The BBC have reported the finding of a book of recipes by Mrs Charles Darwin.
They should have asked me. I have a recording of her telephone conversation with her sister, Maud. Unfortunately, we can only hear one side of the conversation. Here is a transcript.
MrsD: Well, nice to sit down and chat for a minute. He’s been back you know. I can’t begin to tell you where he’s been. Poncing up and down the oceans, “studying the species” he call’s it – twatting about more like.
Mrs D: Yes, the Beagle got back in October. 4 bloody days I was waiting while he got through customs. I told him before he went he needn’t bother bringing back a load of foreign crap, but did he listen? Did he bollocks!
Mrs D: You can say that again! Cost me a bloody fortune to have all the stuff biked back here, and then he spends all his time sorting it out. Hardly a word to me, all the while he was here. Ignorant twat.
Mrs D: Yes, I had one of those, but the doctor said that I needed to soak it in vinegar. How am I going to get vinegar up there, I asked. Another bloody doctor for you, anyway, where was I? Yes, that’s right, then he sods off to see his bloody scientist pals and me without a clue when he’ll be back. I told him, don’t expect your bloody dinner to be on the table when you get back – and I threw a lump of coal at him. “Evolve that you bald twat!” I said.
Mrs D: I don’t think so, but then I’ve never been to Scotland. Anyway, I got sick and tired of seeing all these bloody dead animals all over the fucking house, “Specimens” he calls them. “Right fucking mess” I call them. I’d had enough, so I thought I would get rid of them, and not liking to see waste, I’ve been improvising. Tahitian wombat stew – that didn’t quite work, but since then we’ve been having some right tasty treats of an evening. Neighbours come round and everything. “You should write some of these recipes down” said old Mrs Throgmorton from round the corner. So I did. I’ve cleaned out about half his room now, and the little book I had published is doing very nicely thank you. It’ll be more popular than his bloody pompous load of crap that he keeps talking about. “Nobody will believe a sodding word!” I told him. The only problem is that for one of the dishes I can’t find any more of the main ingredient – no idea what it was called even. Some bloody strange creature that looked more like a man than a monkey when you’d shaved the hair off – bleeding delicious. I don’t think he’s going to miss it.