Hardeep Singh Kohli: Essential oils for bliss at bathtime

Published on Sunday 19 July 2009 00:19

Ever since I can remember I have always been a fan of keeping clean. I was never one of those soap-dodging kids who bawled his wee eyes out at the idea of having a wash. And my attitude to personal hygiene has developed into adult life.

Where my mother would scrub us clean through the magical power of a damp, soapy face towel and an orange bucket full of too-hot water, now soap, the low murmur of speech-based radio and hot, cleansing water combine to create for me a little bit of aquatic heaven.

I have had to be won over to the ritual of baths. I never got my head round ladies who give the entire evening over to a wash; the sort of ladies who surround the bath with innumerable aromatic and over-priced candles; the sort of ladies who when asked which bottles they take into the bath answered: "Burgundy". And I certainly didn't invest much time in the room where the bath lay: the bathroom.

That was then. Now I have softened my ways. I can think of few better ways to kill half an hour or so than to fill the bath and have a wee soak. Although I do have to follow this immediately by a shower, since I suffer the fundamental lack of belief that sitting in a bath of my own dirt can truly clean me.In exploring my bathroom of late, I have noticed how different it is from the bathrooms I was used to while growing up. In those days the sole item over which I could claim any sort of ownership in the smallest room was my toothbrush. (As a second-born child I always had the colour of toothbrush my elder and more familially powerful brother had eschewed.) Those days are far behind me. My bathroom is now an altar to potions and elixirs. I am comfortable enough in my metrosexuality to admit that I embrace the concept of moisturising. There are no fewer than 20 different brands and bottles that I will occasionally dabble with and apply to my face and/or neck area.

Although I am not quite metrosexual enough to admit to a fastidious daily regime of cleaning, toning and moisturising: even I need to draw a line somewhere.

I have beard trimmers (one regular and one standby), three tubs of cotton buds (buy two, get one free), a barely-touched tube of burn cream and, of course, a ten-year-old wireless.

On closer examination a rather interesting trend seems to have arisen. I have a disproportionate number of cleansing products that contain citrus fruits. I have some grapefruit shower scrub, orange blossom face scrub and strawberry shampoo. Quite what strawberries add to hair care is a mystery to me, but I like the idea of fruit-based cleansing so will be attempting to make or purchase some watermelon toothpaste, guava hair gel and maybe a wee bottle of banana spot cream. That should keep me busy in the bathroom for a good few fruity hours.

Get the low-down on best of Greek cuisine

I was talking about restaurants with a friend and he told me about this amazing little Greek place. They have no sign to alert potential diners and no menu to speak of. You pitch up and they feed you what they have cooked.

Davy and his girlfriend showed up to find the place full. It was late and they were running out of options. The owner apologised and said if they really needed to eat he could find some space in the basement. They didn't see a problem with that. Except it actually was a basement. The owner cleared some boxes and an old ironing board and set up a wee table, a lamp and offered music from an iPod and Davy and Erin had dinner amongst the boxes. They reckon it was one of the most romantic nights ever. And the food was to die for.

No beef about cow with the proper ID

Sunday saw me whizz off to the country and see some friends. The sun shone and I was sped along my way by the promise of a roast beef lunch. I love roast beef. Craig had a four rib nestling happily in his spanking new oven, awaiting my arrival. Growing up in a Sikh house, beef was never allowed in, let alone cooked. To this day the only beef that manages to slip under my mum's ever-watchful radar is the odd burger or three.

The religious status of the cow in the Hindu religion explains why Sikhs, close cousins of Hindus, rebuff the beef. However I am not convinced that Sikhism itself forbids the eating of beef. Besides which, I see no compelling reason to single out the cow for special treatment, other than for the fact that it's meat can be so delicious. In Scotland we have the best beef in the world, bred to the highest standards and delivered in the most traceable way. (Every cow in Scotland has a unique number, which allows the buyer to know exactly where the meat has come from; it's like a beef passport. Having said that, I have seen very few on the ferry to Calais.)

The beef was well worth the two-hour drive, accompanied as it was by root veg mash, roast potatoes, spring greens and the most unctuous of all gravies. I was tempted to thank God for the beef, but given the religious ambivalence, thought better of it.

Demis or Denim? Don't want to be kilt in the kitchen

The Edinburgh Fringe approaches with an inexorability I can barely deal with. In 17 days I will open at the Gilded Balloon; the rest is darkness. For my cooking-based show the kitchen is being built, the fridges purchased, the food is being bought. Everything is being done. And the scope of my decision-making is narrowing by the day as the slick team around me take on their responsibilities.

I have less area to procrastinate in and I have to focus on the meaningful. Like what shall I wear on stage. It's important for a performer to feel they are putting on performing clothes. The ritual of dressing helps focus the mind, reminds one that there is a stage to be filled and an audience to be entertained (and, in my case, a meal to be cooked). I have thought through all the options: suits and ties; the jeans and t-shirt; a Demis Roussos-style flowing kaftan. (A nice man called Gary who deals with Health and Safety put the kibosh on the kaftan: flowing robes and cooking is not a healthy or safe combination).

The answer was obvious: I'm home so I should don my much beloved kilt. Which one? Tartan is great but very difficult to coordinate with; the wool kilts have a lovely swing but may well cause me to sweat away to nothing. I plumped for my denim kilt. Hard-wearing, cotton and just lovely. Now all I need to do is lose the half-stone I didn't have when I purchased it.