Quinoa is not a staple at our house. I like it a lot, but I don’t make it that often. If I did, I would probably already have negotiated a way through the ethical maze that confronts me. Should I buy quinoa from its homeland in South America, and if so should it be the morally superior stuff grown by small farmers on the altiplano of Peru and Bolivia, or the industrial stuff grown on the coast by greedy land barons cashing in on the mystique cultivated by the local people they despise?

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One reason I have had so little to say here is that I have been too busy having fun, and today was no exception. Rain, however, stopped play early and so here I am, forcing myself to share a few of the spoils before a little nap.

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My feet are not a pretty sight. I have a pronounced bunion (/bˈʌnɪən/) on the right and a littler one on the left. They sort of crept up on me when I noticed a kind of hump on adjacent toes. ”Oh, that’s a hammer toe,” said my friendly physician, who sent me off to an orthopaedic surgeon, who sent me off for X-rays and who eventually moulded my feet in plaster of Paris for custom orthotics that I have worn ever since.

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This time of year, approximately speaking, is ripe for investigating food and cultures, as in the episode Celebrating Passover and Easter. With Passover just behind and Easter just ahead, I’m happy to resurrect some more ancient posts.

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My own personal Wayback Machine recently reminded me that as the first Covid lockdown got under way I was forced to address some prominent myths about sourbread baking being promulgated.

All well and good. A columnist for hire must occasionally promulgate timely myths if they are to earn a cru...

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