Which reminds me of the time we refuelled on The Tonle Sap

My sister was putting some fuel in her car Saturday afternoon – the dashboard had been bleeping at her for days and the ‘miles-left-until-your-engine-dies’ were getting lower and lower. Whilst we probably could have squeezed the last twenty-one point five miles out – it wasn’t worth the stress of wondering. As she filled I busied myself with people-watching (just in case there was a story there). No burglaries took place, no-one was having a full-scale row with their partner over the bill, no children were screaming. It was all pretty boring apart from the man in the passenger seat of the car next to ours. He was adjacent to the pump (said car having a passenger-side tank) and he was smoking, with the window down. Now I tend not to be a health-and-safety freak (despite having been elected Health and Safety Officer in previous lives); I am happy to play conkers, watch as children run full-pelt down slippery slopes and I have been known to forget my nieces hats, coats and gloves on cold days. All that aside, I did think his choice of smoking venue was unusual.

            I watched and listened intently. There were plenty of signs about prohibiting smoking and the use of mobile telephones. I also know that the pumps are fitted with speaker systems whereby the attendants can prompt you to tell the pump where you are paying, enter your pin-code and (witnessed on occasion) tell you to switch off your mobile so I knew it was only a matter of seconds before this crazy passenger would get the admonishment he was due. It never transpired and I was left with palpitations and sweaty palms as I studied the glowing stick – trying all the while to work out how many seconds smoking he had left and hoping fervently that he wouldn’t drop the stub out the window. We left before he finished his smoke but, given that I’ve not heard of any forecourt explosions, I guess he took his cigarette safely home.

            All of which reminded me of our time in Cambodia. Having just spent a wondrous three days at Siem Reap, marvelling at Angkor Wat, The Bayon and all the other architectural and tree-coated delights in the vicinity we were making our way, by boat to Phnom Phen. It’s a lovely journey along the Tonlé Sap – which is more a huge lake than a river. The ferries are rather large but nobody sits down below – well at least back-packers don’t – they sit on the roof of the boat. This is at once self-preservation (more chance of survival in an accident) and self-destruction (the breeze, spray and relentless UV-rays managing to play havoc with even the best protected skin. About two-thirds of the way along we had to change to a smaller boat, an interesting exercise given that we were already over-crowded and no-one was staying behind and the whole exercise takes place mid-river. Once we’d all managed our ungainly exodus we had to hang around whilst our new boat was refuelled, from a third boat, again mid-river. Sitting on top we had good views of the exercise – all carried out straight-forwardly enough, one Cambodian chatting and shouting the occasional instruction from the fuel-boat whilst two Cambodians from our boat stood astride the tank inlet, fuel pile trailing through their feet. And smoking.

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.

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.