Stirring times in Scotland

Playing golf on the famous Open courses of Scotland some years ago was for me in all honesty a sham.

I had hoped to get away with the real reason for my trip to Scotland, but no such luck. Month after month of being niggled by my conscience and slow, drip-treatment interrogation by my regular golfing fourball and I caved in, admitting that I was not in search of birdies, eagles or pars but rather hunting for something far more profound, even though it would make complete strangers point their fingers at me and snigger.

Porridge. That’s the grail I was after. Perfect porridge.

My first port of call was the stately Gleneagles Hotel, sitting majestically in a forest, slap bang in the middle of Scotland and surrounded by three magnificent hillside golf courses on which I managed, with a three wood into the wind on a short hole, to hit the ball straight over the flag only to have it come back on a brisk southerly bluster clean over my head. Greater Scotland learned three new, very ugly words that day.

I can’t remember too much about those three courses, but I do recall that it is possible to drown one’s sorrows utterly and completely in a single malt whisky from Islay.

Next morning, quite free of any hangover and still not caring tuppence about my score of the day before, I dressed myself for the occasion in Harris tweeds and presented myself at breakfast.

Frankly, I don’t think the chef at Gleneagles had been paying attention during Porridge 101 at whatever school of higher culinary learning he attended, because it was completely underwhelming.

And that’s hardly surprising since the majority of true blue Scots cooks tend these days to speak only Spanish.

It was just oats cooked for about 15 minutes and then allowed to bubble in a brass pot between some self-service scrambled eggs and a particularly mournful haddock.

While many culinary cretins will wonder what on earth might be wrong with porridge if simply boiled for 15 minutes, I need to point out that while the Scots might not have a clue about cooking anything else on earth, they do take their porridge very seriously, as do I. And I’m inclined towards temper tantrums when it’s not prepared properly.

Indeed, it involves simply oatmeal, boiling water and salt, but you don’t just chuck it all in and boil away. That’s like suggesting that a triple bypass operation is just a question of chopping someone’s heart out and making a plan with the frilly bits.

Once the water is boiling vigorously, the oatmeal is added in a thin stream with the left hand while stirring briskly with the right, using a wooden thingummyjig called a spurtle.

It’s absolutely vital that porridge is stirred clockwise and never the other way, because that not only makes it taste like something a shire horse has regurgitated, but there is also the risk of goblins coming out from under your bed at night and stuffing peat moss up your nostrils.

When it has returned to a brisk boil, heat is reduced slowly and uniformly and then the pot is covered and allowed to simmer gently for about 15 minutes. After that salt is added to taste and stirred in well.

Ideally, this should be done round about late afternoon so that it can simmer away quietly until morning.

Porridge should be eaten standing up because the early morning hunters of olden days did not want to risk being kicked to death as their horses went berserk at the smell of boiled oats.

It should also be eaten in wooden bowls and not in china plates or silver porringers which can cause third degree burns on the palms of one’s hands. Simple Scots logic.

The uninitiated can of course sprinkle sugar on their porridge and while this doesn’t really affect the taste too much, it is life threatening if eaten in the company of true Scots porridge aficionados, especially those wearing scowls, no underwear and broadswords.

Milk or cream can be used, but the idea is not to mix it all up as is the wont of philistines. Rather take a spoonful of porridge and then scoop up some cream or milk to cool it off.

The porridge at the Old Course Hotel, St Andrews, had indeed been stirred clockwise with a spurtle and had bubbled away all night. It was served with warmed local honey and thick Jersey cream.

I did not eat it standing up because the chef told me that the sight of a South African golfing git standing about slurping porridge and saying “Och, aye the noo” after every mouthful tended to put paying guests off their kedgeree.