The last week has been a bit exhausting, workwise. As a deeply disorganised person I sort of struggle through, hoping desperately that my occasional ability to come up with good shout lines distracts people from my general inability to cope with boring, repetitive, yet-surprisingly-important-when-someone-is-asking-you-about-them tasks. Unfortunately, it appears that this is not the case. My lack of skill where library and paper organisation are concerned has been noted. The combination of this and a rather nasty row with my boyfriend reduced me to a bit of a wreck this evening. When he returns we are to have a Conversation. I'm not looking to this, so decided to cook a soup while waiting and sobering up. Thus I have created a new recipe, and one that, right now, I am quite proud of as it appears to be yummy. The ingredients are thus:
Around 40g butter
1 tbsp olive oil3 large courgettes
about half a cabbage (I had savoy but white will probably do)
Chicken stock to cover, about 450mg (make your own or use a good fake, like Telma)
Black pepper
A handful of fresh basil
about 3 tbsp (to taste - add more if wished) mild curry powder
two tbsp 5 spice powder
1 tsp hot curry powder (optional)
a handful of strips of cabbage (for garnish)
Leftover salami or chorizo or similar, cubed (about 2 handful)
1 small avocado, cubed, with a squirt of lemon and black pepper on top (keep cold in the fridge)
Chop up the courgettes and cabbage (you're going to puree this soup, so you want them small enough to cook quickly but not minced)
Melt the butter with the oil in a large, heavy based saucepan
Throw in the courgettes and cabbage and fry for a couple of minutes
Add the mild curry powder and five spice
Fry for about another 5 mins, so that the vegetables sweat but do not brown
Add the stock to cover the vegetables and simmer gently for about 20mins, or until soft. Turn off the heat
Puree the soup with any sort of blender - this is quite smooth soup, so keep going for a while.
Taste the soup, add the hot curry powder if needed, black pepper, salt if needed (but remember we are about to add salami) and torn up fresh basil leaves.
Heat a frying pan till very hot, then add the salami cubes. As they start to brown and release their fat, add the cabbage, along with the last bit of butter if it looks dry. When they are a little browned, throw them into the soup and stir.
Leave for a few minutes - then check temparature and serve, throwing a handful of avocado per bowl.
Serve with crusty bread and maybe some grated cheddar if wanted.
This is quite a fatty soup, but filled with vegetables, which I feel negates all the butter. Plus, it's quite yummy and v. cheap if you already have a stocked spice rack.
It's now the morning after, since I had the Conversation (which took the form of sex, but never mind), but was determined to finish the post! Now, I'm going to go back to bed and read. :)
Saturday 16 January 2010
Sunday 10 January 2010
itchy burning rash of hatred
I am suffering from some kind of allergic reaction. Unsure as yet to what, but my whole body is covered in an itchy, burning, red rash which is, I'll be honest, not the most attractive thing I've ever had covering my body. It's been present since Thursday evening (Lucy did eventually get fed, and also gave me an antihistamine, because she's lovely), so I spent the day on Friday googling various types of rashes rather than taking the more sensible action of registering with a doctor. I therefore spent Friday evening asking bf and friend every five minutes whether I was developing a 'saddleshaped' rash over the bridge of my nose, as apparently that means I have lupus. I know it was silly. It's never lupus.*
72 hours(ish) later and little has changed. Very nice pharmacy man gave me a cream and some tablets when I crossed over the snow on the Saturday, near to tears because of my sudden leper status, and raised my jumper screaming, 'Look! Look! The horror!!' in the manner of a cast member from the Crucible. Sadly, although it's helped a little, much of my skin still looks like I've been rolling in nettles.
In spite of my plight, I made it to a friend's birthday party on Saturday night for a whole hour. That may not sound like much, but just try being inside On anon (Piccadilly Circus bar/nightclub) while a) not being able to drink and b) itching all over and c) well, just being in there is pretty much a negative letter all on its own. What a strange place. The music is both appalling and really, really loud. Everyone is wankered because it is the only way to survive and there's nothing else to do - there's no way to talk over the music. By 10pm most of the women in the place had fallen off their high heels at least once and the vibe of, 'right, we've all drunk enough now - whose body is nearest?' was really taking off. The odd thing is, my friend who had insisted on this place doesn't drink. She likes these places. Sober. She likes them. I realise increasingly, the older I get, that not only do I hate loud, expensive, bad musicy bars, but I have never liked them. In order to survive them, I drink more. This is a fairly common thing - most people probably know by now that loud music makes people drink more - it's why bars do it. There are research papers on this - have a google and see. It seems, with the exception of my friend (who is, bless her, extremely strange, while utterly lovely), most people may not like loud places where they can't talk. Being sober in places such as these doesn't usually happen to me - I'd grab the nearest drink or leave - so being forced to stay for a bit and watch was actually quite scary as alcohol, or rather, money made from alcohol, was so clearly the driving force. Surely there's something wrong with a culture where this is a normal Saturday night out in a capital?
I know - you don't have to go to them - but it seems sad to me that my choices, and my friends' choices, on Saturday night are quite limited by most of the mainstream clubs being a bit offensive. If you don't want to spend £50 on drinks just to manage to stay in there, it's basically pub, houseparty, dinnerparty rather than clubs. We need somewhere to go out and dance with good, live music, or good, not massively overrated djs, drinks which don't cost £7.50 per cheap vodka cocktail, where you don't have to be on drugs (Fabrik, I'm talking to you. On both counts) and where if someone is vomiting over the dancefloor, they are gently removed. Fulfilling all of those conditions just isn't easy in London - pay lots of money and you get class, but try to find somewhere where making money is not the obviously driving factor, and you're a bit screwed. I didn't realise how generally icky it is until I went to Berlin. The clubs there are fantastic - there is a genuine spirit and life there - a sort of decadence (raw spirit?), that just seems to be buried under lumpen alcohol consumption in the UK.
Anyway. Rant over. I'm probably just getting old. And increasingly itchy. For god's sake. I just clicked on Wanda to see what words of wisdom she may have for an allergy sufferer and the following popped up:
So she went into the garden to cut a cabbage leaf to make an apple pie;
and at the same time a great she-bear, coming up the street pops its head
into the shop. "What! no soap?" So he died, and she very imprudently
married the barber; and there were present the Picninnies, and the Grand
Panjandrum himself, with the little round button at top, and they all
fell to playing the game of catch as catch can, till the gunpowder ran
out at the heels of their boots.
-- Samuel Foote
Well, bugger you Wanda.
*anyone who hasn't watched House and therefore doesn't get the reference - go and watch it. Especially if you're a girl and so far unaware of quite how sexy Hugh Laurie (yes, really!) is capable of becoming.
72 hours(ish) later and little has changed. Very nice pharmacy man gave me a cream and some tablets when I crossed over the snow on the Saturday, near to tears because of my sudden leper status, and raised my jumper screaming, 'Look! Look! The horror!!' in the manner of a cast member from the Crucible. Sadly, although it's helped a little, much of my skin still looks like I've been rolling in nettles.
In spite of my plight, I made it to a friend's birthday party on Saturday night for a whole hour. That may not sound like much, but just try being inside On anon (Piccadilly Circus bar/nightclub) while a) not being able to drink and b) itching all over and c) well, just being in there is pretty much a negative letter all on its own. What a strange place. The music is both appalling and really, really loud. Everyone is wankered because it is the only way to survive and there's nothing else to do - there's no way to talk over the music. By 10pm most of the women in the place had fallen off their high heels at least once and the vibe of, 'right, we've all drunk enough now - whose body is nearest?' was really taking off. The odd thing is, my friend who had insisted on this place doesn't drink. She likes these places. Sober. She likes them. I realise increasingly, the older I get, that not only do I hate loud, expensive, bad musicy bars, but I have never liked them. In order to survive them, I drink more. This is a fairly common thing - most people probably know by now that loud music makes people drink more - it's why bars do it. There are research papers on this - have a google and see. It seems, with the exception of my friend (who is, bless her, extremely strange, while utterly lovely), most people may not like loud places where they can't talk. Being sober in places such as these doesn't usually happen to me - I'd grab the nearest drink or leave - so being forced to stay for a bit and watch was actually quite scary as alcohol, or rather, money made from alcohol, was so clearly the driving force. Surely there's something wrong with a culture where this is a normal Saturday night out in a capital?
I know - you don't have to go to them - but it seems sad to me that my choices, and my friends' choices, on Saturday night are quite limited by most of the mainstream clubs being a bit offensive. If you don't want to spend £50 on drinks just to manage to stay in there, it's basically pub, houseparty, dinnerparty rather than clubs. We need somewhere to go out and dance with good, live music, or good, not massively overrated djs, drinks which don't cost £7.50 per cheap vodka cocktail, where you don't have to be on drugs (Fabrik, I'm talking to you. On both counts) and where if someone is vomiting over the dancefloor, they are gently removed. Fulfilling all of those conditions just isn't easy in London - pay lots of money and you get class, but try to find somewhere where making money is not the obviously driving factor, and you're a bit screwed. I didn't realise how generally icky it is until I went to Berlin. The clubs there are fantastic - there is a genuine spirit and life there - a sort of decadence (raw spirit?), that just seems to be buried under lumpen alcohol consumption in the UK.
Anyway. Rant over. I'm probably just getting old. And increasingly itchy. For god's sake. I just clicked on Wanda to see what words of wisdom she may have for an allergy sufferer and the following popped up:
So she went into the garden to cut a cabbage leaf to make an apple pie;
and at the same time a great she-bear, coming up the street pops its head
into the shop. "What! no soap?" So he died, and she very imprudently
married the barber; and there were present the Picninnies, and the Grand
Panjandrum himself, with the little round button at top, and they all
fell to playing the game of catch as catch can, till the gunpowder ran
out at the heels of their boots.
-- Samuel Foote
Well, bugger you Wanda.
*anyone who hasn't watched House and therefore doesn't get the reference - go and watch it. Especially if you're a girl and so far unaware of quite how sexy Hugh Laurie (yes, really!) is capable of becoming.
Friday 8 January 2010
Am in the middle of cooking braised pig cheeks. All is going well, except that I have once again chosen a recipe without reading all the way to the bottom. In this case, the stumbling block lies about three quarters of the way down, 'Place in the oven for four hours.' Somehow skipped that bit, and now have a friend coming over at 7.30. *sigh. As always, it looks like no one will eat till midnight. On the good side, there's nothing which will gain you a reputation as a good cook more successfully than starving your guests before you feed them.
Quite a bit later now, and the pig is finally in the oven. Poor Lucy. Am listening, sort of against my will but seem to have been hypnotised, to Jon Benson, a man with a very persuasive voice talking about the 'Every Other Day Diet'. I don't diet. I don't plan to until I become hugely fat, as that is certainly what it will take before I have enough will power to actually do anything. I'll stick to cooking things so slowly that I fall asleep before managing to eat them. God this man's voice is seductive though. Why are Americans so much better at sounding charming and friendly than English people? The English accent (the posh one) carries along with it an automatic, 'This is my personal space. Yours is over there. No. A bit further. Yes, over there.' In contrast this American man's voice says, 'Come over here! Yes you! Here, take this glass of port. Sit down at my feet and relax... That's right. Now, isn't that better? Hmm? And only $30 a month to feel this good...' Wow. Amazing - he just slipped an 'expert opinion' in - Dr. Holly Menson, N.D. Jon Benson, I salute you. Go here http://www.everyotherdaydiet.com/video.php for one of the sneakiest sales pitches around. Just remember - don't look directly into his eyes or all your fat will turn to stone...
Quite a bit later now, and the pig is finally in the oven. Poor Lucy. Am listening, sort of against my will but seem to have been hypnotised, to Jon Benson, a man with a very persuasive voice talking about the 'Every Other Day Diet'. I don't diet. I don't plan to until I become hugely fat, as that is certainly what it will take before I have enough will power to actually do anything. I'll stick to cooking things so slowly that I fall asleep before managing to eat them. God this man's voice is seductive though. Why are Americans so much better at sounding charming and friendly than English people? The English accent (the posh one) carries along with it an automatic, 'This is my personal space. Yours is over there. No. A bit further. Yes, over there.' In contrast this American man's voice says, 'Come over here! Yes you! Here, take this glass of port. Sit down at my feet and relax... That's right. Now, isn't that better? Hmm? And only $30 a month to feel this good...' Wow. Amazing - he just slipped an 'expert opinion' in - Dr. Holly Menson, N.D. Jon Benson, I salute you. Go here http://www.everyotherdaydiet.com/video.php for one of the sneakiest sales pitches around. Just remember - don't look directly into his eyes or all your fat will turn to stone...
Wednesday 6 January 2010
Snow and ramble
I headed home at 3.30pm today as Richmond was hit by heavy snowfall. All the English residents of the office panicked, while our one Canadian scoffed sardonically (a special talent of hers) and announced that it wasn't real snow until you couldn't see the buildings opposite. We all ignored her, and left as she typed away, muttering to herself about the weakness of the old country. No doubt she'll ski in tomorrow with great smugness.
It was strange coming home on the train. After a certain point everything around was white except the sky, which was a threatening yellowish grey. It somehow felt a little like the Fifth Element, down beneath the pollution, only without Bruce Willis in an orange vest (alas). People who would normally be sunk in books or ipods were staring out the windows. Everybody was prophesying journey doom with that pessimistic glee that characterises the English when faced with disruption of routine from unstoppable outside forces. As a nation, I think we might be the closest to the cockroach. I imagine that the cockroach probably greets most forms of disaster with pessimistic glee.
My journey was actually disappointingly ordinary. No trains lost power. The Victoria line continued its seemingly unstoppable two minute march and I arrived home in Finsbury park to confront a disgruntled and mournful boyfriend. He is ill. I could, if I wished, tell you every permutation that his throat "infection" (sore throat and a cold) has taken since it first struck so devastatingly two whole days ago. However, this is my first post and if anybody does happen to come upon it among the hundreds of blogs that surround this one (very reassuring that. Like speaking directly into a howling gale - I could be yelling all kinds of crap), narrating in paralysing detail the sore eyes of yesterday, the aching ears of 3pm this afternoon, the aching neck this morning, the sore middle toe of late last night... would be likely to drive any prospective readers away. He's currently sniffing loudly in the spare room. I'm ignoring him.
I can't work out if I actually want anybody to be reading this. I mean, I haven't made it private and I'm choosing to blog rather than write a diary, so obviously I do want someone to read it. However, I'm also not going to tell anyone I know about it. I think it's the literary equivalent of singing in the loo while drunk. It's probable that people might hear you, but you don't have to take any responsibility for the performance.
What else can I write about? It's nice not having a theme, but does tend to mean that you utterly fail to make a point. The book I'm reading at the minute is called 'Hyperion' and is by Dan Simmons. I've read it before, but had forgotten quite how well written it is. I can only read it in short segments lest I become too jealous of his talent. Every word in the story has a purpose. You'd be surprised (unless you happen to work in publishing or similar) how rare that is. He has recurring themes and everything. The few times I've ever written something of any length, any themes (or indeed logic) are entirely accidental. Unfortunately it appears that to write anything important you need a more structured mind than I seem to possess. Less alcohol, more sleep, I assume.
Alcohol is nice, isn't it? I mean, where would we be without it? I certainly wouldn't be with my current boyfriend. We spent drunken nights and hungover mornings together for a whole year before managing to reach past the awkwardness and hold a sober conversation. Even now, living together, our alcohol cabinet has pride of place. The problem with drinking is that sometimes I become aware of just how lazy it's made me. Not simply 'coming home in the evenings and sleeping' sort of laziness. It is more insidious than that. It's such an easy answer, a shortcut, to so many social difficulties. In some situations it's a necessity. Work parties - where would you be without the tongue coating semi-dry faintly fizzy warm white paraffin in the bottom of that plastic cup? There'd be nothing between you and that twitchy bloke from Accounts who tries so hard but remains so boring. How would you escape a conversation? There's only so many times you can go to the loo.
The problem is that, over time, your social skills atrophy. It's like unused connections in the brain - they decay through lack of practice. A large percentage of British people seem to drink in order to reach that longed for plateau: a place where the minefield of small talk smooths over. No inhibitions on either side equals all parties keeping their limbs. Problem solved. So, although I'm aware I should stop automatically grabbing at the alcohol when awkwardness threatens to strike, I'm even now wanting a glass of wine to stave off the memory of feigning interest and exclaiming too loudly in order to fill an awkward silence.
*goes to get a glass of wine.
*mmmmm...
Well, now I've lost all inclination to continue writing, so I'm going to leave you with this quote from Wanda the Fish (the 'fortune telling' icon which is an option on Linux and gives you random comments when you click on it):
"You are wise, witty, and wonderful, but you spend too much time reading
this sort of trash."
It was strange coming home on the train. After a certain point everything around was white except the sky, which was a threatening yellowish grey. It somehow felt a little like the Fifth Element, down beneath the pollution, only without Bruce Willis in an orange vest (alas). People who would normally be sunk in books or ipods were staring out the windows. Everybody was prophesying journey doom with that pessimistic glee that characterises the English when faced with disruption of routine from unstoppable outside forces. As a nation, I think we might be the closest to the cockroach. I imagine that the cockroach probably greets most forms of disaster with pessimistic glee.
My journey was actually disappointingly ordinary. No trains lost power. The Victoria line continued its seemingly unstoppable two minute march and I arrived home in Finsbury park to confront a disgruntled and mournful boyfriend. He is ill. I could, if I wished, tell you every permutation that his throat "infection" (sore throat and a cold) has taken since it first struck so devastatingly two whole days ago. However, this is my first post and if anybody does happen to come upon it among the hundreds of blogs that surround this one (very reassuring that. Like speaking directly into a howling gale - I could be yelling all kinds of crap), narrating in paralysing detail the sore eyes of yesterday, the aching ears of 3pm this afternoon, the aching neck this morning, the sore middle toe of late last night... would be likely to drive any prospective readers away. He's currently sniffing loudly in the spare room. I'm ignoring him.
I can't work out if I actually want anybody to be reading this. I mean, I haven't made it private and I'm choosing to blog rather than write a diary, so obviously I do want someone to read it. However, I'm also not going to tell anyone I know about it. I think it's the literary equivalent of singing in the loo while drunk. It's probable that people might hear you, but you don't have to take any responsibility for the performance.
What else can I write about? It's nice not having a theme, but does tend to mean that you utterly fail to make a point. The book I'm reading at the minute is called 'Hyperion' and is by Dan Simmons. I've read it before, but had forgotten quite how well written it is. I can only read it in short segments lest I become too jealous of his talent. Every word in the story has a purpose. You'd be surprised (unless you happen to work in publishing or similar) how rare that is. He has recurring themes and everything. The few times I've ever written something of any length, any themes (or indeed logic) are entirely accidental. Unfortunately it appears that to write anything important you need a more structured mind than I seem to possess. Less alcohol, more sleep, I assume.
Alcohol is nice, isn't it? I mean, where would we be without it? I certainly wouldn't be with my current boyfriend. We spent drunken nights and hungover mornings together for a whole year before managing to reach past the awkwardness and hold a sober conversation. Even now, living together, our alcohol cabinet has pride of place. The problem with drinking is that sometimes I become aware of just how lazy it's made me. Not simply 'coming home in the evenings and sleeping' sort of laziness. It is more insidious than that. It's such an easy answer, a shortcut, to so many social difficulties. In some situations it's a necessity. Work parties - where would you be without the tongue coating semi-dry faintly fizzy warm white paraffin in the bottom of that plastic cup? There'd be nothing between you and that twitchy bloke from Accounts who tries so hard but remains so boring. How would you escape a conversation? There's only so many times you can go to the loo.
The problem is that, over time, your social skills atrophy. It's like unused connections in the brain - they decay through lack of practice. A large percentage of British people seem to drink in order to reach that longed for plateau: a place where the minefield of small talk smooths over. No inhibitions on either side equals all parties keeping their limbs. Problem solved. So, although I'm aware I should stop automatically grabbing at the alcohol when awkwardness threatens to strike, I'm even now wanting a glass of wine to stave off the memory of feigning interest and exclaiming too loudly in order to fill an awkward silence.
*goes to get a glass of wine.
*mmmmm...
Well, now I've lost all inclination to continue writing, so I'm going to leave you with this quote from Wanda the Fish (the 'fortune telling' icon which is an option on Linux and gives you random comments when you click on it):
"You are wise, witty, and wonderful, but you spend too much time reading
this sort of trash."
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