The Great Chutney dilemma

I hate chutney. There, I’ve said it. The problem is, I have jars of the stuff neatly lining the back of the fridge, a sullen battalion of yuck! One we won as a raffle—part of a Christmas Hamper, no doubt donated by a kindred chutney hater. The rest are gifts from friends and therein lies the dilemma—the great chutney dilemma—I'm referring to the etiquette involved. There is no acceptable way of addressing the problem full on—‘I’m sorry, I detest the foul stuff’ ‘another jar of Satan’s bottom droppings eh?’ without causing offence. Manners dictate you accept with due appreciation and thereby create the impression you are one of these weird chutney lovers. The problem is, I love my friends, and quite like random strangers. I just hate Chutney!

And when did Chutney  morph into some kind of universally loved gift? You don’t find Marmite or shag tobacco presented at dinner parties - even wrapped in Christmas paper. What makes Chutney so special? I mean, it’s all over the place, National Trust shops, Garden Centres, Delicatessens that ought to know better; and online you’ll find Chutney beautifully packaged and dripping with heritage—foulness exquisitely presented like an Old Testament whore.

And I know of which I speak. Having made damson wine, jars of damson jam, and damson gin, I still had a surfeit of damsons and so rose to the challenge – could I make an acceptable damson chutney? The result was a sweet and vinegary stench. It pervaded the house, much to the consternation of my wife and daughter on walking through the front door as my witch’s brew merrily bubbled. 

I was forbidden from making the stuff again, and being the hypocrite I am, proceeded to gift as much of it as I could. I sometimes wonder if it’s still there, forming a line with other chutneys at the back of someone’s fridge. I’m also thinking that the next person to give me a jar of Satan’s vomit, will receive in return, a beautifully wrapped jar of beef dripping—something I am fond of on toast.