Have you ever asked yourself a question along the lines of: “If you had to choose not to eat bread or not to eat potatoes, what would you go for?”, or perhaps: “If you had to either never ever have a starter or never ever have a pudding, which would you pick?” You probably have. Maybe not while alone, but as part of some desultory group chat. Though perhaps you rise above it – these are very hypothetical scenarios, after all. Who exactly is going to say that forever after you can only have starters or puddings? Donald Trump? It doesn’t strike me as his style. Keir Starmer might float the idea since he’s so worried about the NHS, but then he’d pub-garden it within 48 hours. Perhaps you’ll develop type 2 diabetes and have to give up desserts but there won’t be any scope for bargaining. “I simply must have meringue but I’m willing to swear off paté and prawn cocktails in exchange” is not an argument any reputable doctor will accept.
It’s diverting, though, in a bland way. If you’re at all interested in yourself, and it’s probably a mental health red flag if you’re not, you can’t help pondering it a bit. “Ooh, I love a roast potato, but instead of toast? That’s a poser. I think I’d have to keep toast.” That’s a little snippet from my own scintillating interior monologue, by the way. “Starters ahead of puddings. Every day of the week.” And there’s another. Like thinking about what you’d do if you ruled the world or won the lottery, it provokes harmless little explorations of what you’re like. “Do you know, I wouldn’t actually want it to be Christmas every day because then it wouldn’t be a treat,” you can proudly announce to yourself and any of the others in the chat. And hopefully there’s no rise-abover who’ll say: “Remind me, are we mortal or immortal, we humans? It’s mortal, isn’t it. We’re mortal. So what the hell is this?!”
These little thought experiments were brought to mind by reports of the UK’s current severe shortage of taramasalata. You can probably guess the cause. Yes, it’s industrial action in Spalding, as you suspected. As a result, most supermarkets are denuded of all tubs of pink fishy goo. If you’re ranking dips (which you really might get on to after deciding you’d definitely illegalise split-toe trainers and go for both an indoor and an outdoor pool because why not), you might say that taramasalata is your favourite. I mean, you might. But it’s surely got to be Pepsi to hummus’s Coke, right? – if that comparison works despite Pepsi and Coke, unlike taramasalata and hummus, being near identical. In this analogy, I reckon tzatziki would maybe be Fanta, but obviously without the Nazi origin story.
Some people have been really thrown by it, with one X user saying her family had been forced into sourcing their taramasalata from restaurants. I suppose there was nothing else they could have done. I must say I find this a rather relaxing shortage. In a universe where I would give up potatoes if I could continue to have toast, what would I give up to continue to have taramasalata? Not much. Not crisps, for example. Not even crinkle-cut crisps. Maybe one packet of crisps – although I’m not sure. Three crisps. I would forgo three crisps to keep taramasalata in my life. And I don’t dislike it. It’s fine.
Limoncello! I would swap limoncello for taramasalata. I certainly wouldn’t mix them – except under circumstances where I’d accidentally ingested poison and a stomach pump was unavailable. But, yes, I don’t mind never having limoncello if I can still have taramasalata. And that sentence remains true without the phrase “if I can still have taramasalata”. Limoncello is a regrettable liquid – I mean, it’s barely a liquid, it makes Benylin seem runny – and only marginally preferable to dying of thirst.
Still, shortages can be unsettling. They bring back memories of early Covid and the spectre of a British public racked with disease and unable even to wipe our own bottoms. But compared with the likes of loo roll, flour, pasta and paracetamol, taramasalata is vanilla – and indeed might be substituted with vanilla if you’ve put it on any forthcoming Ocado orders.
Like shortages, supermarket deliveries were something many of us first encountered because of Covid. We experienced first the terror of being unable to go and buy food, then the magic of it just turning up without having to – though this miracle was soon obscured by the fog of annoyance at their bizarre substitutions. Who decides this? A very stupid human or a third-rate algorithm? I wanted cranberry sauce not ketchup! What were they thinking? Jesus Christ, they’ve substituted celeriac for parsnips, a poussin for a turkey, a joke plastic dog turd for a Tesco Finest Cumberland ring and low-fat mayonnaise for mayonnaise! I hate low-fat mayonnaise!
The most severe shortage at the moment is of course good news. Everything feels a bit bleak; hot on the heels of a British election that seemed like cause for hope of a more civilised and benevolent few years comes an American one that promises only riots, bullshit, a confidence boost for the Ku Klux Klan and a warm embrace of climate catastrophe.
Strictly speaking, this taramasalata situation is more bad news. There’s an industrial dispute going on between members of the trade union Unite and their employer Bakkavor at its Spalding processing plant. Unite says its members have received below inflation pay rises for years, Bakkavor sees it otherwise. This row will be no metaphorical picnic for the people involved and, as a result, the literal picnics of the nation have been jeopardised.
Yet, in the absence of anything genuinely positive, a substitution must be made. We need to manufacture ersatz good news and, for me, that’s what the taramasalata shortage is. It’s very stressful for several hundred people and mildly irritating for millions but, looked at in context, it is so much less bad than the coverage surrounding it, that it actively looks nice, like the seeming brightness of a dark grey shape on a pitch black background.
