough to lure me right down to the kitchen from my vantage point on the second floor landing, even if I’m not very hungry. And smoked salmon always makes me purr contentedly, especially if it’s combined with scrambled eggs.

Last night, M. cooked a little smoked haddock that was left over from making the fish pie on Sunday, and topped each piece with a poached egg. He served it with a few potatoes, and preceded the dish with a salad of endives, garlic croutons and Stornoway black pudding. Quite an elegant combination for a Monday evening, I’d say.