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.
Thursday, 29 November 2007
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!
Sunday, 4 November 2007
Lenotre
Very famous food/pastry shop. It's like boutique food. A small dish of chicken costs 30 euros. No thanks.
Fashion Notes-Paris
So far, I've seen at least four guys wearing pink scarves. One was neon pink.
One punk rocker boy had pink gloves with the fingers cut off.
The clothes here make me want to be fashionable. It's so easy to be fashionable in Paris. If I had loads of money, I could be the most fashionable girl in the city. I actually like shopping here because the things are so beautiful and well made. I got two new outfits, a coat and a pair of boots. I didn't pay more than I'd pay at the Galleria. But I feel renewed somehow. It feels good on my body, more elegant and rich. I really feel like I'm floating on a cloud made of silk.
I bought a pashmina made of silk and cashmere. Sara bargained them down to 4 euros. The man said he would do it because we were "tres jolie," very beautiful. Even if they're full of bullshit, the men here sure know how to compliment a woman and make it sound sincere.
One punk rocker boy had pink gloves with the fingers cut off.
The clothes here make me want to be fashionable. It's so easy to be fashionable in Paris. If I had loads of money, I could be the most fashionable girl in the city. I actually like shopping here because the things are so beautiful and well made. I got two new outfits, a coat and a pair of boots. I didn't pay more than I'd pay at the Galleria. But I feel renewed somehow. It feels good on my body, more elegant and rich. I really feel like I'm floating on a cloud made of silk.
I bought a pashmina made of silk and cashmere. Sara bargained them down to 4 euros. The man said he would do it because we were "tres jolie," very beautiful. Even if they're full of bullshit, the men here sure know how to compliment a woman and make it sound sincere.
Fine Falafel
We had the best falafel in Paris today. At first I didn't believe it, but after tasting it I know, hands down, it is. So far, the best I've had anywhere. The hoummous was the most fantastic hoummous ever. Silken and creamy, it was buttery and nutty without that sharp acidic bite of tahini. Even better, the olive oil on top was gentle and smooth, really light. It complemented, rather than destroyed, the flavors. The sandwich had tiny baubles of falafel, interspersed with tender aubergine, cabbage, tomatoes and a luscious tahini yogurt sauce. There was a line from one end of the street to the next. You have to really know what you're doing to eat there. Basically, you pay the guy at the front before you actually order, get a ticket and stand in line. Or, if you want to eat inside, you go up to the man standing in front, screaming, like he's introducing a circus act, and you tell him how many and he gives you a ticket with a number on it. We only had to wait five minutes and once inside, the food came almost immediately. When we got the bill, the guy gave us the hoummous for free. Sara said they never do that, ever. I think it was because when he asked where I was from I told him St. Louis. I asked if he knew the Cardinals. He said no, but he knew Murphy Lee was from St. Louis. I thought that was great. A Middle Eastern man in the middle of Paris knew about my little city in the middle of the U.S. because of a rapper.
An American in Paris
I arrived in paris, via Eurostar, on Saturday. I sat next to a Parisian man who asked if I wanted anything from the dining car when he got up to get food. How nice! We talked the whole train ride and turns out he loves Americans because they are "so easy to talk to." The Brits and the Parisians aren't this way, he said. We talked about brownies and Europeans and health food and how being rich is overrated. He works in wealth management and says many of his clients are miserable. It was very interesting. When we said goodbye, we "French" kissed.
I hit it off with my host, Sara, instantly. I'd only met her through email prior to my trip. Imagine my luck, finding someone kind and caring who is also a total germ freak like me. It was almost freaky. We've been gossiping like school girls since the minute I arrived. The other night, when my feet were hurting from walking in heels (my attempt to be stylish), she traded me shoes and let me wear her flats. We walked past the restaurant where the last episode of Sex in the City was filmed, as well as Pont Neuf, the oldest standing bridge across the river Seine in Paris, where Big stood in the snow, wondering whether or not he'd find Carrie. It's a very romantic spot. Paris is a glorious city. It's full of sparkle. I must admit, I'm totally in love. I like it much better than London. It just feels more like me. I could live here in a heartbeat.
I hit it off with my host, Sara, instantly. I'd only met her through email prior to my trip. Imagine my luck, finding someone kind and caring who is also a total germ freak like me. It was almost freaky. We've been gossiping like school girls since the minute I arrived. The other night, when my feet were hurting from walking in heels (my attempt to be stylish), she traded me shoes and let me wear her flats. We walked past the restaurant where the last episode of Sex in the City was filmed, as well as Pont Neuf, the oldest standing bridge across the river Seine in Paris, where Big stood in the snow, wondering whether or not he'd find Carrie. It's a very romantic spot. Paris is a glorious city. It's full of sparkle. I must admit, I'm totally in love. I like it much better than London. It just feels more like me. I could live here in a heartbeat.
Friday, 2 November 2007
Sensory Observations
I hear:
the click of heels on concrete.
I feel:
the ground vibrate beneath me as a torrent of people rush up a flight of stairs.
I see:
a little girl in a pink dress rush up to her mother, wide eyed and in love, grabbing her hand, trying to make her hold it. next to her are two men who have just been holding her hand and they're begging the mother to pay attention, to get off her cell phone and hold the child. she doesn't.
I see:
a man with skin the color of mocha and hair as black as night.
I see:
a homeless woman crouched in a darkened corner, eating a candy bar. she's in the same spot every day, saying, "spare change, please," in an accent i can't decipher.
I think:
london needs to pass a law banning couples from making out on the tube platforms. I can hear the suction cup sounds of slobber and lips as they glue and unglue themselves like fish gasping for air. get a room, people.
i wonder:
does everyone feel as tired as me right now?
the click of heels on concrete.
I feel:
the ground vibrate beneath me as a torrent of people rush up a flight of stairs.
I see:
a little girl in a pink dress rush up to her mother, wide eyed and in love, grabbing her hand, trying to make her hold it. next to her are two men who have just been holding her hand and they're begging the mother to pay attention, to get off her cell phone and hold the child. she doesn't.
I see:
a man with skin the color of mocha and hair as black as night.
I see:
a homeless woman crouched in a darkened corner, eating a candy bar. she's in the same spot every day, saying, "spare change, please," in an accent i can't decipher.
I think:
london needs to pass a law banning couples from making out on the tube platforms. I can hear the suction cup sounds of slobber and lips as they glue and unglue themselves like fish gasping for air. get a room, people.
i wonder:
does everyone feel as tired as me right now?
Thursday, 1 November 2007
Stuff I've Learned in London (so far)
I don’t like pastry school, but I’m pretty good at piping.
I like chestnuts.
Tea is way more fabulous than I realized. Well not really. I full realized this. It’s just way more appreciated and I think that's fabulous.
If you’re bored, there’s always a cure.
If you’re hungry, there’s always a cure.
If you’re not hungry, there’s always an excuse to pretend you are.
People think I have an accent.
People treat their friends like gold.
If you fall on the street, you might not get helped, but if you ask anyone for directions, you’ll always be given assistance.
Sometimes, accidents aren’t accidents.
I like Kate Nash loads.
People here say “loads” instead of “a lot.”
Buttermilk is as rare as blue whales.
I love spelt pasta.
People sit outside even when it’s freezing. They look happy sipping their foam-topped cappucinos.
I like chestnuts.
Tea is way more fabulous than I realized. Well not really. I full realized this. It’s just way more appreciated and I think that's fabulous.
If you’re bored, there’s always a cure.
If you’re hungry, there’s always a cure.
If you’re not hungry, there’s always an excuse to pretend you are.
People think I have an accent.
People treat their friends like gold.
If you fall on the street, you might not get helped, but if you ask anyone for directions, you’ll always be given assistance.
Sometimes, accidents aren’t accidents.
I like Kate Nash loads.
People here say “loads” instead of “a lot.”
Buttermilk is as rare as blue whales.
I love spelt pasta.
People sit outside even when it’s freezing. They look happy sipping their foam-topped cappucinos.
What I Saw on the Tube Today
A baby was holding Nemo from "Finding Nemo" and picking his nose (his own, not the fish’s)
A guy was wearing gloves with the fingers cut off.
Everyone was reading the "London Paper," whose cover story was about Britney Spears’ horrific “Halloween costume” (or was it just a regular outfit?).
No one made eye contact.
A guy was wearing gloves with the fingers cut off.
Everyone was reading the "London Paper," whose cover story was about Britney Spears’ horrific “Halloween costume” (or was it just a regular outfit?).
No one made eye contact.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)