Well, answer me that.  Whatever did happen to rissoles?  Have they simply vanished into memory, like ‘Coals from Newcastle’ and David Essex, or have they just been repackaged, like Marathon and Kelly Osbourne?

Rissoles used to be a highlight of my week.  They were the thing that made Tuesdays worthwhile.

Sunday: roast dinner.  Monday: cold cuts.  Tuesday: rissoles.

Wasn’t there even a traditional, old English poem on the subject?

Sunday’s child has veg and roast.
Monday’s child likes cold cuts most.
While Tuesday’s child of rissoles boast.

But, no one seems to make rissoles any longer.  Is it that the tradition of the Sunday roast, which is the fundamental basis of rissoles has fallen out of favour, or is it that no one can be bothered to make something from the leftovers any longer?  Bubble and squeak.  It is a similar casualty of kitchen profligacy.

The traditional English rissole is covered in breadcrumbs.  Recipes, which describe a rissole as a patty, or covered in pastry, beware.  This is a foreign abomination.  Something altogether too knowing.  The whole point of a rissole is that it is something spontaneous; thrown together out of nothing; a culinary phoenix from the flames.

But, I am as a guilty as the next chef for the demise of the rissole.  When did I last make one?  I have been too quick to reach for a fancy rissole-substitute––the samosa; the arancini; a Ginsters––rather than to keep with tradition.  And that is what happens.  Not by design, but by complacency, the thing you cherish most is lost.

Tuesdays come, and Tuesdays go.  And, although I may not make myself a rissole, I will make sure that I set aside a moment to respect its memory.

© Beery Sue

Beery Sue fondly remembers Rissole Tuesdays.