Monday, 17 December 2007
Saturday, 15 December 2007
A Handmade Life
Sometimes, life just shines. For me, it always seems to happen when I feel at my lowest point. It's like the universe finds a really dramatic way of reminding me just how silly I am for ever thinking the world is a bad place.
I decided to enter a scholarship contest for a journalism conference I've been wanting to attend for years. Maybe this year will be different. After all, I got a scholarship to London so perhaps the scholarship gods are still up there, waiting to gift me with something else. The only problem is, I've been way too busy to get my materials together. So, of course, I did it at the absolute last minute. That resulted, as it always does, in tons of stress and way too much effort.
The path actually started in Germany, where my friends Sonja and Dominic helped me by rushing to the store to buy me a new color ink cartridge and waiting with me for two hours while the printer slooooooooowly coughed out each sheet. Dominic was in charge of the computer and Sonja was the organizer of each particular story. I needed five copies of each and there were two stories per entry and four entries in total. I didn't have enough of what they printed, so when I went to my friend Uschi's, she and her husband printed me out another 7 copies. Then I called T in London and asked if he could print me another 30 pages at work.
Still, it wasn't enough. So I got up early this morning and rushed to a color copy shop then on to a computer/print shop, where I found a few stories online and put them into a word document, then my friend at the print shop printed them out for me. He was apparently reading my stories and commenting on them as they came out. "I like how you described that restaurant owner," he laughed. "If you get the scholarship, you should take me to dinner as a thanks for helping you make your deadline."
He was really quite funny. He was also correcting the prices of the meals in my stories by showing me where I indicated prices in dollars rather than pounds. Perhaps I should hire him as my editor!
I was running down the street to get to the Post Office, knowing already I was late for my lunch date with my friend Erica. Still, I had to wait in the enormously long queue because the Office was closing soon. While there, I ended up talking to a darling woman about the size of a baby kangaroo (or joey, for those of you who learned the proper name in elementary school), who was from the West Indies. She'd come to London 30 years ago to work on the railway. She told me how she only made 5 pounds a week and had to use a public bath that was only available to women on Mondays, Tuesdays and Wednesdays and men on Thursdays, Fridays and Saturdays. That meant she only bathed three times a week.
She told me how she worked so hard, from 5 a.m. to 2 a.m. each day and now, people come here from all over the world and get free health care and free lodging. She didn't seem bitter, though. She traveled the world and has been to every country in the UK except Ireland. Suddenly, I didn't want the line to be shorter.
Even the guy at the Post Office who helped me mail off my package was grinning from ear to ear. He was a far cry from all the grumpy folks I normally encounter behind the glass.
My phone ran out of credit so I couldn't let Erica know I was running late. Thankfully, when I got to Notting Hill, she was munching on a croissant and smiling. We found a darling little Italian deli with an orange VW bug in the window, displaying some freshly made pizza in its window. We shared some delicious mushroom pizza and another with ham, then we walked down Portobello Road and perused all the market stalls.
When she left, I stopped in a few of the boutiques and found an incredible designer whose clothing was very Betsey Johnson-ish. I was captivated by her designs and felt like Cinderella on the night of the ball. I tried on the most beautiful things. There was a skirt made of fabric so light and delicate it was as if I was wearing skin. It was compltely see-through, but I didn't really feel all that self-conscious, standing in the open doorway as half of London walked by, looking in. I felt so lovely in it, I wanted to glue it to my body. She said she'd put in a black underskirt for me and gave me a discount. Then, I tried on a dress made entirely of scarves. It was a patchwork of color and has an open back and a halter top. She took in the chest (no big surprise) for me and will hand tailor it for me by Wednesday. She gave me a 30 pound discount on that one. I felt very exclusive.
The guitar music is still floating through the air and my dinner guests and I have been laughing, talking and remembering just how lovely the world can be, thanks to all the wonderful examples from my day. Kind of makes you excited to wake up each morning. You honestly never know what's going to happen!
I decided to enter a scholarship contest for a journalism conference I've been wanting to attend for years. Maybe this year will be different. After all, I got a scholarship to London so perhaps the scholarship gods are still up there, waiting to gift me with something else. The only problem is, I've been way too busy to get my materials together. So, of course, I did it at the absolute last minute. That resulted, as it always does, in tons of stress and way too much effort.
The path actually started in Germany, where my friends Sonja and Dominic helped me by rushing to the store to buy me a new color ink cartridge and waiting with me for two hours while the printer slooooooooowly coughed out each sheet. Dominic was in charge of the computer and Sonja was the organizer of each particular story. I needed five copies of each and there were two stories per entry and four entries in total. I didn't have enough of what they printed, so when I went to my friend Uschi's, she and her husband printed me out another 7 copies. Then I called T in London and asked if he could print me another 30 pages at work.
Still, it wasn't enough. So I got up early this morning and rushed to a color copy shop then on to a computer/print shop, where I found a few stories online and put them into a word document, then my friend at the print shop printed them out for me. He was apparently reading my stories and commenting on them as they came out. "I like how you described that restaurant owner," he laughed. "If you get the scholarship, you should take me to dinner as a thanks for helping you make your deadline."
He was really quite funny. He was also correcting the prices of the meals in my stories by showing me where I indicated prices in dollars rather than pounds. Perhaps I should hire him as my editor!
I was running down the street to get to the Post Office, knowing already I was late for my lunch date with my friend Erica. Still, I had to wait in the enormously long queue because the Office was closing soon. While there, I ended up talking to a darling woman about the size of a baby kangaroo (or joey, for those of you who learned the proper name in elementary school), who was from the West Indies. She'd come to London 30 years ago to work on the railway. She told me how she only made 5 pounds a week and had to use a public bath that was only available to women on Mondays, Tuesdays and Wednesdays and men on Thursdays, Fridays and Saturdays. That meant she only bathed three times a week.
She told me how she worked so hard, from 5 a.m. to 2 a.m. each day and now, people come here from all over the world and get free health care and free lodging. She didn't seem bitter, though. She traveled the world and has been to every country in the UK except Ireland. Suddenly, I didn't want the line to be shorter.
Even the guy at the Post Office who helped me mail off my package was grinning from ear to ear. He was a far cry from all the grumpy folks I normally encounter behind the glass.
My phone ran out of credit so I couldn't let Erica know I was running late. Thankfully, when I got to Notting Hill, she was munching on a croissant and smiling. We found a darling little Italian deli with an orange VW bug in the window, displaying some freshly made pizza in its window. We shared some delicious mushroom pizza and another with ham, then we walked down Portobello Road and perused all the market stalls.
When she left, I stopped in a few of the boutiques and found an incredible designer whose clothing was very Betsey Johnson-ish. I was captivated by her designs and felt like Cinderella on the night of the ball. I tried on the most beautiful things. There was a skirt made of fabric so light and delicate it was as if I was wearing skin. It was compltely see-through, but I didn't really feel all that self-conscious, standing in the open doorway as half of London walked by, looking in. I felt so lovely in it, I wanted to glue it to my body. She said she'd put in a black underskirt for me and gave me a discount. Then, I tried on a dress made entirely of scarves. It was a patchwork of color and has an open back and a halter top. She took in the chest (no big surprise) for me and will hand tailor it for me by Wednesday. She gave me a 30 pound discount on that one. I felt very exclusive.
The guitar music is still floating through the air and my dinner guests and I have been laughing, talking and remembering just how lovely the world can be, thanks to all the wonderful examples from my day. Kind of makes you excited to wake up each morning. You honestly never know what's going to happen!
A Private Concert
A man is playing guitar in my living room right now. It's like I've got my own private concert. He's actually very good. And he sings a bit. I just made a fabulous dinner of kamut pasta with sauteed zucchini and red peppers, roasted cherry tomatoes and chicken. I put a fantastic Italian artichoke and garlic cream over it and it was simply marvelous. I ate it with K's girlfriend W and her friend J. J is a delightful gentleman who unfortunately lost his sense of smell 30 years ago. Still, he enjoys the texture of food, as it's all he has to go on. Amazing what some people have to live with.
I made rice pudding with basmati rice, coconut milk and loads of frozen berries. We had tea and J played a million soothing songs on his guitar. Heaven!
I made rice pudding with basmati rice, coconut milk and loads of frozen berries. We had tea and J played a million soothing songs on his guitar. Heaven!
Thursday, 13 December 2007
Beware of the Belly!
I was just pummeled by a belly. Seriously. I was standing on the airplane, waiting for my turn to get to my seat, when a man with a shiny bald head and rather enormous stomach decided to put something in the overhead compartment behind me. He was a bit hasty in doing so, however, and knocked me into the woman behind me with his stomach as he attempted to get by. This was not a tiny nudge. This was a surprising, rather forceful, jolt. I believe I said “Ay!” and then “Oh!” or something like that. I made a really loud sound. It just came out. And the woman behind me grabbed onto me, but fell back also. It was a bit scary.
I have nothing against bellies, of course. I just don’t like it when they’re used as weapons.
I have nothing against bellies, of course. I just don’t like it when they’re used as weapons.
Taking a Deep Breath
As the plane was taking off, I got the strangest feeling inside. It was a voice. Not mine and not an actual human voice. It was like a whisper of thought. It said: “The fear is gone. There is nothing to be afraid of.”
Just like that, I was pierced by the awareness that it’s all going to be okay. No matter what. In whatever time it takes, life itself will work out. I will work out. If I lose my fear, I gain anything that was getting in the way before. That just might be everything.
Just like that, I was pierced by the awareness that it’s all going to be okay. No matter what. In whatever time it takes, life itself will work out. I will work out. If I lose my fear, I gain anything that was getting in the way before. That just might be everything.
What Are You Carrying With You?
I saw a man silently hand his wife a very heavy backpack on the bus. She already had a bag on her lap, but he just sort of shoved it at her, forcing her to move her bag and readjust to the new weight he’d placed upon her body. It made me wonder, what sorts of things do we carry with us? How much baggage do we take with us everywhere we go? Even more, how much do we accept from someone else that we didn’t have before?
Wilkommen in Deutschland
My most treasured saying in life is this: the journey is the reward. I wholeheartedly agree. But I agree, even more, that just because you are on a journey does not mean it will be an easy one. There are times in all of our lives, when we are called to experience something painful. In many ways, my trip to Europe has fulfilled this description. I’ve been forced to confront myself here. There are absolutely no walls anymore. I have so much time to think and I find that this alone makes me vulnerable. It is like the very thin veil of skin that has covered my soul has been torn away. And it’s never going to grow back.
This trip has been a rite of passage for me. I have been forced to think about things I wouldn’t have thought about back home when I was mired in deadlines, oil changes and traffic jams. Here there is nothing but me.
This trip has been a rite of passage for me. I have been forced to think about things I wouldn’t have thought about back home when I was mired in deadlines, oil changes and traffic jams. Here there is nothing but me.
Things I’m Thinking Right Now (at the Nurnberg Airport):
That middle-aged woman should not be wearing leather pants.
The bathrooms here are really clean.
Why didn’t that girl wash her hands? So few people wash their hands. I thought women were better about that, but I’m sadly mistaken. I want to vomit when I’m in women’s restrooms. From what I’ve observed only 3 out of every 10 women wash their hands.
Can everyone see the giant hole in the back of my skirt I’ve fastened with a safety pin? If so, I’m really glad my underwear matches my turtleneck.
I’m really glad everyone is speaking German to me. Even as a blonde, I must look German!
The bathrooms here are really clean.
Why didn’t that girl wash her hands? So few people wash their hands. I thought women were better about that, but I’m sadly mistaken. I want to vomit when I’m in women’s restrooms. From what I’ve observed only 3 out of every 10 women wash their hands.
Can everyone see the giant hole in the back of my skirt I’ve fastened with a safety pin? If so, I’m really glad my underwear matches my turtleneck.
I’m really glad everyone is speaking German to me. Even as a blonde, I must look German!
Belly Laughs
Right now, a man is stretching like a corpulent cat, in front of me. He seems completely nonplussed by the fact that he’s in a very public place, exposing more skin than should be legal, for anyone who accidentally looks his way (God help them). His face is peach-colored, and his belly is taut and bloated the way a boa constrictor might look if it were to eat a goat. When he stretched, his shirt clearly wanted to run away and got as far as his chest, leaving that bauble of flesh exposed for all the world to see. I was just trying to take in more of Switzerland’s beauty. Clearly, my translation needs work.
A Moment in Zurich
The flight from London to Zurich was uncomfortable for me. I sat next to an Indian couple and even though the woman smiled warmly when I sat down, I had the strangest awareness that she was talking about me nearly the entire flight. I’m not a paranoid person, but I think you can tell when someone is talking about you. Language, I now realize, isn’t a requirement. I could feel her staring at me quite a bit. She was watching everything I did. She watched me stir my tea, read my book, write in my journal and take out a bag of brownies. At times, she started laughing. Not a cute, shy sort of laugh, but a clear mark of someone poking fun at another person. I have no clue what she was saying or why she would even concern herself, but she did. And to make matters worse, she kissed and cuddled her husband nonstop and it made me want to barf. I did have a good cup of tea, though. It was already made. I’m telling you, Europeans know tea!
When I got off the plane and walked toward my connecting flight, I caught a glimpse of rolling hills, green, green trees and the most darling gingerbread cottages tucked into the hillside. I had what can only be described as a visual orgasm. It was like accidentally stumbling upon God’s garden. At first I was walking rather hastily in the direction of my plane, but I found that I could no longer control my feet from stopping dead in their tracks. I just stood and stared out at the vast and beautiful Swiss landscape. I feel a bit sad for all those years I lost doing silly things like eating chocolate bars and looking for toy stores. I have traveled for 30 years and for the first 25 or so, was never truly able to internalize my experiences. As a child I had opportunities most people could only dream of, but I was too young to understand. Now things are so different. I find that it’s nearly impossible for me not to absorb absolutely everything around me. Sometimes, it’s to the point of being overwhelming. There is so much beauty in this world. I never knew beauty could hurt, but if you take it all in, really feel it, it aches with a tenderness too delicate for words.
Addendum: Switzerland from the air is 11 million times more breathtaking. Note to self: buy wings.
When I got off the plane and walked toward my connecting flight, I caught a glimpse of rolling hills, green, green trees and the most darling gingerbread cottages tucked into the hillside. I had what can only be described as a visual orgasm. It was like accidentally stumbling upon God’s garden. At first I was walking rather hastily in the direction of my plane, but I found that I could no longer control my feet from stopping dead in their tracks. I just stood and stared out at the vast and beautiful Swiss landscape. I feel a bit sad for all those years I lost doing silly things like eating chocolate bars and looking for toy stores. I have traveled for 30 years and for the first 25 or so, was never truly able to internalize my experiences. As a child I had opportunities most people could only dream of, but I was too young to understand. Now things are so different. I find that it’s nearly impossible for me not to absorb absolutely everything around me. Sometimes, it’s to the point of being overwhelming. There is so much beauty in this world. I never knew beauty could hurt, but if you take it all in, really feel it, it aches with a tenderness too delicate for words.
Addendum: Switzerland from the air is 11 million times more breathtaking. Note to self: buy wings.
A Few Amusing Things at the Heathrow Airport:
Apparently, you can get bubblegum vodka shots in the café upstairs.
CDs are cheaper by 2 pounds than anywhere else in the city.
They now sell novels in vending machines. It’s called “Novel Idea.”
The security guards in training are lovely. Three of them stopped me on the way to my departing flight and it seemed that their only goal was to make me laugh. As is customary when I travel, I am always unable to find my tickets or passport, I drop my coat and generally, I’m the equivalent of someone on percoset. Upon seeing this, the gentlemen helped me unzip my bag, offered to carry it for me, walked me to the escalator and wished me a Merry Christmas. I was laughing all the way to the gate. What is it with me and positive experiences with the normally grumpy and unresponsive security personnel at airports?
I had to buy contact solution AGAIN at the airport drugstore. This time it was my fault. I ran out of solution.
CDs are cheaper by 2 pounds than anywhere else in the city.
They now sell novels in vending machines. It’s called “Novel Idea.”
The security guards in training are lovely. Three of them stopped me on the way to my departing flight and it seemed that their only goal was to make me laugh. As is customary when I travel, I am always unable to find my tickets or passport, I drop my coat and generally, I’m the equivalent of someone on percoset. Upon seeing this, the gentlemen helped me unzip my bag, offered to carry it for me, walked me to the escalator and wished me a Merry Christmas. I was laughing all the way to the gate. What is it with me and positive experiences with the normally grumpy and unresponsive security personnel at airports?
I had to buy contact solution AGAIN at the airport drugstore. This time it was my fault. I ran out of solution.
A Day and Night on the Town
Last Friday, T and I went all over London. Back to Wagamama, then to St. James Park, to the Institute of Contemporary Art, to see the Christmas tree in Trafalgar Square and down a host of darling streets, including New Bond Street, Haymarket and the male-centered Jermyns, street, which is known for their suit shops, pipe and tobacco shops, tie shops and of all things, a shop that sells only high end razors and shaving brushes. There was actually a brush for $200 usd. Why a man would need that, I’ll never know, but I suppose the rich need a playground too. We passed a cheese shop that smelled very cheesy, called Paxton and Whitfield’s. Across the street, two men were playing “Jingle Bells” on the steel drums. The streets in London are alive with lights. Even on the windy, cold and rainy days, you just can’t help but smile. And even if you no longer like Christmas, you can’t help but be pulled in by its festive beauty.
We then went to the Tate Modern, to see the famous crack in the floor, and then to Fish!, a lovely, but very overpriced fresh fish restaurant. I enjoyed my side order of celery, fennel and carrots sautéed in olive oil, and the sea bass was cooked perfectly. T’s dish of sea scallops wrapped in bacon was delicious, but there were only four very tiny scallops and a portabella mushroom, priced at around $40 usd. Ridiculous! We shared a bowl of chips (French fries) with mayonnaise and a basket of bread from the Borough Market. I came home, made sugar free brownies and packed for my trip.
We then went to the Tate Modern, to see the famous crack in the floor, and then to Fish!, a lovely, but very overpriced fresh fish restaurant. I enjoyed my side order of celery, fennel and carrots sautéed in olive oil, and the sea bass was cooked perfectly. T’s dish of sea scallops wrapped in bacon was delicious, but there were only four very tiny scallops and a portabella mushroom, priced at around $40 usd. Ridiculous! We shared a bowl of chips (French fries) with mayonnaise and a basket of bread from the Borough Market. I came home, made sugar free brownies and packed for my trip.
Friday, 7 December 2007
The Votes Are In...
It's official...I'm 1/3 of a pastry chef now! I just finished (and passed) the first part of the pastry program at the Cordon Bleu in London. The program is broken up into Basic, Intermediate and Superior and I will receive my Basic Patisserie Certificate. This is a photo of my final cake. It got smooshed in my bag on the way home. My professor said the ganache was nice and the glacage was nice. Nice is good!
Deciding Your Own Fate?
“It’s a rare thing to get one a ‘ese,” said a portly man on the tube, as he wedged himself rather artfully into one of the seats.
“I always have to stand, sometimes an hour,” he said to his mate while eating half a chocolate bar.
His face was a bit flushed and he had several gold rings on his stubby fingers. I secretly wondered if perhaps it was because he was unable to remove them.
Looking at him, I suddenly wondered, do we always get exactly what we expect? He seemed to me the kind of man who’d lived a challenging life, perhaps one of great physical toil. What struck me the most was the fact that, to him, getting a seat on the train seemed to be something of a big deal. Something he wasn’t used to. So, an easy life might not be something this guy was used to. Was it because he never had an easy life as a child? Or did he just decide one day that life was hard and therefore, it was? Sometimes I think about self-fulfilling prophecies and have to wonder if they’re real. For years before I came to London, I told myself I was coming to London. I believed it. I told strangers about it. I told my family about it. I spoke as if it were already a reality, long before it was. I’ve also noticed that when I’m sad or feel any kind of doubt, it’s a feeling that can linger as long as I want it to. And it usually does. Sadness is something that can grab hold of you, strangle you, even, but what we don’t often realize is that we’re the ones with our own hands around our necks. We think it’s an outside force causing our misery, but really, it’s us. We decide that we’re going to be unhappy. Same goes for happiness, luck, good fortune, sitting down on the tube. Whatever you want is usually yours. At least, that’s what I tend to think. Am I wrong? I could be, but only if I think so…
“I always have to stand, sometimes an hour,” he said to his mate while eating half a chocolate bar.
His face was a bit flushed and he had several gold rings on his stubby fingers. I secretly wondered if perhaps it was because he was unable to remove them.
Looking at him, I suddenly wondered, do we always get exactly what we expect? He seemed to me the kind of man who’d lived a challenging life, perhaps one of great physical toil. What struck me the most was the fact that, to him, getting a seat on the train seemed to be something of a big deal. Something he wasn’t used to. So, an easy life might not be something this guy was used to. Was it because he never had an easy life as a child? Or did he just decide one day that life was hard and therefore, it was? Sometimes I think about self-fulfilling prophecies and have to wonder if they’re real. For years before I came to London, I told myself I was coming to London. I believed it. I told strangers about it. I told my family about it. I spoke as if it were already a reality, long before it was. I’ve also noticed that when I’m sad or feel any kind of doubt, it’s a feeling that can linger as long as I want it to. And it usually does. Sadness is something that can grab hold of you, strangle you, even, but what we don’t often realize is that we’re the ones with our own hands around our necks. We think it’s an outside force causing our misery, but really, it’s us. We decide that we’re going to be unhappy. Same goes for happiness, luck, good fortune, sitting down on the tube. Whatever you want is usually yours. At least, that’s what I tend to think. Am I wrong? I could be, but only if I think so…
Monday, 3 December 2007
The Most Amazing Fruit
Seriously, how can you not stop and marvel at this lovely gift of nature? I haven't ever really seen a dragon fruit before and have certainly never eaten one. Its flesh is creamy and comes out with the slightest effort from its shell. It tastes of a slightly sweet kiwi, with a dash of lychee flavor thrown in. I can't say that I love it, though, as it is a bit too saccharine for me. But its beauty, well, nothing quite compares.
Sunday, 2 December 2007
God is Everywhere
I had an overwhelming urge to cry and never stop, to open my soul like a tap and let all the liquid sadness pour out. His hums echoed in my chest like a veil of warmth. It was like a magic rain, falling from heaven.
It was then I realized that God is all around me, in the walls of my apartment, in the sound of cars honking on the street, in the voice of a stranger humming on the tube.
I only noticed him because he was wearing bright red shiny sneakers. He also carried a purple umbrella. I tried craning my body towards where he stood to hear his hums above the din on the train. It was crazy loud but yet, I could hear him clearly, as if he were singing just to me. I don't know what he was humming, but it vibrated, shook the whole train. No one seemed to notice, though. Was it just me?
His humming was electric. It soothed me the same way I'd imagine sitting in a room with the Dalai Lama to feel. A peace that outweighs any pain you may have hiding inside. An understanding that feels almost instinctive. It felt like a warm pair of arms wrapping themselves around me, cradling me with love.
I ran up to him when he got off the tube. It just happened to be my stop. I gave him a note that said, "Your music moved me. Thank you." He was beaming. He asked me my name and told me his was Christopher. Turns out the song is something he's been working on for a few years now and it's called "Cradle me Now."
We talked a bit before the next train and he said, "The song is about the way we all just need to be cradled sometimes, physically and psychically." Amazing.
I told him I'd been going through a rough patch and that his song made me feel better. He seemed so genuinely empathetic. He told me he was sorry and that he was glad his song touched me. We talked of our lives and he asked of my ethnic background. Turns out he's Irish and Rwandan. Very interesting combination.
I left the train with a new sort of peace I've never had before. Maybe ever. I'm not religious, but for the first time, I saw God in a complete stranger. I know they say God works in mysterious ways. I didn't believe it until now.
It was then I realized that God is all around me, in the walls of my apartment, in the sound of cars honking on the street, in the voice of a stranger humming on the tube.
I only noticed him because he was wearing bright red shiny sneakers. He also carried a purple umbrella. I tried craning my body towards where he stood to hear his hums above the din on the train. It was crazy loud but yet, I could hear him clearly, as if he were singing just to me. I don't know what he was humming, but it vibrated, shook the whole train. No one seemed to notice, though. Was it just me?
His humming was electric. It soothed me the same way I'd imagine sitting in a room with the Dalai Lama to feel. A peace that outweighs any pain you may have hiding inside. An understanding that feels almost instinctive. It felt like a warm pair of arms wrapping themselves around me, cradling me with love.
I ran up to him when he got off the tube. It just happened to be my stop. I gave him a note that said, "Your music moved me. Thank you." He was beaming. He asked me my name and told me his was Christopher. Turns out the song is something he's been working on for a few years now and it's called "Cradle me Now."
We talked a bit before the next train and he said, "The song is about the way we all just need to be cradled sometimes, physically and psychically." Amazing.
I told him I'd been going through a rough patch and that his song made me feel better. He seemed so genuinely empathetic. He told me he was sorry and that he was glad his song touched me. We talked of our lives and he asked of my ethnic background. Turns out he's Irish and Rwandan. Very interesting combination.
I left the train with a new sort of peace I've never had before. Maybe ever. I'm not religious, but for the first time, I saw God in a complete stranger. I know they say God works in mysterious ways. I didn't believe it until now.
Pink Macaroons
Of course, I made these. Pink macaroons filled with raspberry jam. Didn't try them, but have heard they tasted pink!
Saturday, 1 December 2007
I Love YouTube!
Here are a few of my favorite videos from YouTube:
Michael Bolton singing opera
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fkrCMI2fXTo
Pavarotti, Enrique Iglesias and a large children's choir
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tD3mr2d-khg&feature=related
Very Cool UK Artist
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mfxaoSczi6Y
Kate Nash
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VH2yvdGM7YA
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=orACIBjHuI4&feature=related
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QsoLMXHhx2k&feature=related
Breakdancing baby
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FiNUkDnDMFA&feature=related
Michael Jackson videos
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZI9OYMRwN1Q
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aSqo17o2a1w
Justin Timberlake clearly learned everything from Michael Jackson (when he was "normal"). Man he could dance!
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RQz_0Z0nE2Q&feature=related
Indian Thriller
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LbvP7dT3Dx0&feature=related
Michael Bolton singing opera
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fkrCMI2fXTo
Pavarotti, Enrique Iglesias and a large children's choir
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tD3mr2d-khg&feature=related
Very Cool UK Artist
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mfxaoSczi6Y
Kate Nash
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VH2yvdGM7YA
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=orACIBjHuI4&feature=related
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QsoLMXHhx2k&feature=related
Breakdancing baby
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FiNUkDnDMFA&feature=related
Michael Jackson videos
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZI9OYMRwN1Q
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aSqo17o2a1w
Justin Timberlake clearly learned everything from Michael Jackson (when he was "normal"). Man he could dance!
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RQz_0Z0nE2Q&feature=related
Indian Thriller
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LbvP7dT3Dx0&feature=related
7 Things to Do When You're Sad
Buy exotic Asian fruits you've never tasted before.
Take pictures of said exotic fruits.
Look up song lyrics you've always been curious about.
Make a spicy chili stir fry.
Eat fresh blackberries with coconut cream.
Go grocery shopping. Man handle the vegetables.
Blow your nose after eating spicy chili stir fry.
Thursday, 29 November 2007
A Few Things That Make Me Happy
Since I've been so down in the dumps, I thought I'd come up with a few things that make me smile:
Dim Sum.
The new cucumber perfume I just bought. I like smelling like a cucumber.
The smell of grapes from the hooka lounge I pass on my way to school.
Little children wearing overcoats and old man hats, riding a tricycle.
Garden gnomes.
My brown leather purse.
Paris.
A really good bowl of pasta.
The sound of someone laughing.
Hearing someone say my name.
Vanilla.
Dim Sum.
The new cucumber perfume I just bought. I like smelling like a cucumber.
The smell of grapes from the hooka lounge I pass on my way to school.
Little children wearing overcoats and old man hats, riding a tricycle.
Garden gnomes.
My brown leather purse.
Paris.
A really good bowl of pasta.
The sound of someone laughing.
Hearing someone say my name.
Vanilla.
Old Memories, Old Wounds
Today was a really bad day. Well, this whole week has been bad, actually. Someone from my past who hurt me has come back, aiming to stir up trouble and it's worked. I am, unfortunately, a slave to my past and I'm doing my darndest on this other continent to try and hide. But I've realized that you can't hide from your past, you can only confront it, head on. If you're strong enough, you can let it go. I'm working on it.
But this unwelcome visitor has left me rattled. I've been emotionally vulnerable. And to make matters worse, with my emotions at the surface, I am susceptible to everything that comes my way. Tonight, an old man in the tube station with a giant hearing aid and a cane hobbled up to the platform near me. I was praying he wouldn't talk to me. One look at him and memories of everyone I've ever loved who have gone away hit me square in the face. But out of everyone around him, who did he approach? Me, of course. "Is this the train to Edgware?" he asked?
"No, I replied, "it's to Stanmore."
"Yes, yes, Stanmore," he said.
This went on a few minutes, as he'd say Edgware one minute then Stanmore the next. I wasn't sure if he was confused or just saying the wrong name but meaning the right location. No matter, it got to me. I was holding his arm, and trying to reassure him. He said thank you and walked off, and I cried all the way home.
But this unwelcome visitor has left me rattled. I've been emotionally vulnerable. And to make matters worse, with my emotions at the surface, I am susceptible to everything that comes my way. Tonight, an old man in the tube station with a giant hearing aid and a cane hobbled up to the platform near me. I was praying he wouldn't talk to me. One look at him and memories of everyone I've ever loved who have gone away hit me square in the face. But out of everyone around him, who did he approach? Me, of course. "Is this the train to Edgware?" he asked?
"No, I replied, "it's to Stanmore."
"Yes, yes, Stanmore," he said.
This went on a few minutes, as he'd say Edgware one minute then Stanmore the next. I wasn't sure if he was confused or just saying the wrong name but meaning the right location. No matter, it got to me. I was holding his arm, and trying to reassure him. He said thank you and walked off, and I cried all the way home.
One Good Thing About Pastry School
The Thai girls are particularly darling.
They giggle a lot, bow instead of saying "thank you," and always save me extra chopped almonds for my cookies. Their smiles are genuine and the wide eyed innocence that swirls around them is quite infectious. They always look at me across the table and when they do, we all break into smiles.
Otherwise, pastry school sucks.
They giggle a lot, bow instead of saying "thank you," and always save me extra chopped almonds for my cookies. Their smiles are genuine and the wide eyed innocence that swirls around them is quite infectious. They always look at me across the table and when they do, we all break into smiles.
Otherwise, pastry school sucks.
Tuesday, 27 November 2007
Mallorca-Part 1
“Do I have coffee on my nose?”
Miranda was standing to my left, in the long queue to get on a Ryanair flight to Mallorca. I had a creamy egg salad sandwich in my left hand (and part of it on my upper lip) and a passport in my right. She had a coffee stain on the tip of her nose.
“I’m such a brown-noser,” she said.
This was the first bit of levity we’d had all morning. We managed to get to the Stansted airport just fine, but the $30 one-way fare by train was already rattling my brain. Miranda and I tried for nearly two days straight to find a good package deal to someplace exotic and we’d managed some success. But by the time we were ready to book, we realized the Web site we were using was a local company whose offices and servers closed at 7 p.m. It was 7:15 p.m., the day before our intended departure date. A Web site called Lastminute.com, whose prices were pretty cheap when I’d searched for fun, didn’t actually pan out when you were, in fact, in need of something at the last minute. The same sort of trip we could’ve gotten for $300, was suddenly $3,000.
We were starting to yell at each other. She left the apartment to get cigarettes. I bitched to my roommates. Finally, after a few more hours of searching, I managed to find us a hotel for $50 a night and airfare for about $250 per person. So it came out to be about the same price, but much more frustrating.
Still, not a bad deal. Three days in Mallorca for $300. Now, add the $30 train fare, and the inevitable return train fare of $40, and that brings us to $370. Once at the airport, we were informed you could only take one bag on, and a purse was considered a bag, so that meant I had to ship my bag and carry on my purse, with Miranda’s purse tucked inside. Fine, except that it cost $20 one way to ship a bag. And an additional $4 per person for checking in. The woman at the baggage check in was nice enough to waive the $8 check in fee for us, but now with my baggage check going and coming, we’re up another $40.
Before I’d checked in, I asked a security agent if I could take contact solution even though it’s a larger size than is allowed. She said yes. But when I got to the security checkpoint, the woman said I wasn’t allowed my large bottle, but could go to the drugstore and buy a plastic bottle to put it in. When I got to the checkout, the woman informed me the bottle wasn’t sterile, which meant I’d be at risk for bacterial contamination of my solution. So I had to throw away my $10 bottle of contact solution and instead, buy a trial sized bottle for $8. I’d also purchased a chicken wrap for $6.
When I got to the gate and took a bite of my sandwich, it was disgusting. I threw it away and bought a creamy egg salad sandwich for $6. It was absolutely delicious.
The moral of that part of the story is never buy a sandwich at a drugstore.
So now the tally is $430 and I haven’t even made it to the right gate. We were standing at a gate going someplace I’ve never heard of before, eating crappy sandwiches. Miranda’s was awful too and she threw it out. We finally make it to the right gate, get in line and realize we have to go out onto the tarmac, in the freezing cold, to get on a plane where our knees touched the seat in front of us. This is budget travel. Had our tickets not been $250 and instead, $25, which I’ve seen before on this airline, I might not have been so upset.
“Oh my, it’s all yellow,” Miranda said as we boarded. “Yellow is a nervous color.”
She proceeded to repeat this several more times while telling me that she also didn’t enjoy looking at the safety illustrations in front of her, on a yellow seat. “Also, those advertisements on the overhead bins are making me nervous,” she added.
“Hey look at that picture,” she said while referring back to the safety illustrations. “That woman is holding her skirt in place as she slides down the side of the plane.”
One of the illustrations showed a life vest bag you tear open from the top.
“Do we have to purchase that too,” she wondered. “How much is it in U.S. dollars?”
We were laughing heartily after that, on our way to a place we’d never been. It might turn out to be more expensive than we’d hoped, but here’s hoping the experience, like most of those we have together, will be priceless.
Miranda was standing to my left, in the long queue to get on a Ryanair flight to Mallorca. I had a creamy egg salad sandwich in my left hand (and part of it on my upper lip) and a passport in my right. She had a coffee stain on the tip of her nose.
“I’m such a brown-noser,” she said.
This was the first bit of levity we’d had all morning. We managed to get to the Stansted airport just fine, but the $30 one-way fare by train was already rattling my brain. Miranda and I tried for nearly two days straight to find a good package deal to someplace exotic and we’d managed some success. But by the time we were ready to book, we realized the Web site we were using was a local company whose offices and servers closed at 7 p.m. It was 7:15 p.m., the day before our intended departure date. A Web site called Lastminute.com, whose prices were pretty cheap when I’d searched for fun, didn’t actually pan out when you were, in fact, in need of something at the last minute. The same sort of trip we could’ve gotten for $300, was suddenly $3,000.
We were starting to yell at each other. She left the apartment to get cigarettes. I bitched to my roommates. Finally, after a few more hours of searching, I managed to find us a hotel for $50 a night and airfare for about $250 per person. So it came out to be about the same price, but much more frustrating.
Still, not a bad deal. Three days in Mallorca for $300. Now, add the $30 train fare, and the inevitable return train fare of $40, and that brings us to $370. Once at the airport, we were informed you could only take one bag on, and a purse was considered a bag, so that meant I had to ship my bag and carry on my purse, with Miranda’s purse tucked inside. Fine, except that it cost $20 one way to ship a bag. And an additional $4 per person for checking in. The woman at the baggage check in was nice enough to waive the $8 check in fee for us, but now with my baggage check going and coming, we’re up another $40.
Before I’d checked in, I asked a security agent if I could take contact solution even though it’s a larger size than is allowed. She said yes. But when I got to the security checkpoint, the woman said I wasn’t allowed my large bottle, but could go to the drugstore and buy a plastic bottle to put it in. When I got to the checkout, the woman informed me the bottle wasn’t sterile, which meant I’d be at risk for bacterial contamination of my solution. So I had to throw away my $10 bottle of contact solution and instead, buy a trial sized bottle for $8. I’d also purchased a chicken wrap for $6.
When I got to the gate and took a bite of my sandwich, it was disgusting. I threw it away and bought a creamy egg salad sandwich for $6. It was absolutely delicious.
The moral of that part of the story is never buy a sandwich at a drugstore.
So now the tally is $430 and I haven’t even made it to the right gate. We were standing at a gate going someplace I’ve never heard of before, eating crappy sandwiches. Miranda’s was awful too and she threw it out. We finally make it to the right gate, get in line and realize we have to go out onto the tarmac, in the freezing cold, to get on a plane where our knees touched the seat in front of us. This is budget travel. Had our tickets not been $250 and instead, $25, which I’ve seen before on this airline, I might not have been so upset.
“Oh my, it’s all yellow,” Miranda said as we boarded. “Yellow is a nervous color.”
She proceeded to repeat this several more times while telling me that she also didn’t enjoy looking at the safety illustrations in front of her, on a yellow seat. “Also, those advertisements on the overhead bins are making me nervous,” she added.
“Hey look at that picture,” she said while referring back to the safety illustrations. “That woman is holding her skirt in place as she slides down the side of the plane.”
One of the illustrations showed a life vest bag you tear open from the top.
“Do we have to purchase that too,” she wondered. “How much is it in U.S. dollars?”
We were laughing heartily after that, on our way to a place we’d never been. It might turn out to be more expensive than we’d hoped, but here’s hoping the experience, like most of those we have together, will be priceless.
Tuesday, 20 November 2007
Telly from Helly
"We're never getting out of here, are we?" a woman in the seat behind me whispered to her friend.
Who knew being trapped in a television studio would feel so much like prison?
Miranda and I thought it would be fun to go see a British game show taping and got very lost in the BBC complex in the freezing rain trying to find it. We made it to the right studio late and therefore lost our place in line for the show we were meant to see, "Would I Lie to You?" Instead, we were ushered into the line for a show we'd never heard of called "Ding Dong." The host is Alan Carr, a cheeky gay man who cracks jokes in-between hosting a game show where celebrities go up against civilians to win some prize which may or may not actually exist.
At first we were excited. "Look at all the lights," I squealed as we were seated in the second row. Cameras wooshed over our heads and the audience went wild.
A guy came out to rile us up and he was making audience members get up and gyrate and do the rumba. He basically insulted everyone he could see and somehow, the crowd found that funny.
It wasn't long until the show began, and almost instantly, so did my own personal hell.
There was some British trailer park-esque celeb, kind of like Larry the Cable Guy, named Johnny, and he wouldn't shut up through the whole taping. He was heckling the other team and heckling the host so much that they had to extend the taping. I think he was drunk. The celebs were talking about how privileged they are and the host kept insulting the civilians, making them sound like total idiots.
The show was dull and unfunny and lasted three hours. We were literally trapped in the studio. Our butts hurt. Our brains hurt. We were tired and hungry. Our only comfort came from the fact that we were all in this together, all two hundred of us dumb, unfamous civilians.
Who knew being trapped in a television studio would feel so much like prison?
Miranda and I thought it would be fun to go see a British game show taping and got very lost in the BBC complex in the freezing rain trying to find it. We made it to the right studio late and therefore lost our place in line for the show we were meant to see, "Would I Lie to You?" Instead, we were ushered into the line for a show we'd never heard of called "Ding Dong." The host is Alan Carr, a cheeky gay man who cracks jokes in-between hosting a game show where celebrities go up against civilians to win some prize which may or may not actually exist.
At first we were excited. "Look at all the lights," I squealed as we were seated in the second row. Cameras wooshed over our heads and the audience went wild.
A guy came out to rile us up and he was making audience members get up and gyrate and do the rumba. He basically insulted everyone he could see and somehow, the crowd found that funny.
It wasn't long until the show began, and almost instantly, so did my own personal hell.
There was some British trailer park-esque celeb, kind of like Larry the Cable Guy, named Johnny, and he wouldn't shut up through the whole taping. He was heckling the other team and heckling the host so much that they had to extend the taping. I think he was drunk. The celebs were talking about how privileged they are and the host kept insulting the civilians, making them sound like total idiots.
The show was dull and unfunny and lasted three hours. We were literally trapped in the studio. Our butts hurt. Our brains hurt. We were tired and hungry. Our only comfort came from the fact that we were all in this together, all two hundred of us dumb, unfamous civilians.
Monday, 19 November 2007
Maoz Monday
Miranda and I dubbed today Maoz Monday and we had a fantastic, but messy, falafel sandwich with aubergines and herbed couscous. As you can see, mine ended up on the tabletop. But what a perfect stomping ground for our little friends. The pigs were so happy with their field of couscous.
My Black Forest Cake
I never got to taste this and neither did Miranda or K. Because of the fresh whipped cream, it only had a shelf life of a day, and it just went to waste, unfortunately. I'm not happy with the design but we were under a time crunch.
Friday, 16 November 2007
Levant Mezze Bar
Today for lunch I met a friend at a fantastic Middle Eastern place (http://www.levant.co.uk/levant/levant.swf) that looked like the inside of Jeannie's bottle from "I Dream of Jeannie." I thought we were in Fez or something. There were tables with plump cushions the color of pomegranates glistening beneath the candlelight. Yes, candlelight at noon! We were in a basement off a quiet, posh street in Marylebone. It felt secluded and secret. I had Moroccan mint tea and they brought out a giant tray of Lebanese breads. My favorite was a particularly buttery piece of bread that was a cross between brioche and puff pastry. It melted at the slightest touch, but had the dense heft of bread. Amazing. Another was a Lebanese sourdough that had hints of sesame and sumac. We were served a plate of olives, a bowl of pickled peppers and carrots and a bowl that looked as if it should've served as a centerpiece. It had spring onions, a head of little gem lettuce, a whole tomato, a carrot and a cucumber. A salad in the making.
We ordered three mezzes: pan fried aubergines in a pomegranate and olive oil dressing that were so silken and tender they simply fell off the fork, fattouch, a Lebanese salad with fried pita on top that was way too heavy on the lemon juice, and some lovely kibbee made with ground chicken instead of lamb or beef as is most commonly found in Middle Eastern restaurants.
The whole place was like a succulent piece of Turkish delight, shimmery, full of color and exotically sweet.
We ordered three mezzes: pan fried aubergines in a pomegranate and olive oil dressing that were so silken and tender they simply fell off the fork, fattouch, a Lebanese salad with fried pita on top that was way too heavy on the lemon juice, and some lovely kibbee made with ground chicken instead of lamb or beef as is most commonly found in Middle Eastern restaurants.
The whole place was like a succulent piece of Turkish delight, shimmery, full of color and exotically sweet.
A Very Bad Week
This has been a tough week. First, my cake was stolen. Then, as I walked home that night sans cake, feeling very forlorn, I dropped half of my sugar free $5 candy bar on the sidewalk. Luckily, when I got home, my roommate had a lovely noodle stir fry with chicken and broccoli waiting for me. That really cheered me up. His friend Ian burned me some Edith Piaf and Neil Diamond CDs. I took a hot shower, had two mugs of green tea and slept off my frustration.
Today, however, was no walk in the park. Class seemed like it was 18 hours long. Thank God I'm resourceful. I played tic tac toe with the guy next to me and when that got boring, we played connect the dots. I lost. Oh well.
I showed up for class to make my genoise with buttercream and homemade raspberry jam and I was doing great at first. I had everything organized and my cake was one of the first ones in the oven. When the cake was done, however, so was my luck.
We have to slice off any imperfection if the cakes are at all uneven. I did this yesterday with my Alhambra and had no problem. Today, however, I had serious issues. After about the fifth slice, the piece of cake didn't come off as I'd planned. Instead, the knife went directly into my thumb. And this was no ordinary knife. It was a serrated knife almost as big as a chef's knife. It looks deceptively dull but let me tell you, it hurt. Blood was everywhere. Mdme. Flour assisted me with the bleeding, which took some time to stop, and gave me a band-aid. All this put me way behind schedule. When I went back to work, I was so rattled I sliced the layers lopsided. Then, I iced the wrong side of the cake and she had to come over and help me re-ice it. She was really nice about it. Problem was, tonight was our assessment and we weren't supposed to have any help from the teacher or our peers. Damn.
The tears started coming at that point. My finger hurt and I'd messed up a lot. I turned away so no one could see and just took a deep breath. Pastry chefs don't cry. You've got to be tough, so I got back in the game. I started icing the cake a second time, piping around the edges where I messed up (a clever cover-up, I thought) and put almonds around the sides where the lopsided edges didn't hold much icing. I put a raspberry in the middle and piped several rosettes around it. Voila.
I can't be sure if the teacher took pity on me and didn't want to say anything bad about my cake, but when she came to critique it, she said the piping was 90% perfect and the icing was a good texture. She cut into it and said it was perfectly cooked, nice and soft and airy. She even compared the other students' cakes to mine. She showed them mine as an example of what it should look like. Theirs were either over whisked or over folded. Other students wanted to taste mine to see how it was supposed to taste. That made me feel good. My raspberry was lopsided, though. "You do know the centerpiece is supposed to go in the center, right?" she smiled. It's true. In all my haste, I put the raspberry somewhere on the upper left quadrant of the cake. Oh well.
I decided to taste the cake for myself. Dear God, it was good. I didn't get to taste my Alhambra, but I can honestly say that of all the desserts I've made so far and all the desserts I've tasted in my 30 years, this was one of the best desserts I've ever had. It's such a simply conceived dessert, but it's the effort and the quality of the ingredients that make such a difference. I made my own jam. I created that luscious buttercream. I put on the lopsided layers. It was mine. Maybe that's what makes it taste so sweet.
Today, however, was no walk in the park. Class seemed like it was 18 hours long. Thank God I'm resourceful. I played tic tac toe with the guy next to me and when that got boring, we played connect the dots. I lost. Oh well.
I showed up for class to make my genoise with buttercream and homemade raspberry jam and I was doing great at first. I had everything organized and my cake was one of the first ones in the oven. When the cake was done, however, so was my luck.
We have to slice off any imperfection if the cakes are at all uneven. I did this yesterday with my Alhambra and had no problem. Today, however, I had serious issues. After about the fifth slice, the piece of cake didn't come off as I'd planned. Instead, the knife went directly into my thumb. And this was no ordinary knife. It was a serrated knife almost as big as a chef's knife. It looks deceptively dull but let me tell you, it hurt. Blood was everywhere. Mdme. Flour assisted me with the bleeding, which took some time to stop, and gave me a band-aid. All this put me way behind schedule. When I went back to work, I was so rattled I sliced the layers lopsided. Then, I iced the wrong side of the cake and she had to come over and help me re-ice it. She was really nice about it. Problem was, tonight was our assessment and we weren't supposed to have any help from the teacher or our peers. Damn.
The tears started coming at that point. My finger hurt and I'd messed up a lot. I turned away so no one could see and just took a deep breath. Pastry chefs don't cry. You've got to be tough, so I got back in the game. I started icing the cake a second time, piping around the edges where I messed up (a clever cover-up, I thought) and put almonds around the sides where the lopsided edges didn't hold much icing. I put a raspberry in the middle and piped several rosettes around it. Voila.
I can't be sure if the teacher took pity on me and didn't want to say anything bad about my cake, but when she came to critique it, she said the piping was 90% perfect and the icing was a good texture. She cut into it and said it was perfectly cooked, nice and soft and airy. She even compared the other students' cakes to mine. She showed them mine as an example of what it should look like. Theirs were either over whisked or over folded. Other students wanted to taste mine to see how it was supposed to taste. That made me feel good. My raspberry was lopsided, though. "You do know the centerpiece is supposed to go in the center, right?" she smiled. It's true. In all my haste, I put the raspberry somewhere on the upper left quadrant of the cake. Oh well.
I decided to taste the cake for myself. Dear God, it was good. I didn't get to taste my Alhambra, but I can honestly say that of all the desserts I've made so far and all the desserts I've tasted in my 30 years, this was one of the best desserts I've ever had. It's such a simply conceived dessert, but it's the effort and the quality of the ingredients that make such a difference. I made my own jam. I created that luscious buttercream. I put on the lopsided layers. It was mine. Maybe that's what makes it taste so sweet.
The Cake Thief
Yesterday, the unimaginable happened: someone stole my cake.
I put it in the communal refrigerator in the break room for just a few hours and when I came back, it was gone. And for a time, so was my faith in humanity.
Nevermind that I never got to taste the cake, the fact that someone I might smile at or open the door for might have taken something I worked really hard to create is devastating to me.
Turns out, people have had roast chicken and legs of lamb stolen as well. How very sad.
It took me awhile to get past it, but I've chosen to let it go. I decided not to put a giant note on the fridge trying to make the thief feel guilty. That person has to live with it, not me. At least I took a photo of it before I left class. It was the prettiest cake I ever made.
Tuesday, 13 November 2007
Hellenic
George was a gruff man. He never smiled and his words were monosyllabic. Customer service certainly wasn’t his forte. When he placed a plate of food before us, he didn’t bother making eye contact.
He was a bit of an odd looking character as well. Around 5’ tall with squat proportions, he hobbled about the room with three plates in one hand at a time, looking as if he might topple over at any time, providing random guests little piles of taramosalata on their laps.
He is the owner of my neighborhood Greek restaurant, Hellenic, and serves as both host and waiter in his tennis shoes and corduroy pants.
We sat beneath a ceiling dotted with colored lights that looked like flickering stars in a Christmas sky and ordered the mezedes, which meant we’d sit there for two hours while plate after plate of everything on the menu was placed before our hungry eyes.
It was like a dream sequence. Food came in rapid succession. First there was taramosalata, a creamy pink mass of cod roe, lemon juice and olive oil that looked like the ambrosia grandmas make when they mix strawberry Jell-O and Cool Whip, but tasted of salt, cream and garlic; a bowl of tiny shrimp with their heads still on, looking like giant masks on tribal dancers; melitzanosalata, an aubergine dip the color of lilacs, swirled with garlic, yogurt and mayonnaise; smoked salmon slick as a fresh coat of wax on a car and mounds of warm pita bread.
Next came the hot starters – plates of fried calamarakia, golden rivulets of deep fried squid whose flesh was more creamy than rubbery; buttery chunks of grilled halloumi cheese; fat parcels of dolmadakia, tart grape leaves stuffed with rice, minced ground beef and a collection of herbs so secret they nearly whispered on the tongue; and Greek sausage, which had been marinated in red wine then grilled.
There were tiny pieces of barely seasoned souvla, lamb on the bone, which were so succulent and rich with flavor they felt as if they had been sewn into your mouth; tender chunks of chicken, onion and peppers threaded on a skewer just before being grilled, and a greek salad with large wedges of fresh feta, shards of red onion, tomatoes and cucumber in a delicate olive oil and lemon dressing.
At the end there were full bellies and no dessert, but George brought out a plate of Satsuma mandarins. They were sweet and tart all at once, and just the perfect end to a night under the stars.
“Goodnight, George,” I said as I put on my coat.
“Yes,” he managed to mumble, before stumbling off to the kitchen, three plates in his left hand, not once looking back.
He was a bit of an odd looking character as well. Around 5’ tall with squat proportions, he hobbled about the room with three plates in one hand at a time, looking as if he might topple over at any time, providing random guests little piles of taramosalata on their laps.
He is the owner of my neighborhood Greek restaurant, Hellenic, and serves as both host and waiter in his tennis shoes and corduroy pants.
We sat beneath a ceiling dotted with colored lights that looked like flickering stars in a Christmas sky and ordered the mezedes, which meant we’d sit there for two hours while plate after plate of everything on the menu was placed before our hungry eyes.
It was like a dream sequence. Food came in rapid succession. First there was taramosalata, a creamy pink mass of cod roe, lemon juice and olive oil that looked like the ambrosia grandmas make when they mix strawberry Jell-O and Cool Whip, but tasted of salt, cream and garlic; a bowl of tiny shrimp with their heads still on, looking like giant masks on tribal dancers; melitzanosalata, an aubergine dip the color of lilacs, swirled with garlic, yogurt and mayonnaise; smoked salmon slick as a fresh coat of wax on a car and mounds of warm pita bread.
Next came the hot starters – plates of fried calamarakia, golden rivulets of deep fried squid whose flesh was more creamy than rubbery; buttery chunks of grilled halloumi cheese; fat parcels of dolmadakia, tart grape leaves stuffed with rice, minced ground beef and a collection of herbs so secret they nearly whispered on the tongue; and Greek sausage, which had been marinated in red wine then grilled.
There were tiny pieces of barely seasoned souvla, lamb on the bone, which were so succulent and rich with flavor they felt as if they had been sewn into your mouth; tender chunks of chicken, onion and peppers threaded on a skewer just before being grilled, and a greek salad with large wedges of fresh feta, shards of red onion, tomatoes and cucumber in a delicate olive oil and lemon dressing.
At the end there were full bellies and no dessert, but George brought out a plate of Satsuma mandarins. They were sweet and tart all at once, and just the perfect end to a night under the stars.
“Goodnight, George,” I said as I put on my coat.
“Yes,” he managed to mumble, before stumbling off to the kitchen, three plates in his left hand, not once looking back.
Why Are We Here?
Outside my window the clouds are rolling past the rooftops at a rapid pace (for clouds, that is). I wonder where they're going. The sky is perfectly cerulean, and the puffy fragments of white that move in a direction where there must be something cool going on, remind me that all of us are dots on this vast landscape and, like the clouds, we each make the heavens beautiful.
But why?
I mean, really, why are we here?
Today it drizzled lightly and the wind blew my hair in my face. I watched my feet as they crunched on leaves the color of honey. The bottom of my pants were soaked but I didn't care. The feel of cold and wet on my skin made perfect sense. There was no one on Primrose Hill and Regent's Park was eerily silent. A perfect Fall day. At 1 p.m. on a Tuesday I realized that this is the universe and I am meant to live in it. But even more, to thrive in it. To smile in it, to dance in it, to love in it. To truly BE in it. Not just exist. Not just float in a pool of mediocrity. To swim.
To be here, in this far away country, tromping through the leaves and feeling the rain on my face, this is part of what I'm meant to do. Maybe I'm just wistful because I lost one of my best friends. Maybe I miss my grandparents. Maybe I miss the people I haven't met yet. Whatever it is, I think this is a perfect time for me to reflect on my life's purpose. Why am I here? I think, perhaps, it's to live. It's not to fret about the $20 salad I just had for lunch. It's to sit here, sipping my tea, looking up at the wandering clouds and remember everyone I love. Remember how, like those clouds, every one of us will drift in a direction away from something. Perhaps it's away from someone we love, or perhaps it's away from our city or our car or our cat. Maybe it's away from sadness or heartache. It seems strangely metaphorical right now. Those clouds. They never stay in the same spot, yet they are always right there, above us. You don't have to stand still. You can move and still end up exactly where you're meant to be.
But why?
I mean, really, why are we here?
Today it drizzled lightly and the wind blew my hair in my face. I watched my feet as they crunched on leaves the color of honey. The bottom of my pants were soaked but I didn't care. The feel of cold and wet on my skin made perfect sense. There was no one on Primrose Hill and Regent's Park was eerily silent. A perfect Fall day. At 1 p.m. on a Tuesday I realized that this is the universe and I am meant to live in it. But even more, to thrive in it. To smile in it, to dance in it, to love in it. To truly BE in it. Not just exist. Not just float in a pool of mediocrity. To swim.
To be here, in this far away country, tromping through the leaves and feeling the rain on my face, this is part of what I'm meant to do. Maybe I'm just wistful because I lost one of my best friends. Maybe I miss my grandparents. Maybe I miss the people I haven't met yet. Whatever it is, I think this is a perfect time for me to reflect on my life's purpose. Why am I here? I think, perhaps, it's to live. It's not to fret about the $20 salad I just had for lunch. It's to sit here, sipping my tea, looking up at the wandering clouds and remember everyone I love. Remember how, like those clouds, every one of us will drift in a direction away from something. Perhaps it's away from someone we love, or perhaps it's away from our city or our car or our cat. Maybe it's away from sadness or heartache. It seems strangely metaphorical right now. Those clouds. They never stay in the same spot, yet they are always right there, above us. You don't have to stand still. You can move and still end up exactly where you're meant to be.
Monday, 12 November 2007
My Ladies
This picture has nothing to do with York or London, or anything at all past Indianapolis, where these two precious ladies live. I just felt like putting up a photo of my grandma (left) and my Aunt Louise, two loves of my life, taken during one of their Saturday morning beauty salon visits. They are so darned cute!
The Shambles
This is the street reputed to have been the inspiration for Diagon Alley in the Harry Potter series. I stumbled upon it accidentally, down a tiny corridor. I felt like I was walking into the movie. The street was tiny and crowded and filled with little shops, some of which were lopsided, many of which you had to duck your head to get into. It was great.
Fish and Chips
My first time eating fish and chips was in York. Did I love it? Not really. The fish was soooo greasy. The batter was tasty, though, and it was super crispy which I liked. But the chips were soggy and devoid of flavor. This place was popular though. There was a long cue, a sign, our host said, of a "proper" fish and chips establishment.
Stairway to Heaven?
We trekked 275 steps to the top of the York Minster and now, two days later, I feel every step. It was like hiking to the top of Mt. Kilimanjaro as far as I was concerned. Getting to the top was magnificent, though. Looking out onto an entire city is always something to behold, particularly the walled medieval town of York. It was a frigid day, though, with tons of wind. VERY cold. But beautiful.
York-City Centre
Dad and I went to York to visit one of his friends. I thought I'd be getting away from tourist crap and crowds, but as you can see, I didn't. It felt a bit worse, even, than London. Still, parts of it were quite lovely. A bit of history.
Wednesday, 7 November 2007
The Cup Never Runs Out
The thing about love is, once you have it, it's always there. Even if the person you love isn't. Once your cup is full, it will never empty.
There is a saying from Warren Zevon, "enjoy every sandwich." For me, I think the perfect saying is "savor every cup." That's what Mary and I always did. I can't even remember the first time I met her. It just seemed that we were always friends. There was no space before or after. We were like two peas in a pod. We'd have tea together several times a week. When I moved away it was less often, but she'd call me at work and I'd go visit sometimes on my way home.
She was such a firecracker. I really loved Mary. She was my dear friend.
She died yesterday in her sleep.
I don't really know what to say. I called her Monday night from Paris and no one picked up the phone. I wish now, more than ever, I would've been able to talk to her, to say goodbye. I sent her a postcard when I first arrived in London and she was so excited she called my mom to read it to her. She was so proud of me and always told me to go after my dreams. She believed in me. I believed in her. I learned a lot from my friend. I learned to always be feisty, to alwyas be positive and to keep fighting, no matter how rough life gets. Mary believed life was worth a good fight. Her last few years were rough. She had two strokes and couldn't play the piano. Then, she fell and broke her pelvis and later her hip. Her arms didn't work and neither did her feet, yet she managed to pull herself around the apartment in a wheelchair with just one foot. All her teeth were missing, but she always smiled. Her head tilted to one side and she looked like a sheepish little girl. She was darling. Her heart was pure. She was honest and simple. She didn't need much. She had tons of love to go around.
Today I am honoring my friend with a cup of tea. It will never quite be the same without her sitting across the table from me, laughing. But I know that she's with me right now, savoring every cup right alongside me.
Tuesday, 6 November 2007
The Ugly Chicken
I couldn't find any chicken in Paris. Roasted chicken is a Parisian thing, yet somehow an exhaustive search down two miles of prime cafe territory yielded nothing but smoked salmon, pate, grilled steak and fries, french onion soup and anything else BUT chicken. Finally, I gave up.
Then I saw Noura, a famous Lebanese restaurant in both London and Paris, that had been on my wish list. I figured I'd get the Lebanese version of roasted chicken, which was schwarma, or charma, chicken roasted on a giant spit left to bathe in its own luscious juices. I also got lamb charma, tabbouli and hoummous. Oh yeah, and tons of attitude on the side.
Only in Paris, I'm told, will you find the rudest waiters on the planet. There were two of them at Noura. The man who sat me did so without a word of hello or even eye contact. He never came to check on me and gave me the evil eye through my entire meal. The meal, by the way, was very substandard. The charma was totally dry and flavorless and the tabbouli and hoummous rivaled those I might find in a grocery store. My tea was $5 and when I ran out of water and asked the waitress for more, she told me, in French, I couldn't have any unless I bought another tea. She smirked at me while saying all this. I knew I understood her, but still it made me so upset I ended up fighting tears. The air was bad. It was rancid, in fact.
Then Kalled came. He was softspoken and kind. He asked how my meal was and when I said the meal was good, he said, "say no more. I understand completely." He knew. How could he not? Thank God he wasn't one of them. I asked him if it was truly their policy not to refill water and he said yes but that he would get me some anyway. He didn't come back for ten minutes and all of a sudden the rude waitress was screaming bloody murder. I heard her scream, "Maximum!" and I knew she was talking about my tea. When he arrived, he set the tea somberly on my table. I told him I knew he was yelled at because of me and apologized profusely. We ended up having a very nice conversation and he completely erased the memory of those awful people. Well, maybe not erased. Let's just say he was the sweet mint in an otherwise bitter tea.
Then I saw Noura, a famous Lebanese restaurant in both London and Paris, that had been on my wish list. I figured I'd get the Lebanese version of roasted chicken, which was schwarma, or charma, chicken roasted on a giant spit left to bathe in its own luscious juices. I also got lamb charma, tabbouli and hoummous. Oh yeah, and tons of attitude on the side.
Only in Paris, I'm told, will you find the rudest waiters on the planet. There were two of them at Noura. The man who sat me did so without a word of hello or even eye contact. He never came to check on me and gave me the evil eye through my entire meal. The meal, by the way, was very substandard. The charma was totally dry and flavorless and the tabbouli and hoummous rivaled those I might find in a grocery store. My tea was $5 and when I ran out of water and asked the waitress for more, she told me, in French, I couldn't have any unless I bought another tea. She smirked at me while saying all this. I knew I understood her, but still it made me so upset I ended up fighting tears. The air was bad. It was rancid, in fact.
Then Kalled came. He was softspoken and kind. He asked how my meal was and when I said the meal was good, he said, "say no more. I understand completely." He knew. How could he not? Thank God he wasn't one of them. I asked him if it was truly their policy not to refill water and he said yes but that he would get me some anyway. He didn't come back for ten minutes and all of a sudden the rude waitress was screaming bloody murder. I heard her scream, "Maximum!" and I knew she was talking about my tea. When he arrived, he set the tea somberly on my table. I told him I knew he was yelled at because of me and apologized profusely. We ended up having a very nice conversation and he completely erased the memory of those awful people. Well, maybe not erased. Let's just say he was the sweet mint in an otherwise bitter tea.
The Prettiest Sound
As I sat in my friend's apartment on Monday, planning my day, I heard music. I realized it was coming from somewhere next door. It was opera music. My own private concert. It was a woman practicing her scales and I got to hear it float through the air like a delicate feather of sound. Only in Paris...
Small Appetite
I accidentally ate baby food today.
I was in the refrigerated section at the grocery store, looking at vegetables and rice dishes when a cute little container of chicken korma called “Little Dish” caught my eye. I assumed it was simply for those who preferred lighter portions. It wasn’t until I got home, however, that I realized it was for kids. Well, children 1 year and older, according to the package.
It was some of the best korma I’ve ever had. Made by a pediatric dietician, it’s got no salt or sugar and the meat is hormone and antibiotic free. Perfect for a growing girl like me.
Traveling in Style
“Coach one, any seat,” the man in a silk scarf said to me as I stopped to ask if I was going the right way. My ticket said coach 17, a cramped car in the complete opposite direction. A Eurostar train is big. The further back you are, the more cramped and Noah’s ark-like it becomes. Somehow, though, the nice man thought it preposterous to make me go back all that way.
Still, I was confused. My ticket didn’t say coach one.
He reassured me. “Go," he motioned with his hands in the direction of the lovely, sweat free car. "Take a free seat in the last one, up there.”
I got in the car, which was open and spacious, and happily found myself the only one in it. Hundreds of people on this train and I managed to get a free upgrade to a totally empty car – with a table and tons of legroom, no less.
Who said the Parisians were rude? Well, the men at least. I don’t think anyone ever said that!
Still, I was confused. My ticket didn’t say coach one.
He reassured me. “Go," he motioned with his hands in the direction of the lovely, sweat free car. "Take a free seat in the last one, up there.”
I got in the car, which was open and spacious, and happily found myself the only one in it. Hundreds of people on this train and I managed to get a free upgrade to a totally empty car – with a table and tons of legroom, no less.
Who said the Parisians were rude? Well, the men at least. I don’t think anyone ever said that!
Monday, 5 November 2007
The Pick Up Artist
A man followed me five blocks today. It was sort of like a Parisian movie. Only I didn’t speak French and he didn't speak English. I made the mistake of smiling at him when I saw him across the street. Well, he smiled at me first and was motioning for me to give him my number, which made me smile. I walked away in the other direction, but I guess he took the smile for flirting. It wasn’t until four blocks later that I felt like someone was following me. Sure enough, it was him. I told him I don’t speak French, and kept walking, but he still invited me for a drink that night. I said what's the point since we can’t talk and he said no problem. I said no and he asked for my email. Again, I said no, I can’t write in French. He still tried his best, but I said jes suis desoulet, sorry. He crossed the street and looked back at me. He waved, and looked kind of sad. Parisian men don't give up easily!
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