I guess we were blessed

Diwali in Udaipur

All the Diwali celebrations and newspaper reports remind me of our time in Udaipur (the Octopussy city – and still cashing in on it). We arrived in Udaipur after a traumatic overnight coach journey. You are supposed to sleep on such journeys but, with front seat views and a chaotic driver, sleep was never going to be easy. (Perhaps I have always had insomnia?)

            It was on this journey that I first encountered communal women’s toilets – this had always been a recurring dream of mine so I was understandably astounded to find that they actually exist (I just hope the monsters under the bed, the plane crash in my back yard and the day when all my teeth fall out simultaneously don’t turn out likewise). I had thought that this was going to be the worst part of the journey but I was wrong.

            Like all journeys by coach in India, and indeed most of South East Asia, it was carried out to the soundtrack of Hindi music and incessant horn blowing. The music I don’t mind – though it isn’t well loved when you are trying to sleep on an overnight journey – the horns are another matter. Sure, in the daytime you can get over them and it is only the dull ringing in your ears as you retire to the bar for a teatime beer that reminds you of the cacophony. At night it is another matter. It’s not the fact that they’re blowing them that matters – it’s the why.

            In India they generally drive at night with their lights extinguished (actually, I’m going back ten years now so perhaps they’ve updated their safety regs – you could Google it and let me know). I think it is to save fuel and prevent light pollution – I’m only guessing. So they blow their horns at night to warn of their advance and, should they hear a horn, they generally fire their lights onto main-beam in a last ditch attempt to avert a crash. It’s fun (in a kind of Tarantino, black humour kind of way) – imagine, you’re pounding down a rough road, headlights off, interior lights on and suddenly your driver lights his lights – just as the driver in the oncoming coach lights his. You don’t sleep.

            We passed a crash on the journey – we should not have passed the crash – we were in a huge tailback. But our driver decided he wasn’t being part of the tailback and instead pulled onto the opposite side of the road and passed every car, van, wagon etc. At one point we were in a stand-off with another wagon, coming (quite legitimately) in the other direction – on a head-on course for us. Our driver won. So we arrived in Udaipur, as scheduled, at 5 in the morning.

            I guess we were blessed.

            Tomorrow I will actually write about Diwali. We were blessed then too.

A bad workman always blames his tools

I am well aware of this fact and would never dream of blaming my tools. Clearly if something isn’t working then I’m doing something wrong – unless I’m dealing with a computer, photocopier or vending machine. Then it usually just needs a swift kick. Or, in the case of the computer, which is luckily too high for my feet, I find that shutting it down (for a few hours or even days) and praying hard usually works. If that fails then swearing, slamming things and audibly wondering how you are ever going to make ends meet as an aspiring writer when you’re computer won’t even work generally does the trick.

            Two weekends ago when I tried to make an alioli following a Rick Stein recipe (I’ve often made my own but I’ve never felt I had the balance of salt/garlic/creaminess just right) so on this occasion I faithfully and carefully measured out all the ingredients exactly as Rick suggested. I had a new mixing bowl and, to save my arms, I decided to use my new electric hand-whisk. I drizzled the oil in as slowly as you could possibly imagine, I whisked, I changed hands, I whisked some more. I let my mixer have a breather because it was getting very hot and emitting that strange, burning plastic/electrical smell that you get from very over-worked motors. I changed bowls because I wondered if it didn’t like being in stainless steel. I added another egg yolk just in case. And I wondered if perhaps the Spanish favour a very runny type of alioli that looks like garlic floating in gallons of cloudy oil.

            In the end I made a different salt-cod recipe (delicious nonetheless) and couldn’t get the alioli out of my mind. I compared other recipes – Gary Rhodes uses roughly the same oil but more egg yolk. Someone else did a blend of vegetable/olive oil (as in most mayonnaise recipes) but still I could not pinpoint what could have gone wrong – for it had gone wrong, the Spanish do not favour a pourable version of alioli.

            Facebook users will know that this Friday I had to make a strawberry soufflé at the last minute when we had a wine mishap and opened a €13 wine on what was just going to be a simple supper night. I quite enjoyed rising to the challenge and love separating eggs so I was not perturbed. I think I’ve heard that egg whites whisk better in steel bowls (but I don’t know if it’s true and haven’t bothered to google it) so I put the whites in my new bowl and proceeded to whisk. With my electric whisk. And they would not form peaks. Now I’ve done this a million times so I know that you don’t need icing sugar, salt or anything else – if you have a clean bowl they will form peaks. I tilted the bowl, I changed the speeds – I even had it on full speed with the turbo button depressed (or was that me depressed?) but all I got was frog spit.

            I gave the machine a rest, I tried to tell myself that the frog spit was getting thicker and then it dawned on me. These were not balloon whisks staring back at me – I was trying to form soft peaks in my egg white with two very feeble looking dough hooks.

            So that also explains the alioli.

            Does this mean there are times when we should blame our machines? Or is Rob correct?  He simply looked across and said,

            ‘It’s not the tool but the tool that’s using it’ and carried on drinking the very delicious wine.

So I wondered about writing a cookbook

But it seems you have to be a celebrity to get anywhere with one of those. I was quite curious about the number of celebrities who are popping up with cookbooks – and on the whole I think anything that gets people cooking is a good thing. So you may not be convinced about Tana Ramsey’s need to cook – given that her husband is a professional chef – but if it helps you get the food on the table for you and your kids whilst your husband plays away then fair enough. Or if you’d like to know how yummy mummy Gwyneth Paltrow  keeps Apple and Moses happy and well-fed whilst still finding time to exercise, make blockbuster movies and keep the house tidy – well there’s a book on that too.

No, I am not being cynical – I have hundreds of cookbooks (maybe that’s an exaggeration but I have over thirty) and I don’t stop buying them. If each book only gives me renewed enthusiasm for cooking and one or two new recipes then they have been money well spent. Except…

In another of this month’s magazines (again I won’t name it) there is a celebrity interview with Eva Longoria who (despite being recently divorced) still looks young, sexy and is making films (how do these rich, celebrities with personal stylists manage it?) and cookbooks. Her book is called, Eva’s Kitchen: Cooking With Love For Family & Friends and she describes it as a ‘memoir of my life with food’ (quoting from page 40 of said magazine). I find this interesting because on page 42 she then explains in more detail about her diet. She is quoted as saying,

‘I get food delivered by a company called Sunfare. The bag arrives every

morning: breakfast, lunch, dinner, two snacks. Perfectly proportioned and calorie counted.’ (Eva Longoria as interviewed by a well-known UK monthly magazine - there is more, should you wish to purchase the mag.)

            Hmm, so now I’m really interested to read her cookbook.

           

There is a similar company operating in the UK (The Pure Package - it may only be London so far) and for £339.50 for ten days you can get this whole deal – and apparently it saves you money as well as time – as you no longer have to shop for your food, just wait for your daily delivery. And if you think this is the way forward you can sign up for a full 90 days at the special price of £2965.50. Please keep in mind that this is for one person – not a couple, not a family but one person. It does not include alcohol, tea, coffee, cleaning products, toilet rolls and all the other things you tend to buy on your weekly shop. It doesn’t include cat food, dog food, rabbit food (though you may be forgiven for thinking so when you look at the sample menus) – am I over-reacting when I think that this is a gross waste of money and even a little bit sad? And what do these people do if a friend drops by just before dinner – do they scramble around in their freezer to see if there’s any oven chips so they can eke an extra portion from the day’s meal?

Ah well, I think Eva can keep her cookbook for the time being but I must admit if Gwyneth’s book can make me look like that then it may be worth a sneaky peek.

For any of you still inclined to cook – here’s a Spanish inspired recipe. Please don’t be put off by the looks of the dish – as I’m not a food stylist I am afraid it was not easy to make this photograph look good, it really tastes delicious though.

This is really normally a starter or tapas but as I was serving it as a main meal I kept it a bit saucier – if you do make it for tapas I suggest you reduce the sauce much further so the livers go really sticky.

Recipe: Sherry glazed chicken livers with Carmargue rice and salad

Source: Marks and Spencer Spain (don’t know if these are still in print but they’re lovely)

Ingredients:

Chicken livers (thawed – one pot, about 200-250g, will serve 2 people)

Olive oil

Sherry vinegar

Sherry

2 shallots, finely chopped

Garlic, chopped

125ml Chicken stock (home-made if possible)

Fresh thyme

Fresh Parsley

Honey

Cayenne pepper

Salad ingredients

Carmargue Rice

Here’s What I Do:

Cook your rice (this can be a long time with Carmargue). Prepare your salad – add any ingredients you like, as there is a nice sauce with this meal I dressed the salad with just olive oil and a sprinkling of Carmargue salt. I topped it with a few shreds of Manchego cheese because I love any excuse to eat Manchego. Trim the livers – they’ll have sinewy bits that aren’t nice to eat – then pat them dry with kitchen towel. Heat the oil in a large pan and fry the livers in a single layer until brown on the outside and just pink inside. Transfer to a warm plate and keep warm in an oven. Add the garlic to the pan and as soon as it starts to smell fragrant add the vinegar, sherry and shallots and bring to the boil, scraping any bits from the bottom of the pan. Add the stock, thyme, honey and a pinch of cayenne and bubble until reduced (if you are doing this as a main meal, reduce by about half, otherwise for tapas reduce to around 3 or 4 tablespoons – it should look thick and sticky). Return the livers to the pan, cover in the sauce/glaze, check for seasoning and then sprinkle with the parsley. Serve with the rice and salad.

On High-Fives

My sisters, nieces, mum and I all try to meet once a week for coffees on a Friday – mainly we manage though life does sometimes get in the way so that one or more of us is missing but we do try. This week we made it. I think it is a lovely way to spend the end of Friday afternoon, it introduces my nieces to café culture and being sociable and it means we all stay in touch – face-to-face – as opposed to the more modern methods of texting, tweeting and status updates (and not forgetting blogs of course).

            Last Friday we met and had a lovely catch-up in a well-known coffee chain (I actually have to go to an independent coffee shop prior to the meeting so that I can get my caffeine fix as said chain brews disgusting coffee). It’s lovely to be there at around 5:30 and see how busy it is, there is every age-range, nationality and gender represented in that one coffee house every Friday and it warms me to think that we are not losing the gift of good conversation, enjoyed over something that doesn’t involve alcohol.

            An elderly couple had the tables behind us and from the way they were chatting to the manager they were clearly regulars there – I felt all warm and hopeful and pictured myself at 115, still active, still mobile, still doing Sudoku and frequenting the local café bars for a coffee and a chat. It’s a nice image.

            They soon got chatting to us and playing with my youngest niece who delighted them with her appreciative giggles as they tickled her and told her how beautiful she is (it’s true). And it reminded me of how saddened I get at the way society’s belief that strangers are evil/dangerous etc. often clouds our nation’s views and actions. I can’t count on my fingers the number of times each run that someone ignores my jovial ‘good morning’ – I teach my nieces to say it to passers-by and they too are normally met by strange looks.

We should be pleasant to one another, our world is not filled with mad-men and murderers (as tabloids would have us believe) and anyway, the dangerous ones are usually the ones we know. I’m not saying we shouldn’t teach our children the possible dangers of life, or the all-too important guidelines for maintaining their own personal safety and space but please can we have some realism? The following is what happened to me several months ago, I was so upset by it at the time that I wrote it in my journal.

            A young girl, no more than three, with a mop of bouncy, curly hair sits in a trolley at Asda; waiting patiently for her mum who is not far away, browsing the yoghurts and cheeses, regularly popping something or other in the trolley. The girl watches the crowds (for they must seem like crowds to her) and her face lights up as she realises my trajectory will pass near hers. Instantly she sticks her palm out in that familiar (at least at sporting venues) ‘high-five’ gesture. I reciprocate and her pleasure is obvious, her face suffused with joy.

            Her mother approaches, for she is clearly her mother even from a distance, her face contorted in a mixture of anger and a smile – as if she hates me but cannot face a confrontation. Her daughter is still excited, tells her mother – with glee – how I met her hand and her elation is instantly dashed.

            ‘And do you think that was sensible?’ her mother questions, her voice harsh, her features pinched.

            I walk on speedily; half embarrassed, half saddened at how wrong people’s interpretation of our world can be and at the damage a fleeting moment can do.

Not that I'm jealous or anything...

My nieces were sick this week. Very sick. The kind where you vomit profusely and spend the day on the settee under a duvet. There is something wonderful about these days that is lost on you once you become an adult. I remember them from my own childhood, vividly. There were so many pleasures to the sickness, first the excitement of having the settee to yourself – with covers (I’m older so duvets didn’t exist in my childhood days). Secondly the collection of books - Malory Towers, St Clare’s, Secret Seven – you could read as many as you liked and in any order. Maybe even comics.

            And then there was the television. I dared a visit to my nieces (on their second sick day) and there they were, like an image of my former self, on the settee, snuggled under duvets and watching Aesop’s Theater (yes that is how it was spelt). And this was where the vision shattered.

            I too got the television. In the mornings this meant Open University – a man (usually bearded), with a blackboard and lots of chalked sentences that meant nothing to me but contained lots of squiggles (e.g. 3±7(xy)≠24), sometimes he’d have a whole blackboard full of these and would get very excited by the time he’d got to the end

            After Open University you could watch BBC Schools programmes, and I could learn to tell the time before the programme started and develop my social skills (see video). This, you will see, is why sick children of the 70s are blessed with patience.

            Then the programming turned to the adults and I could watch Pebble Mill at One (which is probably why my favourite band was Showaddywaddy). 

 

And then, when you were just thinking you could get used to being sick, spending time with your mum and the television - you got The Test Card.

Not just for a minute or two - this was for hours… and you really, really wanted to get better so that you could get up and walk to the TV to shut the thing up.

This was written for all those who can remember days before 24 hour cartoons/news/cookery/comedy/films and remote controls…

Along came a spider, who sat down beside her...

Our book-loving friend

And I wasn’t frightened away. Rob and I love spiders and happily share our home with them, although this year they have been bigger and closer. We don’t have a television but we do watch films and on the last two occasions we have been joined by what is clearly a relative of the tarantula family. It pops its head over cushions and watches us with a beady eye, next news it makes a dash and you’re never sure where it will appear next. The other night I caught it reading my book (pictured) so you can see that we’re living in close proximity with our arachnid friends.

            Perhaps a little too close.

            Today I was writing (as I do through the daylight hours), tapping away on my keypad, trying to put the finishing touches to an article on using yoga to improve your running. Twice I felt something brush my chest but put it down to perhaps a falling eyelash (yes, I’m like the princess, I can feel a pea under ten mattresses as well). Then I felt the distinct feel of footsteps over my knee, four pairs of them. Either I was being ambushed by four tooth-fairies or one of our house-guests had joined me. It was the latter, and I didn’t mind but it did remind me of our stay in Daman.

            We hadn’t quite been in India two weeks and, as my travel had been limited prior to this trip, I was a novice in much of the natural world. (On a train journey up to the Matharan Highlands I had excitedly pointed out the men sitting in the trees to Rob – they were monkeys!)

Our hotel in Daman was very nice, we had an ensuite room with hot water and a private balcony for 400 Rupees (£6.06 at the time) and, as we were staying there for several days we took the opportunity to unpack a few things, make use of the wardrobe and chill.

            It was in this hotel that I bothered to discuss the beetles with Rob, the shiny ones that joined me in the bathroom and scuttled round my feet. I thought they were quite beautiful in a dark and glistening kind of way. Rob told me they were cockroaches but, being the kind of person who judges others by how I find them rather than what I’ve heard about them, I was quite happy to share my bathroom with them. In fact you could say we got on well for the whole of our stay.

            Until the morning we were leaving.

            I got my pack out of the wardrobe (I always leave packing till the last minute) and started to stuff things in. At this point my things started to climb out – which was weird, we’d only been travelling a few days and our clothes weren’t that dirty. Within seconds my arm had turned quite black – moving black. I had grown a skin-tight, shimmering, gleaming, shrink-wrapped sleeve.

            Made of cockroaches.

Cockroach, courtesy of Just Animal

            And then I stopped liking them, I tipped my pack up and hundreds of six-legged armoured creatures ran out, covering my feet and filling every part of the room. And actually I flapped my arms about, became breathless and incoherent and rather like one of those screaming blondes that were popular in 80s movies (I’m thinking Goldie Hawn irrationality).

            There’s only one other creature that’s prompted such a reaction – and I’m afraid that’s another tale.

Drop a dress size in ten days - but please read the small print

Just after Toronto Half Marathon

I’ve lately been buying a lot of fitness magazines – it’s research for one of my latest assignments, and they’re not a bad read. Indeed, given that I have been trying to lose a little weight over the last few weeks, some of them are very enticing. Like, for instance, the one with the following front cover announcement:

            DROP A DRESS SIZE FAST! Slim down in just 10 days

            Now I’m not going to name and shame (though it is a November issue so you could take a look on the magazine shelves if you are at all interested) but I thought it would be interesting to share this article with you. Briefly. I don’t want to infringe copyright after all. 

That was a dark night - and I'm not talking about Batman

Niah Caves

Lately the gloomy weather has been leading to some very dark nights. It’s not normally a problem if I wake up in the night – given that our house is mainly glass I can generally see very well. Enough to know there are no monsters under the bed and enough to see my way around without disturbing Rob or standing on a cat. Not so at the moment

No animals were harmed in the making of this blog

I always read the credits to films. Sometimes I am thwarted in this mission – physically dragged out of the cinema or, on rare occasions, Rob simply turns the dvd off – and it seems too much effort to start it again, fast-forwarding all the way to the end.

If you don’t read the credits then I highly recommend it – I say this both as an aspiring writer (who cannot wait to be credited with something) and also a converted credit-reader (they are very interesting and there is no end of things you can learn about the film by reading the credits). Take caterers

Also bad

Couldn't find a limen but this is a nice Canadian gull

I learnt a word today. This is good, I like to learn new things but it is also bad because I should have known this word previously but had never even considered its existence. To make it doubly bad, I am still at a loss for how to use the word. Generally when I learn a new word, gargantuan for example (yes, I know, I’m a Tarantino fan) or zeitgeist, I use it, regularly and teach it to my nieces but today I cannot.

            The word is liminal.

            I should not be surprised by its being, given that I use the word subliminal perhaps not frequently but certainly confidently. I could use it at a dinner party should I wish to – and not just with regard to advertising. So why was I surprised to read the word liminal today? More to the point, given that I know the word subliminal could I not just have removed the prefix and worked out (via mathematical/linguistic reasoning) what liminal meant? Was it really necessary to get out the dictionary and, on finding that it is not listed in my copy of Oxford Modern; did I really have to go to the university website in order to access the Complete Oxford and thus sate my curiosity?

            Still, curiosity sated please could someone give me a meaningful sentence containing the word? Or explain the following, quoted from Mind (1884:428):

‘The liminal difficulties cannot be evaded without the most disastrous consequences to the body of the exposition.’

Actually, perhaps E. B Titchener helps (1895):

‘We may also introduce the concept of the limen, defining the just noticeable deviation from indifference as a liminal pleasantness or unpleasantness.’

Or then again – perhaps he doesn’t.

Your comments would be greatly appreciated.

On a more (ful)filling note, here’s a cheap and cheerful recipe that you could serve at a dinner party without looking bad. (Just use less ingredients if you’re doing it for a starter).

Recipe: Warm chorizo and black-pudding salad

Source: Lots of chefs do variations

Ingredients:

Black pudding (1 per person)

Chorizo (not that ready sliced stuff)

Green beans

New potatoes

Dijon mustard

Crème fraiche

Butter (salted or unsalted – as you prefer)

Egg

Here’s what I do:

Halve the potatoes (if they’re large) and boil in water until tender, adding your beans for the last five minutes. Cook your black pudding to your liking, we boiled ours this time but you can slice and fry. Whilst all this is cooking slice your chorizo quite chunkily and fry in a separate pan until crispy. Meanwhile make your sauce – put some water in a pan and set it to boil, find a dish that fits snugly in the pan and into this place a good sized knob of butter, a teaspoon of Dijon and then a few spoons of crème fraiche. Stir it as it all melts together over the bain marie. (This sauce is all about personal preference – I like the mustardy taste quite mild so I use less mustard/more creme fraiche – you’ll need to taste and do it to your liking.)

            Get a big frying pan full of water and get this boiling. Plate up your salad on warmed plates and poach your eggs in the boiling water (they’ll only take a couple of minutes) serving these on top of your salad. Drizzle it all with a little sauce, serving the rest in a jug.

Saddened by the Pull of a Cork

Up until a few months ago Rob and I relied on each other for certain things. I needed Rob for opening wine and he needed me for surfing the internet, we were constantly saying to one another,

‘And what will you do if I die?’

 I’ve had one of my favourite Sunday afternoons – made chicken stock, French bread, cereal bars and poached pears ready for dessert (they’re currently steeping in a nicely thickened liquor which I prepared from fortified wine, sugar and a touch of arrowroot). During this culinary extravaganza I selected a wine from our last French trip and, with remarkable deftness of hand, used the corkscrew (wine waiter variety, those pump-action all singing all dancing ones will not do for us) and decanted the wine.

            Then I remembered how I came home the other day to find Rob surfing the net – on my computer – no assistance required.

            And I felt a touch saddened by our independence.

I thought I’d finish the week with a really tasty and tremendously easy pasta dish. The beauty of this dish is it is very quick, very easy and extremely nutritious, packing all those wonderful Omega oils into one delicious meal.

Recipe: Artichoke and Salmon Spaghetti

Source: Originally inspired by a ‘Good Food Magazine’ recipe

Ingredients:

Jar of artichokes in oil

Tin of salmon

Broccoli (cut into small florets)

Cherry tomatoes

Black olives (optional)

Here’s What I Do

Nothing (ha, this is one of Rob’s creations)! If you want to make it, empty your jar of artichokes with oil into a medium sized pan (you need one with a tightly fitting lid). Into the same pan put the tomatoes and the broccoli florets. Put on the lid and cook over a medium heat – the oil will steam the broccoli. This should take about 20 minutes but make sure your artichokes don’t start to burn.

            Meanwhile prepare your spaghetti (as per pack instructions). Drain your tin of salmon and remove any big bones, chopping the flesh into large chunks. Put the salmon (and olives if using) into the artichoke pan for the last 5 minutes.

            Serve your spaghetti onto warmed plates, putting the artichokes etc on top and ensuring that you drizzle all the lovely juices over.