It's 10.41pm: hardly more than an hour and a quarter until midnight and the end of the year. End of the year - beginning of the year: which? Half empty or half full?
The kittens are playing, Boudi is sitting quietly; there's a Wallender on the telly - good, but a tad depressing - and we have begun our first drinks of the night: bottled bitters.
The Kiwis in one of the upstairs flats are already excelling themselves in the noise department: they seem permanently oblivious to having neighbours. We may well be very glad of the absinthe that will be opened later: and yes, I really do have a bottle, complete with sugar spoons and sugar cubes to serve in the traditional manner. It would also make a pleasantly Bohemian start to 2110.
We're at home because of the kittens, in essence. This time last year, we were sipping cocktails in the Art Deco splendour of the Hotel American in Amsterdam, as Amsterdamers filled the night outside with fireworks. A young boy who had clearly emptied his piggy bank set off little firecracker things - triangles of brief light - on the low wall of the fountain. Later, we stood on the balcony of our room in the hotel, canned Heinekins keeping us warm against eight below temperatures, and watched as the sky bloomed with colour for well beyond half an hour.
I am mellow now. I intend to get mellower.
A very happy new year, one and all.
Thursday, 31 December 2009
Wednesday, 30 December 2009
The pitfalls of feline investigation
We had our first little kitten 'accident' today – no, not a case of forgetting where the litter tray was, but of coming a cropper while investigating the toilet.
I was busy at the computer when I suddenly heard a mad scrabbling; the sound of claw against ceramic. By the time I got to the bathroom, the only evidence of anything untoward was a sopping wet toilet seat and a certain rippling in the bowl itself.
The Other Half quickly found Loki, who, apart from his head, was sopping wet. Fortunately, he was quite placid when it came to being picked up, wrapped in a towel and gently dried off. Although he still sat on the floor looking a little sorry for himself afterwards. I'm not going to say: 'I told you so', but there are reasons that I said, before their arrival, that remembering to put the seat down would be A Good Thing.
But they are now comfortable and confident enough in their new home that every day seems to bring opportunities to try something new. Bed is a case in point.
After we stopped shutting them into the living room at night – not least because The Queen B had started trying to open the door (closed internal doors are verboten to cats, it seems), they popped into the bedroom briefly at night and would arrive again after breakfast for a play and a cuddle if we were having a lie-in or a read.
Last night they decided that coming to bed to sleep would be a cool idea. In Loki's case, he's already decided that scrambling into bed is really good. Otto is perfectly happy to try to balance on some stray limb and purr himself to sleep. You start feeling as though you're trapped into a scenario like that of the whore in the story about King Solomon, when she rolled over in her sleep and suffocated her baby. Fortunately, I seem to have spent quite a lot of the last 17 and a half years learning how to change position in bed without disturbing a cat.
They're chattering more too: chirrups and tweets now pepper the quiet, where none existed when they arrived. We're getting told when they need food and when they need fuss. Furry alarm clock syndrome will not be far behind. Mack was a genius at that – if all else failed, he'd bite my septum: never hard enough to draw blood, just hard enough to get my attention. I long ago learned that, where cats are concerned, giving in quickly is usually the easiest option as well as the quickest one.
Otto and Loki are lucky – we're already well trained in many ways. Although I have little doubt that they'll manage a few more in the coming years.
I was busy at the computer when I suddenly heard a mad scrabbling; the sound of claw against ceramic. By the time I got to the bathroom, the only evidence of anything untoward was a sopping wet toilet seat and a certain rippling in the bowl itself.
The Other Half quickly found Loki, who, apart from his head, was sopping wet. Fortunately, he was quite placid when it came to being picked up, wrapped in a towel and gently dried off. Although he still sat on the floor looking a little sorry for himself afterwards. I'm not going to say: 'I told you so', but there are reasons that I said, before their arrival, that remembering to put the seat down would be A Good Thing.
But they are now comfortable and confident enough in their new home that every day seems to bring opportunities to try something new. Bed is a case in point.
After we stopped shutting them into the living room at night – not least because The Queen B had started trying to open the door (closed internal doors are verboten to cats, it seems), they popped into the bedroom briefly at night and would arrive again after breakfast for a play and a cuddle if we were having a lie-in or a read.
Last night they decided that coming to bed to sleep would be a cool idea. In Loki's case, he's already decided that scrambling into bed is really good. Otto is perfectly happy to try to balance on some stray limb and purr himself to sleep. You start feeling as though you're trapped into a scenario like that of the whore in the story about King Solomon, when she rolled over in her sleep and suffocated her baby. Fortunately, I seem to have spent quite a lot of the last 17 and a half years learning how to change position in bed without disturbing a cat.
They're chattering more too: chirrups and tweets now pepper the quiet, where none existed when they arrived. We're getting told when they need food and when they need fuss. Furry alarm clock syndrome will not be far behind. Mack was a genius at that – if all else failed, he'd bite my septum: never hard enough to draw blood, just hard enough to get my attention. I long ago learned that, where cats are concerned, giving in quickly is usually the easiest option as well as the quickest one.
Otto and Loki are lucky – we're already well trained in many ways. Although I have little doubt that they'll manage a few more in the coming years.
Tuesday, 29 December 2009
10 years – what a decade
With little more than two days left of this year, it's difficult not to be drawn into all the backward looking that accompanies this time of any year. And while this is an annual event, the end of a decades gives it yet more than its usual interest.
It's not been the best of decades in so many ways – 9/11, Afghanistan, Iraq ...
And that's just for starters. We in the UK could begin by mourning the demise of Labour's promised "ethical foreign policy", which if it wasn't actually stillborn, died the moment Tony Blair was blinded by the lights of Washington DC.
Oh, there's been plenty to depress and even some to cheer. But you can read all about that elsewhere. For those of you who choose to spend time here, I doubt you do it to replicate what can be found in rather larger web fora.
The last 10 years, for me, have been a period of transformation – of growth. It was the time when, finally, I started an adolescent experience, moving away from all that had held me so firmly in place until my late thirties.
All my previous life, I'd let someone else do my core thinking for me – or giving me a 'manifesto'; a purpose: religion first, then theatre (I couldn't do it for fun, it had to be an all-or-nothing lifestyle thing) and then politics.
Finally, in the last 10 years, I've broken away from all that. It's royally pissed off some acquaintances, but I feel all the better for it. It might have started essentially as a sexual liberation – a liberation from the repression of my upbringing, but it touched so many other aspects of my life.
And with the breakthrough in thinking has come things such as an explosion in my vocabulary. I remember standing on a remote beach in Ireland, watching as a layer of fine sand was blown over the beach proper, for all the world like a sort of magic carpet. I stood there, transfixed, and desperate to find the words to describe what I was seeing to myself. When they came, it was like a damn burst.
Then there was photography: something I'd never really considered, even in my more artistic days. Out of the mists of my distant past emerged an eye – an innate ability to see pictures and know, without conscious thought, what I wanted to capture.
Then there was food, and the beginning of an understanding of culinary pleasure, A beginning too, of learning the skills that allow me to express that pleasure.
A beginning of an end to the anti-European attitudes of my family: a discovery of feeling at home on the Continent: perhaps even more at home than in the UK. First efforts to learn other languages – now I can read Asterix in German at least.
How extraordinary: a decade that seems to have been so short – and yet also so long. It seems a lifetime ago that I stood and watched the fireworks on that millennium night.
And here I am – changed almost beyond my own recognition of myself. Not all for the good, perhaps, but generally so, I think.
How has the last decade been like for you?
It's not been the best of decades in so many ways – 9/11, Afghanistan, Iraq ...
And that's just for starters. We in the UK could begin by mourning the demise of Labour's promised "ethical foreign policy", which if it wasn't actually stillborn, died the moment Tony Blair was blinded by the lights of Washington DC.
Oh, there's been plenty to depress and even some to cheer. But you can read all about that elsewhere. For those of you who choose to spend time here, I doubt you do it to replicate what can be found in rather larger web fora.
The last 10 years, for me, have been a period of transformation – of growth. It was the time when, finally, I started an adolescent experience, moving away from all that had held me so firmly in place until my late thirties.
All my previous life, I'd let someone else do my core thinking for me – or giving me a 'manifesto'; a purpose: religion first, then theatre (I couldn't do it for fun, it had to be an all-or-nothing lifestyle thing) and then politics.
Finally, in the last 10 years, I've broken away from all that. It's royally pissed off some acquaintances, but I feel all the better for it. It might have started essentially as a sexual liberation – a liberation from the repression of my upbringing, but it touched so many other aspects of my life.
And with the breakthrough in thinking has come things such as an explosion in my vocabulary. I remember standing on a remote beach in Ireland, watching as a layer of fine sand was blown over the beach proper, for all the world like a sort of magic carpet. I stood there, transfixed, and desperate to find the words to describe what I was seeing to myself. When they came, it was like a damn burst.
Then there was photography: something I'd never really considered, even in my more artistic days. Out of the mists of my distant past emerged an eye – an innate ability to see pictures and know, without conscious thought, what I wanted to capture.
Then there was food, and the beginning of an understanding of culinary pleasure, A beginning too, of learning the skills that allow me to express that pleasure.
A beginning of an end to the anti-European attitudes of my family: a discovery of feeling at home on the Continent: perhaps even more at home than in the UK. First efforts to learn other languages – now I can read Asterix in German at least.
How extraordinary: a decade that seems to have been so short – and yet also so long. It seems a lifetime ago that I stood and watched the fireworks on that millennium night.
And here I am – changed almost beyond my own recognition of myself. Not all for the good, perhaps, but generally so, I think.
How has the last decade been like for you?
Sunday, 27 December 2009
A baby in my arms
The more I think about it, there is not a thing in the world that makes me marvel as much as the knowledge that humans can have relationships with other animals – that we can cross the divide between species.
I've spent a long time today with a kitten in my arms: a little baby, only just over eight weeks old, snoozing away completely comfortably, snuggled up to me.
Occasionally Otto would twitch while dreaming. Occasionally he'd change position. Occasionally, he'd get partly up and nuzzle me and purr and give me a lick, before settling down again and dozing off. Utterly sure that he was safe to relax and rest. Utterly confident that I would not harm him.
How incredibly, utterly beautiful.
I am in awe.
I've spent a long time today with a kitten in my arms: a little baby, only just over eight weeks old, snoozing away completely comfortably, snuggled up to me.
Occasionally Otto would twitch while dreaming. Occasionally he'd change position. Occasionally, he'd get partly up and nuzzle me and purr and give me a lick, before settling down again and dozing off. Utterly sure that he was safe to relax and rest. Utterly confident that I would not harm him.
How incredibly, utterly beautiful.
I am in awe.
Saturday, 26 December 2009
Beginning to relax
It was around 9.30am this morning, after I'd stretched deeply in bed and let my body sink back once more that The Other Half observed: "You're all relaxed now Christmas Day is over."
Well, it's not quite that simple: I felt relaxed last night, after dinner was finished. And then we'd also decided, given that the living is still knee deep in wrapping paper and a box that's large enough for kittens to be able to jump in and out of, not to shut them in that room, with food and litter tray, for the night. Boudicca has been objecting anyway for the last few nights – objecting at least to an internal door being shut.
They did wonderfully well on the first night in their new home where they could ramble around if they so wished. Both came to bed at various points and licked and nuzzled and kneeded us. And Otto slept for a while on my arm. And none of this really seemed to bother her majesty, who is looking more and more relaxed with each passing day.
Christmas Day – well, Christmas morning – wore them out. Boxes and paper are just perfect for kitten fun. After something like three hours of lunacy, they curled up to sleep it all off. It was a joy to watch them.
St Delia of Norwich had been right – lists (and then more lists – do help. This was probably my most organised and, therefore, easy, Christmas Day catering thus far.
I even bothered to do something I haven't done since the last time I spent Christmas with my parents – showered, blow-dried my hair and dressed in tidy fashion, before breakfasting on thin toast and goose foie gras with truffle.
There is an element of truth to The Other Half's observation. Although he'd forgotten that I've also been getting up fairly early this last week to feed kittens. With their way unblocked, if they were really hungry, they could find Boudi's food in the kitchen.
But yes, it's my big cooking event of the year and it might only be for the two of us, but I like to get it right. And whilst obviously I create the meal with more than half an eye to The Other Half's tastes, he's never set me any targets to achieve – I set those for myself.
The menu was, I'm delighted to report, well balanced. The salad of thinly sliced fennel, red onion and orange was made an hour before eating, and because it wasn't leaves, I dressed it then too. The dressing was supposed to be red wine vinegar, virgin oil, Dijon mustard and honey. However, I'd forgotten to pick up any Dijon, so some made Coleman's had to do. And when I'd gone to reach for the red wine vinegar, it was to find a sediment in it. So I substituted with raspberry wine vinegar. No sacrifice there, methinks. Indeed, the dressing proved zingy and fresh – a success, I thought.
Part two of this culinary epic was roast sirloin of beef. I'd started that off with a quartered onion under the meat (thank you, Nigella) and with plain flour patted into the fat on top (Delia again). A bit of a mare to carve, but lovely meat. It was served with a "confit" of whole shallots and garlic cloves, which had been simmered merrily for an hour in red wine and raspberry wine vinegar (again, the emergency substitution did no harm to the taste). That again was Delia – although research in my copy of Larousse this afternoon, while prepping today's sauce, showed me that it was not a confit: that is specifically a way of preserving meat (hence duck confit, which is stored and preserved in duck fat). But that's not to say that it wasn't gorgeous.
I'd done a few roast potatoes and a few sprouts – sautéed and steamed – and we opened a very decent bottle of red wine, having started with a glass of chilled white Banyuls, brought back from Collioure in September, as an apéritif. I'd managed a little gravy for the meat and, all in all, I was pretty satisfied.
And so to the sweet: the pear tarts baked in 17 minutes and were lovely – moist fruit and perfectly crisp pastry. The stem ginger ice cream – my first ever attempt at ice cream, and without an ice cream maker – was, though I say so myself, excellent (thanks again, Delia). The Other Half has already started hinting about making more ice cream – particularly vanilla, his favourite. Somewhere in the back of mind is an idea that more exotic possibilities exist.
We exchanged gifts. It's The Other Half's half century next month, and after seeing a TV documentary on the subject, I'd booked us a March trip on the Orient Express to Venice, where we'll spend five nights. So I'd piled in to Christmas by buying him books about Venice itself and a DVD about the train. There was a new lens for me, plus photography books.
And then it was the pleasure of flopping in front of the TV. Dr Who proved excellent entertainment (my mother never let us watch sci-fi, so this is a recently acquired taste, thanks initially to re-runs on cable) and then the newest Poirot on ITV, with the wonderful David Suchet as the eponymous Belgian detective, and a really rather chubby Tim Curry as an archeologist and peer of the realm. What happened to the Tim who flounced around in basque and stockings, pouting at the camera in The Rocky Horror Picture Show?
It was, as you might have gathered, a most pleasant day.
But yes – now the rather more serious relaxation can begin.
Well, it's not quite that simple: I felt relaxed last night, after dinner was finished. And then we'd also decided, given that the living is still knee deep in wrapping paper and a box that's large enough for kittens to be able to jump in and out of, not to shut them in that room, with food and litter tray, for the night. Boudicca has been objecting anyway for the last few nights – objecting at least to an internal door being shut.
They did wonderfully well on the first night in their new home where they could ramble around if they so wished. Both came to bed at various points and licked and nuzzled and kneeded us. And Otto slept for a while on my arm. And none of this really seemed to bother her majesty, who is looking more and more relaxed with each passing day.
Christmas Day – well, Christmas morning – wore them out. Boxes and paper are just perfect for kitten fun. After something like three hours of lunacy, they curled up to sleep it all off. It was a joy to watch them.
St Delia of Norwich had been right – lists (and then more lists – do help. This was probably my most organised and, therefore, easy, Christmas Day catering thus far.
I even bothered to do something I haven't done since the last time I spent Christmas with my parents – showered, blow-dried my hair and dressed in tidy fashion, before breakfasting on thin toast and goose foie gras with truffle.
There is an element of truth to The Other Half's observation. Although he'd forgotten that I've also been getting up fairly early this last week to feed kittens. With their way unblocked, if they were really hungry, they could find Boudi's food in the kitchen.
But yes, it's my big cooking event of the year and it might only be for the two of us, but I like to get it right. And whilst obviously I create the meal with more than half an eye to The Other Half's tastes, he's never set me any targets to achieve – I set those for myself.
The menu was, I'm delighted to report, well balanced. The salad of thinly sliced fennel, red onion and orange was made an hour before eating, and because it wasn't leaves, I dressed it then too. The dressing was supposed to be red wine vinegar, virgin oil, Dijon mustard and honey. However, I'd forgotten to pick up any Dijon, so some made Coleman's had to do. And when I'd gone to reach for the red wine vinegar, it was to find a sediment in it. So I substituted with raspberry wine vinegar. No sacrifice there, methinks. Indeed, the dressing proved zingy and fresh – a success, I thought.
Part two of this culinary epic was roast sirloin of beef. I'd started that off with a quartered onion under the meat (thank you, Nigella) and with plain flour patted into the fat on top (Delia again). A bit of a mare to carve, but lovely meat. It was served with a "confit" of whole shallots and garlic cloves, which had been simmered merrily for an hour in red wine and raspberry wine vinegar (again, the emergency substitution did no harm to the taste). That again was Delia – although research in my copy of Larousse this afternoon, while prepping today's sauce, showed me that it was not a confit: that is specifically a way of preserving meat (hence duck confit, which is stored and preserved in duck fat). But that's not to say that it wasn't gorgeous.
I'd done a few roast potatoes and a few sprouts – sautéed and steamed – and we opened a very decent bottle of red wine, having started with a glass of chilled white Banyuls, brought back from Collioure in September, as an apéritif. I'd managed a little gravy for the meat and, all in all, I was pretty satisfied.
And so to the sweet: the pear tarts baked in 17 minutes and were lovely – moist fruit and perfectly crisp pastry. The stem ginger ice cream – my first ever attempt at ice cream, and without an ice cream maker – was, though I say so myself, excellent (thanks again, Delia). The Other Half has already started hinting about making more ice cream – particularly vanilla, his favourite. Somewhere in the back of mind is an idea that more exotic possibilities exist.
We exchanged gifts. It's The Other Half's half century next month, and after seeing a TV documentary on the subject, I'd booked us a March trip on the Orient Express to Venice, where we'll spend five nights. So I'd piled in to Christmas by buying him books about Venice itself and a DVD about the train. There was a new lens for me, plus photography books.
And then it was the pleasure of flopping in front of the TV. Dr Who proved excellent entertainment (my mother never let us watch sci-fi, so this is a recently acquired taste, thanks initially to re-runs on cable) and then the newest Poirot on ITV, with the wonderful David Suchet as the eponymous Belgian detective, and a really rather chubby Tim Curry as an archeologist and peer of the realm. What happened to the Tim who flounced around in basque and stockings, pouting at the camera in The Rocky Horror Picture Show?
It was, as you might have gathered, a most pleasant day.
But yes – now the rather more serious relaxation can begin.
Friday, 25 December 2009
Thursday, 24 December 2009
On the 24th day of Advent ...
Burning sugar. Smells lovely, I must say, and takes me back to my half a decade at Fairfield High School for Girls, just outside Manchester, and within a stone's throw of the Robertson's jam factory. You could always tell when they burnt the jam, because you could smell it for miles. And a lovely smell it was.
Well, now I've burnt jam myself for the first time – and it's a godawful mess, but it smells just as glorious as that aroma from my past!
It's almost 5pm, Greenwich Mean Time, now – and I'm incredibly pleased with what I've achieved thus far today. In oh so many ways, I'd have loved to stay in bed this morning, with cups of Lady Grey, Ms Austen to read and the cats – the kittens having now discovered the bedroom and after they're let out of the living room at breakfast (that's their breakfast, at around 8am), the potential for on-bed cuddles with us.
I started the day by bombing up to Broadway Market to collect the Christmas meat from the farmer (who'd come down in his van from the blissfully named Tuddenham St Mary near Bury St Edmunds) and get a few indulgent bits from Stephane at the French deli (including non-French port, which I've never drunk before, but which I fully intent to experience with cheese tomorrow evening).
After that, I crozzled three crumpets, doused them in salty French butter and enjoyed – greatly! And while I was eating, I indulged in a bit of Nigella – damned if I''m not getting to enjoy her shows! Very soothing, if nothing else.
Then it was down to work – and in keeping with Nigella, I put Tony Bennett and Dean Martin on the CD player as I worked.
First up – the stem ginger ice cream. It's a Delia recipe, so easy to follow, although it took time. I'm still churning it by hand every two hours, since I don't have an ice cream maker. Although it's worth pointing out here that, the first time it needed churning, I had rushed to the local corner shop to pick up extra wine for cooking tomorrow, so The Other Half did it. Well done him.
Then I poached a couple of peeled pears in saffron and ginger, and let them cool.
And here's where it went a little bit Pete Tong, as we say in the UK.
I rolled out some puff pastry and used saucers to cut discs, before placing them on a floured baking tray. So far, so good. In fact, it got better, as I thinly sliced the pears and piled the slices onto each round of pasty, then covered then with cling film and popped them in the freezer.
Then it was a question of reducing the syrup. But it seemed determined not to reduce. So I turned the heat up. And then, when I left the kitchen for a mere few moments, it turned into this strange mass off blackened, foamy stuff – like nothing I've ever seen before. But the smell was something I've absolutely smelt before.
Other than that, it's been a brilliant day. I sat down earlier and made out my timetables for tomorrow – or at least a list of cooking timings. Saves me doing it then.
Now, I'm making dinner: duck confit with mashed, roasted garlicky new potatoes and a little broccoli and streaky bacon. Easy, but far from rubbish.
In retrospect, I don't think I've ever been this organised!
But now, it's gone so quiet. It might be a Friday – an ordinary working day – but most people have gone home. And here I am, with The Other Half and Boudi and Otto and Loki ... and it feels a little like a sort of paradise is descending,
A happy – and peaceful – Christmas to you all.
Well, now I've burnt jam myself for the first time – and it's a godawful mess, but it smells just as glorious as that aroma from my past!
It's almost 5pm, Greenwich Mean Time, now – and I'm incredibly pleased with what I've achieved thus far today. In oh so many ways, I'd have loved to stay in bed this morning, with cups of Lady Grey, Ms Austen to read and the cats – the kittens having now discovered the bedroom and after they're let out of the living room at breakfast (that's their breakfast, at around 8am), the potential for on-bed cuddles with us.
I started the day by bombing up to Broadway Market to collect the Christmas meat from the farmer (who'd come down in his van from the blissfully named Tuddenham St Mary near Bury St Edmunds) and get a few indulgent bits from Stephane at the French deli (including non-French port, which I've never drunk before, but which I fully intent to experience with cheese tomorrow evening).
After that, I crozzled three crumpets, doused them in salty French butter and enjoyed – greatly! And while I was eating, I indulged in a bit of Nigella – damned if I''m not getting to enjoy her shows! Very soothing, if nothing else.
Then it was down to work – and in keeping with Nigella, I put Tony Bennett and Dean Martin on the CD player as I worked.
First up – the stem ginger ice cream. It's a Delia recipe, so easy to follow, although it took time. I'm still churning it by hand every two hours, since I don't have an ice cream maker. Although it's worth pointing out here that, the first time it needed churning, I had rushed to the local corner shop to pick up extra wine for cooking tomorrow, so The Other Half did it. Well done him.
Then I poached a couple of peeled pears in saffron and ginger, and let them cool.
And here's where it went a little bit Pete Tong, as we say in the UK.
I rolled out some puff pastry and used saucers to cut discs, before placing them on a floured baking tray. So far, so good. In fact, it got better, as I thinly sliced the pears and piled the slices onto each round of pasty, then covered then with cling film and popped them in the freezer.
Then it was a question of reducing the syrup. But it seemed determined not to reduce. So I turned the heat up. And then, when I left the kitchen for a mere few moments, it turned into this strange mass off blackened, foamy stuff – like nothing I've ever seen before. But the smell was something I've absolutely smelt before.
Other than that, it's been a brilliant day. I sat down earlier and made out my timetables for tomorrow – or at least a list of cooking timings. Saves me doing it then.
Now, I'm making dinner: duck confit with mashed, roasted garlicky new potatoes and a little broccoli and streaky bacon. Easy, but far from rubbish.
In retrospect, I don't think I've ever been this organised!
But now, it's gone so quiet. It might be a Friday – an ordinary working day – but most people have gone home. And here I am, with The Other Half and Boudi and Otto and Loki ... and it feels a little like a sort of paradise is descending,
A happy – and peaceful – Christmas to you all.
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