After two separate attempts to start posting regularly to this blog, I am going to attempt it yet again. I realise that posting only once a year is a bit pathetic; but yet again I'm going to use the excuse that life has become so much busier. Besides, for the past year I've been working on a major writing project as well as keeping up my coffee and beer columns, so I really haven't had much available time. I know that sounds like an excuse.
So here I am again, beaming brightly with the same optimism that this is a fresh start and I will again be posting regularly about all sorts of things. Hmmm, says my realistic alter-ego. Watch this space...
To be perfectly honest, considering the cataclysmic events of 2016 and all the time I've spent posting on Facebook about Brexit and Trump, I was afraid of peppering what I had originally intended as a simple exploration of expat life and sandwiches with a barrage of political posts. I will admit that both events mentioned have negatively affected my experience as an American citizen living as a permanent resident in Britain. But I'm not going to dwell on that here.
What I am going to say is that I've just published another ebook. The Hat Club is my second novel, and it deals with 3D printing and cloud technology gone a little, well, berserk. It's another satire, naturally, because that's what I will continue to do, even though some have claimed that satire is now dead. As my book is a technological adventure I'm rather happy to admit it was written completely on my iPhone via the Google Cloud. And it's got some great art by my friend Kimmer.
So check it out here at Smashwords.Com. At least download a free sample to read. And if you end up purchasing and reading the entire novel, please post a short review at the bottom of the Smashwords page.
And now it's onward and upward to hopefully more posting and new sandwich experiences. Meanwhile I'm going to eat this Stilton and rocket sandwich with hot mango chutney...
Wednesday, 8 March 2017
Saturday, 9 April 2016
Rise of the Grumpy Phoenix
The last time I posted this blog I was starting to feel the effects of Too Much Negative Stress. As a result I sensed that, rather than describing interesting and thought-provoking ideas and outlining entertaining experiences, I was simply complaining about things. As there is a lot in this world to complain about, I felt that I really had nothing positive to contribute to an expat blog about sandwiches. So I just sort of went into a long blog cold-storage.
But lately I’ve been reconsidering my previous decision, and I’ve decided I still have a lot to offer to the world of blogging. After all, in this current society of rampant terrorist acts, bank disasters, growing poverty, offshore tax fraud, the Internet and the Cloud controlling our finances and lives, and of course Donald Trump, a vast majority of people are pissed off about something. So why not celebrate grumpiness? While talking about lunch, of course…
Let me start with something that drives me insane on most days. I remember, way back in the days before mobile phones, the only phone calls made in public were done in phone boxes, which had the advantage of having doors which would shield the caller’s conversation from the general public. At the time phone boxes were invented, this shielding was probably intended to help the person calling hear the person called more easily. It was probably years later that another advantage of this system became obvious: the protection of the general public from having to listen to the one-sided phone conversation of a total stranger.
Mobile phones are a great invention and an absolute necessity these days. One can make phone calls, send texts, and check the Internet while away from home and the office, which usually involves being out in public. The fact that a person can sit on a bus or on a bench in a public area and communicate with an absent person by sending and receiving texts is brilliant. And the fact that a person, if they need to speak to an absent person, can find a quiet private place and phone that person is great and a real lifesaver at times. But there is absolutely no reason in the world that a person riding home from work on the bus or spending their lunch break sitting on a bench in a public garden would desire listening to the one-sided phone conversation of a total stranger.
How many times do I sit down on a public bench, unpack my lunch to eat, pull out a good book I’m reading, and settle in for a quiet lunch only to have a total stranger seat themselves next to me, pull out their phone, call somebody, and proceed to chat loudly about something completely inane and globally unimportant? Do these people think that people open their books to read in pleasantly peaceful public places because they’d really rather be listening closely to the completely irrelevant ramblings of a young woman organising a hen party or a young man relating the tedious details of his previous weekend’s entertainment or an old person shouting about where they’re going to meet their other half, over and over and over again? What about the woman who spent the entire bus trip shouting on the phone to some male relative about what he should be giving her child to eat?
I don’t hesitate, when this sort of thing happens, to immediately pack up my lunch, grab my stuff, and move, or else simply move to another part of the bus, sometimes even downstairs if I’m sitting upstairs. But I shouldn’t have to do this. Why can’t these egocentric rude people go find a private spot to have their conversations, or at least keep their public conversations short? Is it because they’re so egotistical that they think everybody in the city will be dying to hear about their experience trying to return a pair of shoes to a shop? Or what about the intricate details of their recent meal down to every ingredient that was used, or the details, including account numbers, balances, and passwords of their bank accounts? Yes, I’ve even heard that, from only a couple of feet away.
Maybe I’ll start taking taxis and eating my lunch in a cave.
Speaking of lunch, I am at home on the weekend. And my lunch is some homemade tapenade (I call it Drunken Tapenade, because it has a good hit of brandy) with brie in a warmed-up wrap with a few pumpkin seeds sprinkled in. It’s quite nice and just enough to propel me out into the world to spend the rest of my day off performing even more mundane tasks than I’ve already performed today. I always save the best till last…
But lately I’ve been reconsidering my previous decision, and I’ve decided I still have a lot to offer to the world of blogging. After all, in this current society of rampant terrorist acts, bank disasters, growing poverty, offshore tax fraud, the Internet and the Cloud controlling our finances and lives, and of course Donald Trump, a vast majority of people are pissed off about something. So why not celebrate grumpiness? While talking about lunch, of course…
Let me start with something that drives me insane on most days. I remember, way back in the days before mobile phones, the only phone calls made in public were done in phone boxes, which had the advantage of having doors which would shield the caller’s conversation from the general public. At the time phone boxes were invented, this shielding was probably intended to help the person calling hear the person called more easily. It was probably years later that another advantage of this system became obvious: the protection of the general public from having to listen to the one-sided phone conversation of a total stranger.
Mobile phones are a great invention and an absolute necessity these days. One can make phone calls, send texts, and check the Internet while away from home and the office, which usually involves being out in public. The fact that a person can sit on a bus or on a bench in a public area and communicate with an absent person by sending and receiving texts is brilliant. And the fact that a person, if they need to speak to an absent person, can find a quiet private place and phone that person is great and a real lifesaver at times. But there is absolutely no reason in the world that a person riding home from work on the bus or spending their lunch break sitting on a bench in a public garden would desire listening to the one-sided phone conversation of a total stranger.
How many times do I sit down on a public bench, unpack my lunch to eat, pull out a good book I’m reading, and settle in for a quiet lunch only to have a total stranger seat themselves next to me, pull out their phone, call somebody, and proceed to chat loudly about something completely inane and globally unimportant? Do these people think that people open their books to read in pleasantly peaceful public places because they’d really rather be listening closely to the completely irrelevant ramblings of a young woman organising a hen party or a young man relating the tedious details of his previous weekend’s entertainment or an old person shouting about where they’re going to meet their other half, over and over and over again? What about the woman who spent the entire bus trip shouting on the phone to some male relative about what he should be giving her child to eat?
I don’t hesitate, when this sort of thing happens, to immediately pack up my lunch, grab my stuff, and move, or else simply move to another part of the bus, sometimes even downstairs if I’m sitting upstairs. But I shouldn’t have to do this. Why can’t these egocentric rude people go find a private spot to have their conversations, or at least keep their public conversations short? Is it because they’re so egotistical that they think everybody in the city will be dying to hear about their experience trying to return a pair of shoes to a shop? Or what about the intricate details of their recent meal down to every ingredient that was used, or the details, including account numbers, balances, and passwords of their bank accounts? Yes, I’ve even heard that, from only a couple of feet away.
Maybe I’ll start taking taxis and eating my lunch in a cave.
Speaking of lunch, I am at home on the weekend. And my lunch is some homemade tapenade (I call it Drunken Tapenade, because it has a good hit of brandy) with brie in a warmed-up wrap with a few pumpkin seeds sprinkled in. It’s quite nice and just enough to propel me out into the world to spend the rest of my day off performing even more mundane tasks than I’ve already performed today. I always save the best till last…
Tuesday, 7 April 2015
Advertising myself
I realise it's been a year since I posted. This is partly because these days I tend to spend my lunches reading books, and also because I've been madly working on other writing projects. So I may as well advertise my ebooks.
Early this year I published my second ebook, It's Your Round: A Survival Guide for the American Anglophile. This is basically a lighthearted but informative guide for Americans visiting or living in Britain, with plenty of information on British v. American English and the differences in social customs. And very recently I published a rewritten and updated novel I originally wrote in the 1990s. It's a satirical adventure based on various aspects of chaos theory called A Little Chaos Between Friends.
Then, of course, there is my first ebook which was inspired completely by this blog: Adventures in Sandwichland. It's a recipe book featuring many of the sandwiches I've described in this blog and more, along with the history of sandwiches and the philosophy of making sandwiches.
All of these books can be sampled and purchased very cheaply at Smashwords.Com, so be sure and check them out.
Meanwhile I'll try to post regular blogs again. I've got plenty to complain about -- female students who growl instead of speak, idiots who talk loudly on their handsfree phones on crowded buses, etc., as well as lots of new sandwiches to describe. So stay tuned...
Early this year I published my second ebook, It's Your Round: A Survival Guide for the American Anglophile. This is basically a lighthearted but informative guide for Americans visiting or living in Britain, with plenty of information on British v. American English and the differences in social customs. And very recently I published a rewritten and updated novel I originally wrote in the 1990s. It's a satirical adventure based on various aspects of chaos theory called A Little Chaos Between Friends.
Then, of course, there is my first ebook which was inspired completely by this blog: Adventures in Sandwichland. It's a recipe book featuring many of the sandwiches I've described in this blog and more, along with the history of sandwiches and the philosophy of making sandwiches.
All of these books can be sampled and purchased very cheaply at Smashwords.Com, so be sure and check them out.
Meanwhile I'll try to post regular blogs again. I've got plenty to complain about -- female students who growl instead of speak, idiots who talk loudly on their handsfree phones on crowded buses, etc., as well as lots of new sandwiches to describe. So stay tuned...
Friday, 18 April 2014
On Being Bilingual, Literally
It's a long time since I posted anything. I apologise, but it's because life has been extremely busy and I'm getting ready for another trip to America. I'm sitting in the spring-break-dead University library cafe eating my lunch, a sandwich with leerdammer, Dijon mustard, sundried tomatoes, and red pepper, and a mixture of clementine slices, grapes, and the first of this season's strawberries.
I'm curious to find out a few things about American culture when I visit. For instance, I want to find out if the word "literally" is being abused as much as it is in the UK. And I want to challenge myself to speak American English without dropping in any British terms. I will pronounce garage "ger-RAJ", I will walk down the sidewalk, and I will text on my cell phone. Because I've lived away from America for 15 years this is more difficult than it sounds.
At least nobody tells me I have an English accent (except for Ruth). Seeing as how I lived in America for the first 80 percent of my life it would seem a bit absurd if I talked with anything other than an American accent. I can speak British English fluently, and I can speak and understand Yorkshire English which is even more of a challenge. But this is because I'm bilingual and bicultural, not British. I'll always be American. That's just the fact of my birth and my upbringing.
The thing I'll have the most difficulty with is remembering not to bag my own items at the supermarket, and to pay for petrol -- sorry, gas -- before I pump it rather than after. And, most importantly, to look to the left before crossing the street. I've already been run over by an English bus, so I don't intend to get run over by an American one.
Wish me luck!
I'm curious to find out a few things about American culture when I visit. For instance, I want to find out if the word "literally" is being abused as much as it is in the UK. And I want to challenge myself to speak American English without dropping in any British terms. I will pronounce garage "ger-RAJ", I will walk down the sidewalk, and I will text on my cell phone. Because I've lived away from America for 15 years this is more difficult than it sounds.
At least nobody tells me I have an English accent (except for Ruth). Seeing as how I lived in America for the first 80 percent of my life it would seem a bit absurd if I talked with anything other than an American accent. I can speak British English fluently, and I can speak and understand Yorkshire English which is even more of a challenge. But this is because I'm bilingual and bicultural, not British. I'll always be American. That's just the fact of my birth and my upbringing.
The thing I'll have the most difficulty with is remembering not to bag my own items at the supermarket, and to pay for petrol -- sorry, gas -- before I pump it rather than after. And, most importantly, to look to the left before crossing the street. I've already been run over by an English bus, so I don't intend to get run over by an American one.
Wish me luck!
Thursday, 26 December 2013
Best Wishes for a Self-Referential Redundant New Year
Lunch today is a cheese quesadilla with hot sauce, simply because it's a holiday week and I'm not at work. So for the sake of keeping the sandwich ideas coming I'll start with a description of a lunch I had last week. I've always said I don't like rocket (arugula for American readers) because I can't stand it in salads. But in the past few years I've discovered that rocket actually works in some sandwiches. Since I get these pre-made salad mixtures that always seem to be crowded with rocket (which I've usually just thrown out), I made a sandwich with Wensleydale with a bit of hot mango chutney and then stuffed it with fresh rocket. And you know what? It was delicious! I'll definitely do this again. I know it's good with Stilton, and I'm sure it would be good with Lancashire, Cheshire, Caerphily, and the like.
As today is Boxing Day and I'm being leisurely and reflective (two things I never seem to have the luxury of indulging in these days), I'll start with a realisation I had recently: in the future life will become self-referential. For years we have been reading reviews of what literary critics have read; today we spend leisure time reading and watching what friends are spending their leisure time reading and watching (via Facebook), and we watch TV programs about people watching TV programs (re Charlie Brooker and The Royle Family). It's only a matter of time before we will be watching TV programs about people watching TV programs about people watching TV programs about people watching TV programs ad infinitum. We will play games where we make our own screen avatars play games where they make their own screen avatars play games where etc. And I can see myself falling asleep and dreaming about myself falling asleep and dreaming about myself falling asleep and dreaming about myself falling asleep. I've already come quite close.
As life is becoming more virtual and less literal, why do so many young people -- students especially -- insist on being redundant about the literal world? "I was literally so hungry" means nothing, you idiot -- you were hungry! "I literally couldn't find my keys" means you couldn't find them, period! Nobody expects you to figuratively not find something unless, perhaps, you're writing out an algebraic equation on a chalkboard that symbolise the search for your keys.
I see a day where our completely virtual, figurative, self-referential lives will be explained in doubly redundant literal terms, and all sense of logic will be dumped into an infinite loop. The world as we know it (or watch it or explain it) will explode or implode, or possibly both. I hope I have fresh batteries in my camera when this happens.
As today is Boxing Day and I'm being leisurely and reflective (two things I never seem to have the luxury of indulging in these days), I'll start with a realisation I had recently: in the future life will become self-referential. For years we have been reading reviews of what literary critics have read; today we spend leisure time reading and watching what friends are spending their leisure time reading and watching (via Facebook), and we watch TV programs about people watching TV programs (re Charlie Brooker and The Royle Family). It's only a matter of time before we will be watching TV programs about people watching TV programs about people watching TV programs about people watching TV programs ad infinitum. We will play games where we make our own screen avatars play games where they make their own screen avatars play games where etc. And I can see myself falling asleep and dreaming about myself falling asleep and dreaming about myself falling asleep and dreaming about myself falling asleep. I've already come quite close.
As life is becoming more virtual and less literal, why do so many young people -- students especially -- insist on being redundant about the literal world? "I was literally so hungry" means nothing, you idiot -- you were hungry! "I literally couldn't find my keys" means you couldn't find them, period! Nobody expects you to figuratively not find something unless, perhaps, you're writing out an algebraic equation on a chalkboard that symbolise the search for your keys.
I see a day where our completely virtual, figurative, self-referential lives will be explained in doubly redundant literal terms, and all sense of logic will be dumped into an infinite loop. The world as we know it (or watch it or explain it) will explode or implode, or possibly both. I hope I have fresh batteries in my camera when this happens.
Friday, 4 October 2013
Humbled by Stair Diving
Lunch today is a mixture of leftover nubs: a sandwich with slices of Wensleydale, Port Salud, and Davidstowe Cheddar with the last bit of fresh tarragon and the last bit of chopped Romano pepper. Not a bad creation considering my haphazard and sometimes mindless attempts to be conscientious about not wasting food.
I'm returning to work after being off for 2 days after having done an impressive dive down a flight of stairs at a party on Saturday night. This isn't my first dive, mind you, and fortunately it wasn't the most damaging. I think my worst-injury dive was my first one many years ago, when I woke up in a London hospital with my forehead and chin stitched up, and the second-worst was 3 years ago when I knocked myself out, managed a permanent rug burn on my right cheek, and was unable to finish a sentence for 2 weeks. Four of my falls occurred on those short little stairs featured in typical Northern England terrace houses, most of them built in the late 19th century when people were very tiny. Even though my feet are small I have to step sideways down the steps. Therefore it is fairly easy to accidentally slip, especially if one is a clutz like myself, and if there is no handrail with which to steady oneself.
On this most recent stair dive I didn't injure anything in particular, except for the sensibilities of my traumatised friends; but my body is extremely stiff and sore and doesn't appreciate me moving in certain directions, particularly -- and perhaps ironically -- toward the floor. The doctor told me movement is good but not to do anything that hurts. And one of the things that hurts is to take long strides.
This is where the humility comes in. I am a speedfreak when it comes to walking. I love to walk and I love to walk as fast as is possible with my long legs and my super-quick strides. I love to feel the wind blow through my hair as I sail through the air like a schooner, leaving every pedestrian I pass in my wake. I love to push myself to walk even faster than is humanly possible, with my mind leading the way for my rocketing body. My friends comment that when they see me walking by I'm just a blurred streak. This is part of my persona.
But at the moment I have to walk very very slowly, with short strides. I feel like I'm stuck in slow motion, walking at the same rate as the elderly men and the obese ladies and the students on crutches and the idly meandering families with nothing better to do than meander. This morning I walked from the gallery to the little Sainsbury's to pick up a couple of items before work. Normally I do this walk in no time flat, jetting along the pavement like a missile. But today it took me so long, so unbearably long, that I found myself bored shitless by the time I was only a third of the way there. I never realised how boring walking at a slow rate can be. I want to keep up with the greyhounds and the cheetahs. I want to feel the G forces fold back my face. I want to get there faster than anybody else!
But for now it's baby-step, baby-step, baby-step, baby-step, baby-step….(yawn)…
I'm returning to work after being off for 2 days after having done an impressive dive down a flight of stairs at a party on Saturday night. This isn't my first dive, mind you, and fortunately it wasn't the most damaging. I think my worst-injury dive was my first one many years ago, when I woke up in a London hospital with my forehead and chin stitched up, and the second-worst was 3 years ago when I knocked myself out, managed a permanent rug burn on my right cheek, and was unable to finish a sentence for 2 weeks. Four of my falls occurred on those short little stairs featured in typical Northern England terrace houses, most of them built in the late 19th century when people were very tiny. Even though my feet are small I have to step sideways down the steps. Therefore it is fairly easy to accidentally slip, especially if one is a clutz like myself, and if there is no handrail with which to steady oneself.
On this most recent stair dive I didn't injure anything in particular, except for the sensibilities of my traumatised friends; but my body is extremely stiff and sore and doesn't appreciate me moving in certain directions, particularly -- and perhaps ironically -- toward the floor. The doctor told me movement is good but not to do anything that hurts. And one of the things that hurts is to take long strides.
This is where the humility comes in. I am a speedfreak when it comes to walking. I love to walk and I love to walk as fast as is possible with my long legs and my super-quick strides. I love to feel the wind blow through my hair as I sail through the air like a schooner, leaving every pedestrian I pass in my wake. I love to push myself to walk even faster than is humanly possible, with my mind leading the way for my rocketing body. My friends comment that when they see me walking by I'm just a blurred streak. This is part of my persona.
But at the moment I have to walk very very slowly, with short strides. I feel like I'm stuck in slow motion, walking at the same rate as the elderly men and the obese ladies and the students on crutches and the idly meandering families with nothing better to do than meander. This morning I walked from the gallery to the little Sainsbury's to pick up a couple of items before work. Normally I do this walk in no time flat, jetting along the pavement like a missile. But today it took me so long, so unbearably long, that I found myself bored shitless by the time I was only a third of the way there. I never realised how boring walking at a slow rate can be. I want to keep up with the greyhounds and the cheetahs. I want to feel the G forces fold back my face. I want to get there faster than anybody else!
But for now it's baby-step, baby-step, baby-step, baby-step, baby-step….(yawn)…
Monday, 12 August 2013
The Joy of Men in Skirts
I hate to say TGIF, because I believe one should live each day and not count their life in weekends. But it's been a 3-day work week which for some reason seems to plod on longer than a 5-day week. I'm sitting in the Winter Garden apologising to the pigeons for not having any more of my Edam, red pepper, and spinach sandwich left. I'm also being appalled by the number of parents who beam proudly and laugh when their hyperactive sprigs stomp and screech in order to scare the pigeons. How would they feel if some large creature were to stomp around and scare their children during their dinnertime?
My week was short because we went away for a long weekend to a wedding. I've been to a few Catholic weddings and plenty of Jewish weddings, and I've been to two religious English weddings. But this was my first humanist Scottish wedding, on the bonnie bonnie banks of Loch Lomond.
One of the most exciting aspects of the wedding -- besides the lone bagpiper whose tunes ushered in the bride and her entourage -- was the large number of men in kilts, including the English participants. If one were to wear a kilt in Sheffield, one would probably attract a few titters. In America a kilt could either elicit outright derision or impress the observer with how eccentric the kilt wearer is. But in Scotland I saw these Englishmen, nervous as they were being fitted with their kilts, finally relax into a manly kilted mode, most comfortable with their wrap-around layers, intricately laced shoes, daggers, and sporrans (especially handy for carrying cigarettes and mobile phones). And I don't think I was the only non-kilted female who felt quite happy to be surrounded by men in skirts.
(To be fair, the bagpiper pointed out to me that kilts are not skirts because they wrap around in the opposite direction from a skirt. But as none of my skirts actually wrap around in any direction, I'm assuming this is original distinction, back when skirts did wrap around the body. So I'm still going to think of kilts as skirts.)
I've always liked men in skirts, especially if they have good legs. In America as well as in England I've had to content myself with the occasional fashionable man (think David Beckham) sporting a long skirt, or with fancy dress parties with men dressed as women. But in Scotland it's a much less random occurrence. Just mention a wedding, a funeral, a family gathering, or a formal ceremony, and the kilts come out. I think men should be allowed to wear kilts at their whim just like women can wear skirts: to work, to a party, for a night out on the town, on a leisurely day just because they're comfortable. Man bags are finally becoming popular, which I think is a good thing.
So bring on the skirts!
My week was short because we went away for a long weekend to a wedding. I've been to a few Catholic weddings and plenty of Jewish weddings, and I've been to two religious English weddings. But this was my first humanist Scottish wedding, on the bonnie bonnie banks of Loch Lomond.
One of the most exciting aspects of the wedding -- besides the lone bagpiper whose tunes ushered in the bride and her entourage -- was the large number of men in kilts, including the English participants. If one were to wear a kilt in Sheffield, one would probably attract a few titters. In America a kilt could either elicit outright derision or impress the observer with how eccentric the kilt wearer is. But in Scotland I saw these Englishmen, nervous as they were being fitted with their kilts, finally relax into a manly kilted mode, most comfortable with their wrap-around layers, intricately laced shoes, daggers, and sporrans (especially handy for carrying cigarettes and mobile phones). And I don't think I was the only non-kilted female who felt quite happy to be surrounded by men in skirts.
(To be fair, the bagpiper pointed out to me that kilts are not skirts because they wrap around in the opposite direction from a skirt. But as none of my skirts actually wrap around in any direction, I'm assuming this is original distinction, back when skirts did wrap around the body. So I'm still going to think of kilts as skirts.)
I've always liked men in skirts, especially if they have good legs. In America as well as in England I've had to content myself with the occasional fashionable man (think David Beckham) sporting a long skirt, or with fancy dress parties with men dressed as women. But in Scotland it's a much less random occurrence. Just mention a wedding, a funeral, a family gathering, or a formal ceremony, and the kilts come out. I think men should be allowed to wear kilts at their whim just like women can wear skirts: to work, to a party, for a night out on the town, on a leisurely day just because they're comfortable. Man bags are finally becoming popular, which I think is a good thing.
So bring on the skirts!
Wednesday, 26 June 2013
That Yoyo Called "Weather"
I’m sitting in the Winter Garden with my favourite comfort-food sandwich: Wensleydale with dried dill. I’ve also got a few leaves of curly green and red lettuce fresh from a friend’s allotment – and a summer assortment of nectarine, apricot, and mango slices.
I went to California for a short visit last month. While I was there the weather was pleasantly springlike – in a Southern Californian way, that is. My mom only had to turn on the air conditioning three times, and the majority of days were suitable for sandals. Up in Northern California a summer jacket was sufficient for evenings.
I came home to find Sheffield in total meteorological chaos. For the last few days it’s been cool, with hot sunbreaks along with gusty icy winds occurring within the same minute, with the element of surprise being a sudden but momentary downpour. Sitting outside I get a real upper-body workout simply donning and doffing my jacket over and over again, dozens of times.
I can’t help but be amused by the confusion I see on the city streets. Two young women passed by, one wearing a jacket, scarf, and boots, and the other in a vest, short trousers, and sandals. Probably 85 percent of the populace are wearing jackets in varying degrees of heaviness, and the other 15 percent are strolling about in their shirt sleeves, a few displaying impressive goosepimple patterns on their arms. The other day a young boy I know was contentedly wearing a padded jacket and a trapper’s hat with earflaps. And this was inside, not outside. When the sun smiles pleasantly, coaxing people out into beer gardens and onto decks, the sudden exodus into shelter can be striking when a surprise hurricane does its magic trick by suddenly announcing “WHOOSH!” It’s 3:13pm: do you know where your patio umbrella is?
They say this “uncertain” weather is going to last for the next 10 years. Meanwhile I’m considering buying a bigger backpack so that I can leave the house every morning prepared for what might happen. If this summer I wear a t-shirt, light jacket, jeans, shoes, and sunglasses, then my “uncertain” weather back-up gear should include the following: sandals, shorts, sun hat, vest, sunscreen, umbrella, Pac-Mac, scarf, gloves, jumper, winter boots, winter coat, winter hat, ice grips, and a couple of heavy boulders to hold down lightweight items in a gale.
I’ll have to shop for a very big backpack…
I went to California for a short visit last month. While I was there the weather was pleasantly springlike – in a Southern Californian way, that is. My mom only had to turn on the air conditioning three times, and the majority of days were suitable for sandals. Up in Northern California a summer jacket was sufficient for evenings.
I came home to find Sheffield in total meteorological chaos. For the last few days it’s been cool, with hot sunbreaks along with gusty icy winds occurring within the same minute, with the element of surprise being a sudden but momentary downpour. Sitting outside I get a real upper-body workout simply donning and doffing my jacket over and over again, dozens of times.
I can’t help but be amused by the confusion I see on the city streets. Two young women passed by, one wearing a jacket, scarf, and boots, and the other in a vest, short trousers, and sandals. Probably 85 percent of the populace are wearing jackets in varying degrees of heaviness, and the other 15 percent are strolling about in their shirt sleeves, a few displaying impressive goosepimple patterns on their arms. The other day a young boy I know was contentedly wearing a padded jacket and a trapper’s hat with earflaps. And this was inside, not outside. When the sun smiles pleasantly, coaxing people out into beer gardens and onto decks, the sudden exodus into shelter can be striking when a surprise hurricane does its magic trick by suddenly announcing “WHOOSH!” It’s 3:13pm: do you know where your patio umbrella is?
They say this “uncertain” weather is going to last for the next 10 years. Meanwhile I’m considering buying a bigger backpack so that I can leave the house every morning prepared for what might happen. If this summer I wear a t-shirt, light jacket, jeans, shoes, and sunglasses, then my “uncertain” weather back-up gear should include the following: sandals, shorts, sun hat, vest, sunscreen, umbrella, Pac-Mac, scarf, gloves, jumper, winter boots, winter coat, winter hat, ice grips, and a couple of heavy boulders to hold down lightweight items in a gale.
I’ll have to shop for a very big backpack…
Sunday, 24 March 2013
A Snowy Plug for my Ecookbook
Today I’m not eating lunch in the Winter Garden because it’s a Sunday as opposed to a work day. I’m at home, the ground is covered with a foot of snow outside (obviously snow is the new “spring” this year), and I’ll probably have a quesadilla for my lunch, made on a wholegrain flour tortilla with extra mature cheddar and some Mexican hot sauce from a bottle. My weekend lunches aren’t created as lovingly as my weekday packed sandwiches simply because I usually wait until I’m absolutely starving before rushing into the kitchen to create something fast.
So why am I talking about this in my lunch blog? Because I need to post a personal advertisement today. Yesterday I finally published my first e-book, Adventures in Sandwichland: How to Look Forward to Your Lunch While Saving Money. It’s a cookbook with dozens of recipes for the very sandwiches I create, describe, and consume in the course of this blog. Because I’m a pescatarian most of the sandwiches are vegetarian with some fish and seafood options, but a very close carnivorous companion with excellent taste and a finesse for culinary creativity has contributed some meat recipes.
The ebook is only US$4.99 (which, as of today, is only £3.28), so grab yourself a copy. You can read a sample for free first.
So check it out here!
Meanwhile I suppose I should describe the snow outside. It’s tall and it’s piled up in drifts and the neighbourhood is very quiet except for the scraping of plastic sledges being dragged down the street by excited families. The wind chill factor is predicted as being between -6 and -8 Centigrade, and there is no relief in sight.
I’m dreaming of a white Easter…*
(*Thanks to Steve Jones for that one)
So why am I talking about this in my lunch blog? Because I need to post a personal advertisement today. Yesterday I finally published my first e-book, Adventures in Sandwichland: How to Look Forward to Your Lunch While Saving Money. It’s a cookbook with dozens of recipes for the very sandwiches I create, describe, and consume in the course of this blog. Because I’m a pescatarian most of the sandwiches are vegetarian with some fish and seafood options, but a very close carnivorous companion with excellent taste and a finesse for culinary creativity has contributed some meat recipes.
The ebook is only US$4.99 (which, as of today, is only £3.28), so grab yourself a copy. You can read a sample for free first.
So check it out here!
Meanwhile I suppose I should describe the snow outside. It’s tall and it’s piled up in drifts and the neighbourhood is very quiet except for the scraping of plastic sledges being dragged down the street by excited families. The wind chill factor is predicted as being between -6 and -8 Centigrade, and there is no relief in sight.
I’m dreaming of a white Easter…*
(*Thanks to Steve Jones for that one)
Sunday, 23 December 2012
More Mobile Bus Rage, The Risk of Eventual Death, and Extinct Chocolate Chips
TUESDAY: Lunch is a cheese sandwich made with now-ancient French cheese which tastes as if it was made at a Neolithic settlement in what is now France. The cheese is so aged it’s evolved into a complicated cheeselike form that smells so strongly I’m afraid of getting kicked out of the Millennium Galleries atrium as a potential terrorist using stinking cheese as a WMD.
This time of year brings more irritations to the usual daily bundle of nerve shatterers. With Christmas songs blasting from every corner and the rustle of crunchy plastic shopping bags full of useless gifts jammed between overclothed bodies on steamingly overheated buses, along with deadlines of all sorts, global banking problems, and various Internet-related rages, I really didn’t need the distraction of the young lady who sat across from me on the bus this morning. She was gabbing away loudly on her hands-free mobile as if the bus were her own private universe. What made me burst out laughing was when I noticed she was taking advantage of having her hands free by gesturing, as if the person on the other end of the line could see her. The other party obviously couldn’t, judging by the woman’s blank, self-absorbed stare directed at the back of the seat in front of her.
Why do I become so enraged when I see someone talking into the air – always at high volume – with their hands by their side or on their lap and their attention miles away from the reality of where they physically are and whose sense of concentration and/or serenity they are disturbing? If they were crazy loonies talking to themselves I would wholeheartedly forgive them; but in a court of law these hands-free lovers would insist on being declared as sane as you and me – the you and me who have just had our concentration on our intense book rattled by these inane and irrelevant one-way conversations.
(My god, this cheese is a bit scary…)
As long as I’m venting rage I may as well mention an absurd statistic I read in a recent Guardian article:
“Women who take hormone replacement therapy for 10 years after the menopause have far less chance of suffering heart failure or a heart attack or death, research shows.”
If you break this statement down, you get 3 facts:
- Women who take HRT for 10 years after the menopause have far less chance of suffering heart failure than those who don’t.
- Women who take HRT for 10 years after the menopause have far less chance of suffering a heart attack than those who don’t.
- Women who take HRT for 10 years after the menopause have far less chance of dying than those who don't.
I’ve always considered dying a natural progression of life: something that happens at the end of one’s life, basically, no matter how long one lives. And now I learn than women on hormone replacement therapy are actually less likely to die than other people. My god, if this is true, everybody -- young and old, female and male – should take hormone replacement therapy. If all of us were less likely to die, that means the majority of us would live forever. Naturally this would put a strain on the NHS and pension schemes, but it would certainly reduce all those funeral costs.
And just think how old cheese could become in this new immortal world. No, perhaps I don’t want to think of that right now.
WEDNESDAY: Lunch is a relief: a Moroccan houmus and Philadelphia cream cheese sandwich with sun-dried tomatoes. It’s a bit sweet, as with most prepared British foods it’s got sweetener added (in this case honey); but I’ve tried to temper the treacly taste with some chopped olives.
It’s the week before Christmas and, in a fit of nostalgia for my range of winter solstice cookies I was famous for baking in the States, I decided I’d bake some of my unique chocolate chip cookies tomorrow morning so I could take a few for my workmates before the holidays. I have baked chocolate chip cookies before in this country, and I’ve eaten other home-baked chocolate chip cookies. So why is it so difficult to find chocolate chips? I went to 5 shops this morning before lunch. The closest I could find were milk chocolate chips at a pseudo-posh “neighbourhood market”. At the big Co-Op in the city centre I found chocolate chip cookie mix, ready to roll out and slice and bake, along with cake icing ready to unroll and spread on your cake. Does nobody bake from scratch anymore?
I can tell you that mixing up my chocolate chip cookies takes probably 15 minutes longer than opening a wad of preformed (and pre-sweetened and pre-salted and pre-flavoured) chocolate chip cookie mix. But it’s a fun, sensual, loving 15 minutes that even ever-stressed I can afford to spend for the quality that results.
All I need are the damn chocolate chips…
Friday, 7 December 2012
Synthesized news reports and a whole lotta sandwiches
MONDAY: I’ve been so busy carrying on with life, working on jewellery and writing projects while working extra hours at my job and keeping up with a hectic social life, that I’ve been spending my lunches reading rather than writing. But I must mention today’s surprisingly delicious sandwich made of things that needed using. My sandwich, on a surprisingly nice Asda sunflower roll, consists of houmus and cream cheese with chopped red pepper and spring onion, but also with a little nudgeon of leftover Stilton, too small to use in its own sandwich and at the extremely ripe stage. I diced it into small bits and sprinkled it on the houmus along with several torn basil leaves and a spicing of fresh ground and Cayenne peppers. And it works! Hallelujah!
TUESDAY: I have another new sandwich today: Polish cheese with Polish mustard on a lovely light and fresh granary breadcake. I suppose the cheese isn’t actually Polish, as it seems more Swiss or Emmental in character because it’s full of holes. But I bought it in my local Polish grocery, where all the cheeses are sliced off the wheel and the Polish clerk told me only that this was his most popular. I still don’t know its name. But I already feel intimate with it. It’s a nice cheese.
WEDNESDAY: I believe I’ve hit upon the best houmus sandwich yet. On a wonderfully light granary breadcake bought at a source I’ve just discovered, I’ve put a little Philadelphia cream cheese, regular houmus, chopped pointy peppers and spring onion, two sliced cocktail olives, a generous seasoning of fresh ground black and Cayenne peppers, and a very healthy handful of basil leaves Yum. This hits the spot. Yum yum is all I can say.
FRIDAY: What a wonderfully unusual lunch. Not only am I sitting in the Winter Gardens with opera singers performing in front of me, but I’m having an experimental sandwich: Caerphilly cheese on a granary breadcake with fresh ground black pepper and lemon zest. On one side of the sandwich I’ve put fresh thyme and on the other side fresh tarragon, and on half of each side I’ve got smashed raspberries. I’ve decided I like the tarragon raspberry quarter the best, although one could leave off the tarragon and/or the raspberries. I think I shall name this the Opera.
THE FOLLOWING TUESDAY: Lunch is a leftover spicy bean burger dressed with a bit of Dijon mustard, mayonnaise, a slice of red onion, and some leaf. Cold, it reminds me of a meatloaf sandwich --although most of my life’s experience with that classic American sandwich is the vegetarian meatloaf version. Quite surprisingly, I’m suddenly feeling a lot younger…
TUESDAY A MONTH LATER: It’s been weeks since I’ve posted a new blog. I am still alive, I think – I’m just very busy with everything else, which of course includes Life. But today I must write about something other than my delicious sandwich (sage and onion vegetarian slices and cream cheese on a fresh granary breadcake with sundried tomato, chopped pointy pepper, and a leaf of Red Gem lettuce).
In the Winter Garden where I normally eat my lunch, there is an exhibit today on synthetic speech presented by the Creative Speech Technology Network or CreST. I was invited to play with an electronic choir “singer” using an Xbox controller. It was a lot of fun and reminded me of my ancient Casio analogue monophonic synthesizer I played in a band in the early 1980s before graduating to first a polyphonic Roland and then a digital Yamaha. With the Xbox controls I could adjust the pitch, vibrato, and even the vowel that was being articulated.
Another exhibit allowed the user to create a story for a short comic strip and customize a synthetic voice to read it out loud, with options for the type of character (sex, age, etc.) and the emotion being expressed. This is an idea for the narration of audiobooks and other voiced text media.
This got me thinking once again about where the world is going. Consider the fallibility of computerized subtitles that enable one to watch TV with the sound off. In my local pub where this is often the case, a news story about Superstorm Sandy said that 3.5-metre baps were expected to hit the New England coast. Imagine a highly wavering child’s voice filled with rage shouting this news to you. This could be what we have to look forward to in the future of news reports: no human reporters necessary.
At least the political news reports can’t become any more absurd…
Thursday, 13 September 2012
Jessica Ennis and the R Problem
Lunch today is the result of a fridge packed with reduced items that need to be used. I’ve got crab paté with avocado slices, spring onion, and red pepper, seasoned with black and cayenne peppers. It’s surprisingly nice, sophistication with zing. A squeeze of lime would make it perfect.
During the London Olympics, Sheffield-born heptathlon winner Jessica Ennis shot up to fame with her achievements and gold medals. The city of Sheffield is very proud of “our Jessica”, and it has put on public events in her honour as well as painting a central post box gold. So why can’t anybody pronounce her name correctly?
I realize that the classic Sheffield accent uses the letter R in odd places, as in “I’ll gerrit” rather than “I’ll get it”. And that’s perfectly charming, as most regional accents are. But Jessica has a name that has been uniquely hers all of her life, and it isn’t Jessie Kerrenis, as everyone insists on pronouncing it. Even a well-educated friend who is a Sheffield native talks about Jessie Kerrenis. When we pointed it out to him, he slowly pronounced “Jessica...Ennis”. But when he tried saying her name quickly it came out “Jessie Kerrennis”. He couldn’t hear the R himself.
When I was very young I had not a lisp but a slightly scratchy S when I spoke. So I was sent to speech class. Through hearing my own voice I learned how to say “scissors” without sounding like they needed oiling. Perhaps the people who are so proud of Their Jessie Kerrenis should go to speech class as well, just to eliminate this one particular unnecessary R. The rest of the accent, of course, can and should remain intact.
Gerrit?
During the London Olympics, Sheffield-born heptathlon winner Jessica Ennis shot up to fame with her achievements and gold medals. The city of Sheffield is very proud of “our Jessica”, and it has put on public events in her honour as well as painting a central post box gold. So why can’t anybody pronounce her name correctly?
I realize that the classic Sheffield accent uses the letter R in odd places, as in “I’ll gerrit” rather than “I’ll get it”. And that’s perfectly charming, as most regional accents are. But Jessica has a name that has been uniquely hers all of her life, and it isn’t Jessie Kerrenis, as everyone insists on pronouncing it. Even a well-educated friend who is a Sheffield native talks about Jessie Kerrenis. When we pointed it out to him, he slowly pronounced “Jessica...Ennis”. But when he tried saying her name quickly it came out “Jessie Kerrennis”. He couldn’t hear the R himself.
When I was very young I had not a lisp but a slightly scratchy S when I spoke. So I was sent to speech class. Through hearing my own voice I learned how to say “scissors” without sounding like they needed oiling. Perhaps the people who are so proud of Their Jessie Kerrenis should go to speech class as well, just to eliminate this one particular unnecessary R. The rest of the accent, of course, can and should remain intact.
Gerrit?
Sunday, 8 July 2012
Questions I Hate As An Expat
"I am not now, nor have I ever been, acquainted with Bob Diamond, even though I am American." This was my reply when a British friend (who is smart enough to know better) pointed out to me that Diamond, former chief executive of Barclays Bank, is American.
As I sit in the University library cafe eating my houmus and cream cheese sandwich -- spiced up by a chopped pickled hot chilli and accompanied by a summer-wonderful selection of fruit starring giant raspberries and bright juicy nectarine slices -- I can't help thinking of all the stupid questions some Brits ask me. For the benefit of fellow Americans who move to Britain -- and for the education of Brits who might ask these questions when they find out someone is an American living in Britain -- I will list them here.
1. "Why did you move to England?" If a short answer like "Job transfer" or "Family obligations" suffices, great. But often the reason someone who is not a refugee moves to another country is a hell of a lot more complicated than that. Why does anybody move anywhere? Why does anybody leave a job and take a new one? Why do some people go to university and some don't? Why does somebody dye their hair magenta? What does the world consist of? How long is a piece of string?
2. "This must be a lot of rain for you!" Well actually, even though I grew up in Southern California (where they do actually have heavy rainstorms) I moved to the UK from Seattle, famous for its rain. Nuff said?
3. "Why did you leave all that gorgeous sunshine?" Firstly, see Question 2. And secondly, if I had moved here from Southern California, I would find the variety of rain and snow and autumn colours a relief from the monotony of Southern California weather. Just like everyone in the UK is currently getting sick of rain every single day, many people who live in Los Angeles get sick of that cloud-free glary hazy sky day after day. Variety is the spice of life.
4. "You're American? I love America! I had a great time in Florida!" No offense to Floridians, but when I hear foreigners sum up the entire American experience as a 2-week holiday in Orlando, I start to fume. For one thing, Florida -- especially the Atlantic coast -- is one of the last places on this planet that I would intentionally visit. And for another thing, America -- or more properly the United States of America -- is a massive place with a massive variety of climates, landscapes, and cultures. You've got bustling metropolises, high rugged mountains, cactus-speckled deserts, gorgeous seacoasts with tidepools and long sandy beaches and rock formations, evergreen rainforests, volcanoes, plains stretching as far as the eye can see, thick forests, and moss-draped bayous. You can meet Appalachian hillbillies and Cajuns and cowboys and Hassidic Jews and Hawaiian surfers and Chinese bankers and Mexican teachers and Samoan policemen. You can see a wide range of creatures in their native habitats: bears, raccoons, wolves, armadillos, alligators, scorpions, herons, bats, eagles, chipmunks, gophers, whales, sea lions, feral parrots, and beetles the size of your fist.
In other words, there is a hell of a lot more to see than Disney World.
5. "Why on earth did you move here?" Why not?
6. "Do you go back to America a lot?" I wouldn't say a lot -- only as often as I can afford, which isn't often at all.
7. "Will you ever move back to America/Are you going to stay here forever?" I'm sorry but I'm not a psychic. Life is full of uncertainties and changes and one never knows what is lying in wait around the next corner. Never say never, and never say forever.
8. How come you've still got your American accent?" Although I've lived in the UK for over a decade, I lived the majority of my life in America. Why would I lose my American accent?
9. "You must really love England, huh?" I don't love or hate living in England. I didn't love or hate living in the US. Every place, every way of life, has its up sides and its down sides.
Be realistic, for Chrissake!
As I sit in the University library cafe eating my houmus and cream cheese sandwich -- spiced up by a chopped pickled hot chilli and accompanied by a summer-wonderful selection of fruit starring giant raspberries and bright juicy nectarine slices -- I can't help thinking of all the stupid questions some Brits ask me. For the benefit of fellow Americans who move to Britain -- and for the education of Brits who might ask these questions when they find out someone is an American living in Britain -- I will list them here.
1. "Why did you move to England?" If a short answer like "Job transfer" or "Family obligations" suffices, great. But often the reason someone who is not a refugee moves to another country is a hell of a lot more complicated than that. Why does anybody move anywhere? Why does anybody leave a job and take a new one? Why do some people go to university and some don't? Why does somebody dye their hair magenta? What does the world consist of? How long is a piece of string?
2. "This must be a lot of rain for you!" Well actually, even though I grew up in Southern California (where they do actually have heavy rainstorms) I moved to the UK from Seattle, famous for its rain. Nuff said?
3. "Why did you leave all that gorgeous sunshine?" Firstly, see Question 2. And secondly, if I had moved here from Southern California, I would find the variety of rain and snow and autumn colours a relief from the monotony of Southern California weather. Just like everyone in the UK is currently getting sick of rain every single day, many people who live in Los Angeles get sick of that cloud-free glary hazy sky day after day. Variety is the spice of life.
4. "You're American? I love America! I had a great time in Florida!" No offense to Floridians, but when I hear foreigners sum up the entire American experience as a 2-week holiday in Orlando, I start to fume. For one thing, Florida -- especially the Atlantic coast -- is one of the last places on this planet that I would intentionally visit. And for another thing, America -- or more properly the United States of America -- is a massive place with a massive variety of climates, landscapes, and cultures. You've got bustling metropolises, high rugged mountains, cactus-speckled deserts, gorgeous seacoasts with tidepools and long sandy beaches and rock formations, evergreen rainforests, volcanoes, plains stretching as far as the eye can see, thick forests, and moss-draped bayous. You can meet Appalachian hillbillies and Cajuns and cowboys and Hassidic Jews and Hawaiian surfers and Chinese bankers and Mexican teachers and Samoan policemen. You can see a wide range of creatures in their native habitats: bears, raccoons, wolves, armadillos, alligators, scorpions, herons, bats, eagles, chipmunks, gophers, whales, sea lions, feral parrots, and beetles the size of your fist.
In other words, there is a hell of a lot more to see than Disney World.
5. "Why on earth did you move here?" Why not?
6. "Do you go back to America a lot?" I wouldn't say a lot -- only as often as I can afford, which isn't often at all.
7. "Will you ever move back to America/Are you going to stay here forever?" I'm sorry but I'm not a psychic. Life is full of uncertainties and changes and one never knows what is lying in wait around the next corner. Never say never, and never say forever.
8. How come you've still got your American accent?" Although I've lived in the UK for over a decade, I lived the majority of my life in America. Why would I lose my American accent?
9. "You must really love England, huh?" I don't love or hate living in England. I didn't love or hate living in the US. Every place, every way of life, has its up sides and its down sides.
Be realistic, for Chrissake!
Sunday, 1 July 2012
Barbecue-flavour camelids and more on excessive sweetness
From Liquid Life by Zigmunt Bowman: "The most sober and seasoned of counsellors advise the seekers after guidance to accommodate themselves to the inevitable: ambivalence is here to stay, they say; the joys and horrors of ingesting what the world peddles to us and seduces us into digesting are inseparable."
I know it's not long ago since I talked about the overabundance of sugar in British prepared food, but it's obviously been on experts' minds as well, according to the recent blitz of articles and TV programs on the subject. It's sugar, not salt, they say, that has made us fatter.
And here I was blaming the average British palate for this overabundance of sugar in foods that shouldn't be sweet, eg. mayonnaise, vinaigrette salad dressing, and Thai chilli prawns. But one article blamed Richard Nixon. In 1971, as Nixon was facing re-election, the rising cost of food caused him to push Earl Butz's plan to urge farmers to grow corn in order to produce lots of high-fructose corn syrup. This magical substance was not only a cheaper alternative to sugar, but it could be added to pizzas, coleslaw, and meat to improve the taste and give everything that "just baked" sheen. Even Coke started to use HFCS instead of sugar, which as a result increased the caloric content. By the mid 1970s, low fat items (read "Lite", "Slimline", "Virtually Fat-Free", et al) became popular with the assumption they would prevent both obesity and heart disease. To improve the taste of these low-fat items, sugar was added (or the amount of sugar increased), replacing the calories from fat with calories from sugar and high-fructose sweeteners.
And this is one of the reasons the obesity epidemic is growing, both in Britain and in the USA. Fortunately as a thin person I haven't gained weight as a result -- but I still can't stand the thought of what all that unnecessary sugar is doing to my blood sugar levels, my teeth, and my already hyperactive system. So it's not just a matter of taste.
Speaking of taste, while I was waiting for a bus the other day I spotted an advertisement for a new product. Llamas are new bite-sized nibbles baked in the shape of a llama. I can handle biting into disks and wheels and sticks, and I even used to enjoy Pogens ginger cookies that were in the shape of animals. But somehow a BBQ-flavoured llama just sounds wrong. What's next? Salt and vinegar camels? Cheese and onion giraffes? Ready salted goats? Nacho Cheese armadillos? Prawn warthogs? Basil and mozzarella locusts? Thai chicken maggots?
If I ever see packets of Smoky Bacon Software Engineers being sold in my local pub, I think I'll go move into a cave and live on lichen…
I know it's not long ago since I talked about the overabundance of sugar in British prepared food, but it's obviously been on experts' minds as well, according to the recent blitz of articles and TV programs on the subject. It's sugar, not salt, they say, that has made us fatter.
And here I was blaming the average British palate for this overabundance of sugar in foods that shouldn't be sweet, eg. mayonnaise, vinaigrette salad dressing, and Thai chilli prawns. But one article blamed Richard Nixon. In 1971, as Nixon was facing re-election, the rising cost of food caused him to push Earl Butz's plan to urge farmers to grow corn in order to produce lots of high-fructose corn syrup. This magical substance was not only a cheaper alternative to sugar, but it could be added to pizzas, coleslaw, and meat to improve the taste and give everything that "just baked" sheen. Even Coke started to use HFCS instead of sugar, which as a result increased the caloric content. By the mid 1970s, low fat items (read "Lite", "Slimline", "Virtually Fat-Free", et al) became popular with the assumption they would prevent both obesity and heart disease. To improve the taste of these low-fat items, sugar was added (or the amount of sugar increased), replacing the calories from fat with calories from sugar and high-fructose sweeteners.
And this is one of the reasons the obesity epidemic is growing, both in Britain and in the USA. Fortunately as a thin person I haven't gained weight as a result -- but I still can't stand the thought of what all that unnecessary sugar is doing to my blood sugar levels, my teeth, and my already hyperactive system. So it's not just a matter of taste.
Speaking of taste, while I was waiting for a bus the other day I spotted an advertisement for a new product. Llamas are new bite-sized nibbles baked in the shape of a llama. I can handle biting into disks and wheels and sticks, and I even used to enjoy Pogens ginger cookies that were in the shape of animals. But somehow a BBQ-flavoured llama just sounds wrong. What's next? Salt and vinegar camels? Cheese and onion giraffes? Ready salted goats? Nacho Cheese armadillos? Prawn warthogs? Basil and mozzarella locusts? Thai chicken maggots?
If I ever see packets of Smoky Bacon Software Engineers being sold in my local pub, I think I'll go move into a cave and live on lichen…
Sunday, 20 May 2012
This year's observations about America
TUESDAY: I'm back at work after a visit to the United States. My lunch is one of my tuna sandwiches made with yogurt instead of mayonnaise and spiced with capers, cumin, and fresh thyme. It's good brain food for contemplating some of the interesting facts I discovered about America -- or at least California -- during my 3-week stay in the Los Angeles area:
1. SWEETENERS. I was surprise to discover that most cafes and restaurants offer at least 4 sweetening solutions for one's coffee or tea. In the tabletop dispensers, alongside the sugar packets, are packets of not 1 but 3 artificial sweeteners, all seemingly colour-coded so one may not be confused with another. The pink packets contain Sweet 'n' Low which is saccharine-based. For those who are afraid of developing some sort of rat cancer if they consume too much saccharine, there are blue packets of aspartame-based Equal. And if one wants to avoid the calories of sugar as well as the remote possibility of developing cancer or fits, there is Splenda in yellow packets which contains the sweetener sucralose. It's feasible that some more upscale and natural-foods-orientated cafes would also offer packets of brown sugar and of honey, which would provide 6 different ways of sweetening one's coffee. With all the already-existing options for ordering a coffee -- Americano or espresso or cappuccino or latte or macchiato; short or tall or grande; single or double shot; wet or dry; with room or without; with chocolate sprinkles or without; to drink in or to take out --this additional complicated choice, should you choose to sweeten your coffee, makes this popular breaktime beverage a bit of a minefield. Will workers now need their 15-minute breaks increased to 45 minutes simply to allow a good half hour from the time one orders their coffee to the time one is actually drinking it?
2. DOLLAR BILLS. For the past few years I've been using a wallet I purchased in the UK, so I never noticed how awkward American dollars are. I recall them being the same colour and size regardless of denomination, and I remember them being narrower than British notes. But I never realised they're actually longer as well. This fact required me to fold up the ends of my American bills to fit into my British wallet, further confusing the one-dollar-looks-the-same-as-twenty-dollars issue. As a result, whenever I paid cash for something, I had to pull the entire folded-up wad out of my wallet, unfold it, and examine the bills, making me appear to be either a wealthy entrepreneur who always has a wad on them or else like a foreign tourist. I don't need to explain which I felt the most like...
3. CHICAGO CATERING. I discovered this problem the last time I flew from Terminal 3 at Chicago's O'Hare Airport, and I was reminded of it again this time before I caught my domestic connection: this terminal is not veggie-friendly or even light-eater-friendly. As one has to purchase their food on American domestic flights, with an extremely limited menu of options, it makes sense to buy your meal before you get on the flight. But nowhere could I find a small vegetarian or fish sandwich to purchase. So once again I had to hope that whatever the "snack" offered for sale on the flight would suit my diet.
4. FEMALE SPORTS FANS. Female American sports fans tend to talk very loudly in a masculine manner and bob around a lot. In contrast, female British sports fans don't seem to feel the need to act this way, unless they happen to be loud masculine bobbing types.
5. CUSTOMER SERVICE. The staff at the innovative grocery chain Trader Joe's are even friendlier and more outgoing than the staff at the UK supermarket chain Asda. And the depressed and preoccupied staff at my local two Co-Ops don't hold a candle to the self-obsessed life-hating rudeness of the staff at my mom's local drugstore Rite-Aid.
More observations next time...
1. SWEETENERS. I was surprise to discover that most cafes and restaurants offer at least 4 sweetening solutions for one's coffee or tea. In the tabletop dispensers, alongside the sugar packets, are packets of not 1 but 3 artificial sweeteners, all seemingly colour-coded so one may not be confused with another. The pink packets contain Sweet 'n' Low which is saccharine-based. For those who are afraid of developing some sort of rat cancer if they consume too much saccharine, there are blue packets of aspartame-based Equal. And if one wants to avoid the calories of sugar as well as the remote possibility of developing cancer or fits, there is Splenda in yellow packets which contains the sweetener sucralose. It's feasible that some more upscale and natural-foods-orientated cafes would also offer packets of brown sugar and of honey, which would provide 6 different ways of sweetening one's coffee. With all the already-existing options for ordering a coffee -- Americano or espresso or cappuccino or latte or macchiato; short or tall or grande; single or double shot; wet or dry; with room or without; with chocolate sprinkles or without; to drink in or to take out --this additional complicated choice, should you choose to sweeten your coffee, makes this popular breaktime beverage a bit of a minefield. Will workers now need their 15-minute breaks increased to 45 minutes simply to allow a good half hour from the time one orders their coffee to the time one is actually drinking it?
2. DOLLAR BILLS. For the past few years I've been using a wallet I purchased in the UK, so I never noticed how awkward American dollars are. I recall them being the same colour and size regardless of denomination, and I remember them being narrower than British notes. But I never realised they're actually longer as well. This fact required me to fold up the ends of my American bills to fit into my British wallet, further confusing the one-dollar-looks-the-same-as-twenty-dollars issue. As a result, whenever I paid cash for something, I had to pull the entire folded-up wad out of my wallet, unfold it, and examine the bills, making me appear to be either a wealthy entrepreneur who always has a wad on them or else like a foreign tourist. I don't need to explain which I felt the most like...
3. CHICAGO CATERING. I discovered this problem the last time I flew from Terminal 3 at Chicago's O'Hare Airport, and I was reminded of it again this time before I caught my domestic connection: this terminal is not veggie-friendly or even light-eater-friendly. As one has to purchase their food on American domestic flights, with an extremely limited menu of options, it makes sense to buy your meal before you get on the flight. But nowhere could I find a small vegetarian or fish sandwich to purchase. So once again I had to hope that whatever the "snack" offered for sale on the flight would suit my diet.
4. FEMALE SPORTS FANS. Female American sports fans tend to talk very loudly in a masculine manner and bob around a lot. In contrast, female British sports fans don't seem to feel the need to act this way, unless they happen to be loud masculine bobbing types.
5. CUSTOMER SERVICE. The staff at the innovative grocery chain Trader Joe's are even friendlier and more outgoing than the staff at the UK supermarket chain Asda. And the depressed and preoccupied staff at my local two Co-Ops don't hold a candle to the self-obsessed life-hating rudeness of the staff at my mom's local drugstore Rite-Aid.
More observations next time...
Monday, 9 April 2012
Travelling Through a Wormhole and Preparing to Visit America
FRIDAY WEEKS AGO: Lunch on this icy cold day -- with the streets clear but solid snow left where tyres don't touch -- is tinned pink salmon with yogurt, capers and caper vinegar, chopped red pepper and spring onion, tarragon, a little Chinese 5-spice, and a few drops of Tabasco sauce. It's interesting, and I quite like the impulsive pinch of 5-spice I put in after previously deciding on the tarragon. I think next time I would avoid the tarragon and use perhaps parsley. Yes, that sounds right. The drops of Tabasco work perfectly, and a couple of drops of sherry would set it all off perfectly.
TUESDAY WEEKS LATER: I've been so engrossed in the wonderful poetry, wit, and beat-pop-art-era commentary of The Life and Opinions of Maf the Dog and of His Friend Marilyn Monroe by Andrew O'Hagen that I've been neglecting writing during my lunchtime. But I finished the book today, and now I can get back to my own observations about life, the Brits, and lunch.
My flight to Los Angeles next month is booked, so I've got to start thinking about what I want to take (could I smuggle out some Stilton for my mom?) and what I want to bring back (a selection of Mexican and Southwest chile powders, some masa harina, Louisiana-style dried red beans, and Trader Joe's almond butter and handmade corn tortillas). I'd like to bring back a pitcher of my mom's margaritas but they wouldn't travel well.
While I'm in America I plan to do the things an American West Coast native misses while living in a Yorkshire city, such as take a few walks on the beach, listen to the seagulls overhead, see a lot of palm trees, eat good Mexican food, have a bagel with Nova lox at a good Jewish deli, and sit in my mother's back garden and feed peanuts to the bluejays.
THURSDAY MANY WEEKS LATER: I honestly think I accidentally stepped into some sort of wormhole, emerging Many Weeks Later. What happened to the time? Since my last blog it's been winter and spring, with a winter snowfall suddenly occurring yesterday after a week of summer. And I'm still in Sheffield preparing to fly to Los Angeles. I'm supposedly at work just before the long Easter weekend, but I'm not sure I really know exactly where or when.
But I do know what my lunch is: an Edam and sun-tomato sandwich on a gruyere and onion roll. Very simple yet satisfying. Men in suits are standing near me in the library café, and the fridge on the other side of the panel protecting me is grinding away at a deafening volume.
Although I always travel very light to the US, with my carry-on-sized wheelie bag and my backpack, I may have to buy a couple more suitcases before I return to the UK, as my British workmates want me to bring back a suitcase full of proper Mexican food and bagels, and my supervisor wants me to bring back another suitcase full of proper California wine, eg. the gems California keeps for itself and not the rotgut like Blossom Hill and Jackrabbit that UK wine shops pass off as the California wine experience. But I'm afraid, in the interest of not only my travelling-light habits but also my weak back, that I'm not doing such a thing at all. They will all just have to save up for their own trips to California to experience these things.
As with all of my visits to my home country, I plan whilst there to consume as much Mexican food as possible. (Obviously with my small appetite I mean as often as possible, not as much in quantity as I can stuff down my gullet.) And hopefully there will be at least one Chile relent burrito in this schedule. The other culinary pastimes that I miss from living in Sheffield and that I want to experience are lunch at a decent Jewish deli (with proper bagels and Nova lox), a Thai meal or two, a Greek meal, and at least one of my mother's excellent margaritas. And recently I've had an odd nostalgic craving that I'd like to indulge just once before I die: I'd like to have a proper plain buttermilk doughnut.
Obviously there is the other side of this coin. For instance, there is a list of unique British and even Sheffield items I'd love to smuggle in so that my American friends and family can benefit: a chunk of proper Stilton cheese, another of crumbly Wensleydale cheese, some haloumi cheese (which is possible to find but ridiculously expensive in America). a bag of Rooster red baking potatoes, some Longley Farm yogurt and cottage cheese (the best examples of both these items in the universe), a bottle of Scapa single malt whisky, and a few mini casks of wonderful ales including one of Blue Bee Nectar Best, one of Ossett Pale Gold, one of Mordue Worky Ticket, one of Thornbridge Jaipur, and one of Abbeydale Deception.
On second thought perhaps I should just hire a container to ship a few things back and forth...
TUESDAY WEEKS LATER: I've been so engrossed in the wonderful poetry, wit, and beat-pop-art-era commentary of The Life and Opinions of Maf the Dog and of His Friend Marilyn Monroe by Andrew O'Hagen that I've been neglecting writing during my lunchtime. But I finished the book today, and now I can get back to my own observations about life, the Brits, and lunch.
My flight to Los Angeles next month is booked, so I've got to start thinking about what I want to take (could I smuggle out some Stilton for my mom?) and what I want to bring back (a selection of Mexican and Southwest chile powders, some masa harina, Louisiana-style dried red beans, and Trader Joe's almond butter and handmade corn tortillas). I'd like to bring back a pitcher of my mom's margaritas but they wouldn't travel well.
While I'm in America I plan to do the things an American West Coast native misses while living in a Yorkshire city, such as take a few walks on the beach, listen to the seagulls overhead, see a lot of palm trees, eat good Mexican food, have a bagel with Nova lox at a good Jewish deli, and sit in my mother's back garden and feed peanuts to the bluejays.
THURSDAY MANY WEEKS LATER: I honestly think I accidentally stepped into some sort of wormhole, emerging Many Weeks Later. What happened to the time? Since my last blog it's been winter and spring, with a winter snowfall suddenly occurring yesterday after a week of summer. And I'm still in Sheffield preparing to fly to Los Angeles. I'm supposedly at work just before the long Easter weekend, but I'm not sure I really know exactly where or when.
But I do know what my lunch is: an Edam and sun-tomato sandwich on a gruyere and onion roll. Very simple yet satisfying. Men in suits are standing near me in the library café, and the fridge on the other side of the panel protecting me is grinding away at a deafening volume.
Although I always travel very light to the US, with my carry-on-sized wheelie bag and my backpack, I may have to buy a couple more suitcases before I return to the UK, as my British workmates want me to bring back a suitcase full of proper Mexican food and bagels, and my supervisor wants me to bring back another suitcase full of proper California wine, eg. the gems California keeps for itself and not the rotgut like Blossom Hill and Jackrabbit that UK wine shops pass off as the California wine experience. But I'm afraid, in the interest of not only my travelling-light habits but also my weak back, that I'm not doing such a thing at all. They will all just have to save up for their own trips to California to experience these things.
As with all of my visits to my home country, I plan whilst there to consume as much Mexican food as possible. (Obviously with my small appetite I mean as often as possible, not as much in quantity as I can stuff down my gullet.) And hopefully there will be at least one Chile relent burrito in this schedule. The other culinary pastimes that I miss from living in Sheffield and that I want to experience are lunch at a decent Jewish deli (with proper bagels and Nova lox), a Thai meal or two, a Greek meal, and at least one of my mother's excellent margaritas. And recently I've had an odd nostalgic craving that I'd like to indulge just once before I die: I'd like to have a proper plain buttermilk doughnut.
Obviously there is the other side of this coin. For instance, there is a list of unique British and even Sheffield items I'd love to smuggle in so that my American friends and family can benefit: a chunk of proper Stilton cheese, another of crumbly Wensleydale cheese, some haloumi cheese (which is possible to find but ridiculously expensive in America). a bag of Rooster red baking potatoes, some Longley Farm yogurt and cottage cheese (the best examples of both these items in the universe), a bottle of Scapa single malt whisky, and a few mini casks of wonderful ales including one of Blue Bee Nectar Best, one of Ossett Pale Gold, one of Mordue Worky Ticket, one of Thornbridge Jaipur, and one of Abbeydale Deception.
On second thought perhaps I should just hire a container to ship a few things back and forth...
Saturday, 21 January 2012
A New Year of Lunches and More Talk About British Food
WEDNESDAY LAST YEAR: I love the surrealism of daily life. I'm sitting in the Winter Garden on this cold wet day, nibbling a sesame seed bagel with smoked salmon, Quark, and sliced red onion accompanied by a couple of chunks of pomegranate while listening to the grey-haired and Santa-hat-sporting octet known as Sheffield Accordions play French cafe music and Christmas carols while I read about radon spas in Japan. Excuse me while I catch my breath…
Only a couple of minutes have gone by, and the six accordions are playing "When The Saints Go Marching In" while I read about radium suppositories. Fortunately I have finished my lunch.
Denmark has just introduced a "fat tax" on foods containing more than 2.3% saturated fat. This is all fine and good, as is the proposed 10% "fat tax" on sugary drinks to cut obesity, especially in children. These are good health moves, as are banning useless and dangerous trans fats and lowering salt content in food items -- although Tesco still insist on creating salt licks out of their smoked salmon and smoked mackerel.
David Cameron has said that the UK coalition is considering levying the same "fat tax" on foods with more than 23% fat content. France already bans the making of high-fat and high-sugar foods for school menus, and this has worked fine. But the concept of high-fat foods should concentrate on items like Big Macs, chips, and processed food, not cheese as was specified in the British analysis. What about all of us skinny vegetarians with normal cholesterol levels who rely on cheese as a source of protein and texturally yummy relief from the potential boredom of an endless diet of vegetables, pulses, and grains? Not only are we skinny and healthy, but one of the reasons we're happy is because of that wonderfully wide and delectable world of cheeses. What would life be without Camembert? Without Stilton? Would a life without Wensleydale, Gorgonzola, mature Cheddar, buffalo mozzarella, feta, and haloumi really be worth living?
What about those folks who are actually buying and eating fried butter? Don't you think the Government should punish them instead? Let us be with our cheese boards, our toasties, our pizza, our Welsh rarebit. After all, man certainly cannot live on cheese alone. One must have bread and crackers as well!
THE FOLLOWING MONDAY: Lunch is another creation of leftover bits: the last of the Stilton, Cheddar and Kelham Island Beer Cheese on a fresh breadcake with chopped green olives, chopped red pepper, and the last sprigs of fresh dill. And once again, like many leftover creations, it's a winner. I'm eating a winner in winter in the Winter Garden, and here I sit, surrounded by pigeons, bundled up in my scarf under the shade of a giant fan palm. And some asshole of a young man just stomped loudly intentionally frightening away the pigeons. Why do so many people hate pigeons? These are my friends, these urban flyers. In fact I recognised the one in front, for whom I was about to accidentally drop a sandwich crumb.
A WEEK LATER ON WEDNESDAY: Being so close to Christmas one never knows what entertainment one will find at lunchtime in the Winter Garden. A month ago it was paralympic table tennis contender Farrel Anthony demonstrating his prowess, and the next week the grey-haired Sheffield Accordions. Last week there were a couple of choirs, and today a drumming circle is setting up to perform.
My sandwich is texturally exciting as well as flavoursome: some St Agur Delice cheese with chopped red pepper, chopped spring onion, and cashew pieces, imparting a yum-crunch-chomp-chew experience. It's a good holiday sandwich, it is.
Sorry, now it's back to being engrossed in Simon Singh's The Code Book...
TUESDAY IN THE NEXT YEAR: Lunch is surprisingly nice: avocado with thin slices of extra mature cheddar seasoned with guajillo chile powder, a sliced olive, sun-dried tomatoes and red pepper on a Tesco whole wheat breadcake. I do hope this child who just sat next to me doesn't chase the pigeons off like the little girl just before him. Kids these days…
On Sunday I stopped in my local pub and joined some friends at a table where there was the distinctly pungent stench of rotting prawns. As another friend, noted for once smelling like rotting prawns, wasn't in attendance, it was difficult to determine just where this smell was coming from. Was it the soup on the counter? No, that smelled pleasant enough. Was it a spill somewhere? Or somebody's breath? I finally discovered the smell was emanating from a nearly empty snack wrapper lying on the table. The contents, manufactured by Freshers of Wigan, were called Scampi Supper. Nothing more than my scientific curiosity led me to pick up a tiny crumb left in the residue of the packet and stick it in my mouth. Instantly my entire upper cavities were flooded with the pong of a recently abandoned prawn factory. It was an awful taste! I think some cats might possibly be attracted to it, especially with a name like Scampi Supper -- but at closer sniff they would be put off by the salty chemical ersatz character.
Who would buy such a thing? Worse still, who would actually eat it? And who did? And do they still have any friends?
ANO|THER WEDNESDAY: Yesterday I watched the young man sitting next to me as he nibbled on a container of raw vegetables. And I thought, surprisingly, yum! What a nice change of lunch that would make, seeing as how I've always liked raw vegetables of all types. So today I've made my version of a salad sandwich: a thin layer of St Agur Delice cheese spread topped with slices of chestnut mushroom and courgette and chopped red pepper, spring onions, and sun-dried tomato. And I've even accompanied my sandwich with carrot sticks. And you know what? It's delicious. One can obviously use whatever raw vegetables one prefers, along with perhaps a spread of Boursin instead. What a great idea.
THE FOLLOWING FRIDAY: My post-table-tennis lunch today is Polish Mystery Cheese with Dijon mustard and chopped pepper and onion. I think it's probably actually some sort of Swiss cheese -- Emmenthal or something similar. I found it in my local Polish-Iranian wonder of a deli as a remnant that been sliced off one of the deli case cheeses, wrapped in plastic wrap with the price written by hand, and left in the case with the prepacked cheese. I assume somebody chose it and then set it down and forgot about it, distracted by the delectable wonder boxes displaying all sorts of pickled herring mixtures, rye breads, mustardy condiments, sausages, biscuits, and countless other treats, all with wrappers written in Polish so one is never quite sure what one is getting -- unless one speaks Polish, of course. (Even my university-level Russian doesn't help much.)
I'm selfishly hoping that the recent Unilever pension strikes and resultant stoppages of production at the Port Sunlight and Norwich plants don't cause a respective shortage of Marmite and the sinus-clearing Colman's Mustard, two stalwarts of the British larder and two of my favourite features of the cuisine. Sometimes I wish that the sugar and sweetener factories would all go on strike, as I'm getting sick of the way so many British food manufacturers think every dish has to be sweet on the palate in order to sell. The other night I was more horrified than I've been yet with my first bite of Lyon's Thai Sweet Chilli King Prawns. My understanding, which is correlated by British Andrew's knowledge and experience, is that "sweet chilli" is a term that simply distinguishes the mild sweeter-tasting chillies from the dryer, more picante ones. But this dish tasted like it should be served over sponge cake: the sauce was so sugary and treacly it made me gag. Sure enough, on the list of ingredients, sugar was the second item listed. The dish was so sugary I was impelled to stop at once and go brush my teeth -- if I didn't fall into a hypoglycaemic coma first.
I think they should perhaps rename the product Lyon's Sweet Thai Chilli King Prawns. Or how about leaving out the ambiguous words and just calling it Lyon's Sweet King Prawns?
Only a couple of minutes have gone by, and the six accordions are playing "When The Saints Go Marching In" while I read about radium suppositories. Fortunately I have finished my lunch.
Denmark has just introduced a "fat tax" on foods containing more than 2.3% saturated fat. This is all fine and good, as is the proposed 10% "fat tax" on sugary drinks to cut obesity, especially in children. These are good health moves, as are banning useless and dangerous trans fats and lowering salt content in food items -- although Tesco still insist on creating salt licks out of their smoked salmon and smoked mackerel.
David Cameron has said that the UK coalition is considering levying the same "fat tax" on foods with more than 23% fat content. France already bans the making of high-fat and high-sugar foods for school menus, and this has worked fine. But the concept of high-fat foods should concentrate on items like Big Macs, chips, and processed food, not cheese as was specified in the British analysis. What about all of us skinny vegetarians with normal cholesterol levels who rely on cheese as a source of protein and texturally yummy relief from the potential boredom of an endless diet of vegetables, pulses, and grains? Not only are we skinny and healthy, but one of the reasons we're happy is because of that wonderfully wide and delectable world of cheeses. What would life be without Camembert? Without Stilton? Would a life without Wensleydale, Gorgonzola, mature Cheddar, buffalo mozzarella, feta, and haloumi really be worth living?
What about those folks who are actually buying and eating fried butter? Don't you think the Government should punish them instead? Let us be with our cheese boards, our toasties, our pizza, our Welsh rarebit. After all, man certainly cannot live on cheese alone. One must have bread and crackers as well!
THE FOLLOWING MONDAY: Lunch is another creation of leftover bits: the last of the Stilton, Cheddar and Kelham Island Beer Cheese on a fresh breadcake with chopped green olives, chopped red pepper, and the last sprigs of fresh dill. And once again, like many leftover creations, it's a winner. I'm eating a winner in winter in the Winter Garden, and here I sit, surrounded by pigeons, bundled up in my scarf under the shade of a giant fan palm. And some asshole of a young man just stomped loudly intentionally frightening away the pigeons. Why do so many people hate pigeons? These are my friends, these urban flyers. In fact I recognised the one in front, for whom I was about to accidentally drop a sandwich crumb.
A WEEK LATER ON WEDNESDAY: Being so close to Christmas one never knows what entertainment one will find at lunchtime in the Winter Garden. A month ago it was paralympic table tennis contender Farrel Anthony demonstrating his prowess, and the next week the grey-haired Sheffield Accordions. Last week there were a couple of choirs, and today a drumming circle is setting up to perform.
My sandwich is texturally exciting as well as flavoursome: some St Agur Delice cheese with chopped red pepper, chopped spring onion, and cashew pieces, imparting a yum-crunch-chomp-chew experience. It's a good holiday sandwich, it is.
Sorry, now it's back to being engrossed in Simon Singh's The Code Book...
TUESDAY IN THE NEXT YEAR: Lunch is surprisingly nice: avocado with thin slices of extra mature cheddar seasoned with guajillo chile powder, a sliced olive, sun-dried tomatoes and red pepper on a Tesco whole wheat breadcake. I do hope this child who just sat next to me doesn't chase the pigeons off like the little girl just before him. Kids these days…
On Sunday I stopped in my local pub and joined some friends at a table where there was the distinctly pungent stench of rotting prawns. As another friend, noted for once smelling like rotting prawns, wasn't in attendance, it was difficult to determine just where this smell was coming from. Was it the soup on the counter? No, that smelled pleasant enough. Was it a spill somewhere? Or somebody's breath? I finally discovered the smell was emanating from a nearly empty snack wrapper lying on the table. The contents, manufactured by Freshers of Wigan, were called Scampi Supper. Nothing more than my scientific curiosity led me to pick up a tiny crumb left in the residue of the packet and stick it in my mouth. Instantly my entire upper cavities were flooded with the pong of a recently abandoned prawn factory. It was an awful taste! I think some cats might possibly be attracted to it, especially with a name like Scampi Supper -- but at closer sniff they would be put off by the salty chemical ersatz character.
Who would buy such a thing? Worse still, who would actually eat it? And who did? And do they still have any friends?
ANO|THER WEDNESDAY: Yesterday I watched the young man sitting next to me as he nibbled on a container of raw vegetables. And I thought, surprisingly, yum! What a nice change of lunch that would make, seeing as how I've always liked raw vegetables of all types. So today I've made my version of a salad sandwich: a thin layer of St Agur Delice cheese spread topped with slices of chestnut mushroom and courgette and chopped red pepper, spring onions, and sun-dried tomato. And I've even accompanied my sandwich with carrot sticks. And you know what? It's delicious. One can obviously use whatever raw vegetables one prefers, along with perhaps a spread of Boursin instead. What a great idea.
THE FOLLOWING FRIDAY: My post-table-tennis lunch today is Polish Mystery Cheese with Dijon mustard and chopped pepper and onion. I think it's probably actually some sort of Swiss cheese -- Emmenthal or something similar. I found it in my local Polish-Iranian wonder of a deli as a remnant that been sliced off one of the deli case cheeses, wrapped in plastic wrap with the price written by hand, and left in the case with the prepacked cheese. I assume somebody chose it and then set it down and forgot about it, distracted by the delectable wonder boxes displaying all sorts of pickled herring mixtures, rye breads, mustardy condiments, sausages, biscuits, and countless other treats, all with wrappers written in Polish so one is never quite sure what one is getting -- unless one speaks Polish, of course. (Even my university-level Russian doesn't help much.)
I'm selfishly hoping that the recent Unilever pension strikes and resultant stoppages of production at the Port Sunlight and Norwich plants don't cause a respective shortage of Marmite and the sinus-clearing Colman's Mustard, two stalwarts of the British larder and two of my favourite features of the cuisine. Sometimes I wish that the sugar and sweetener factories would all go on strike, as I'm getting sick of the way so many British food manufacturers think every dish has to be sweet on the palate in order to sell. The other night I was more horrified than I've been yet with my first bite of Lyon's Thai Sweet Chilli King Prawns. My understanding, which is correlated by British Andrew's knowledge and experience, is that "sweet chilli" is a term that simply distinguishes the mild sweeter-tasting chillies from the dryer, more picante ones. But this dish tasted like it should be served over sponge cake: the sauce was so sugary and treacly it made me gag. Sure enough, on the list of ingredients, sugar was the second item listed. The dish was so sugary I was impelled to stop at once and go brush my teeth -- if I didn't fall into a hypoglycaemic coma first.
I think they should perhaps rename the product Lyon's Sweet Thai Chilli King Prawns. Or how about leaving out the ambiguous words and just calling it Lyon's Sweet King Prawns?
Wednesday, 23 November 2011
Why Do People Travel with Blinders On?
TUESDAY: Today's sandwich is another cheese treat. I was out duck hunting this weekend -- searching for stencilled ducks on the fronts of cask ale pubs, that is. And in the countertop fridge at the Fat Cat in Kelham Island, along with the usual pork pies made with Kelham Island Bitter, there was a lone package of cheese made with Kelham Island Pale Rider from the Staffordshire Cheese Company. Naturally I had to have it.
And my sandwich is simple: Kelham Island Beer Cheese with a bit of chopped red pepper and spring onion and a sprinkling of dried thyme. The beer is cheddar-ish, only with the wonderfully sharp taste of curd soaked in ale, and the texture is moist and sticky, almost like Stilton. It's a joy, and I agree with the landlady: it would be gorgeous with biscuits.
Although I usually try to write about my American take on British life, there is something on my mind that relates not only to all expats but also to all international travellers. A young British friend is currently spending a year travelling around the world, with her first few months spent in South America. Because this person is intelligent and has travelled to distant lands before, I was hoping to see photographs of interesting places and people and to read about the unique cultures and features of these new places. Sadly all that has appeared on this person's Facebook page are photos of herself smiling happily at the camera with her very British-looking grinning companions, all having the time of their lives in the sun. Considering that before she left she'd already uploaded over a thousand photos, most of her and her friends all smiling and having the time of their lives in the sun, one can't tell she's journeyed any further than perhaps Cornwall.
What a total disappointment. I'm reminded of a couple of British friends who have travelled the world, and how I always get that sickened feeling in my stomach when I hear about their recent exotic holiday spent by the swimming pool of a Brit-populated hotel enclave, reading books they could read at home and being excited to find the hotel stocks their British newspaper, when outside the walls the daily life of a foreign culture offers its rare and intriguing finds and discoveries. The same thing occurs with a lot of Brits I've met who holiday solely in Spain -- not to seek out the medieval towns or Moorish architecture or the Pyrenees landscapes, but to lie by a similar pool surrounded by like-minded Brits.
Why spend all that time and money travelling to a foreign country when one can pursue the activities one plans to pursue at home instead? When I lived in America and travelled to Europe, the last people in the world I wanted to hang out with were fellow Americans. In fact, if I found myself on a train in Belgium or Italy that happened to be carrying a group of loud Americans, I always kept my mouth shut and found myself a nice quiet carriage where I could sit peacefully with the local commuters as well as other lone foreigners like myself. And here I would have the opportunity to write about the amazing sites I was photographing, the people I was meeting and observing, the customs I was learning, and the unique experiences I was having, far away from not only America but from its newspapers, TV programs, and cuisine. I was in that country because I wanted to experience that country. Why else would I be there?
Now that I live in Britain I still feel basically the same way. Although my original intention of moving to another country was because I felt myself a citizen of the world and not a flag-waving American, I have gradually come to realise that I am still an American living in Britain, and my accent and personal history will never change. But I wear my foreign experience, naivety, and accent well, I think, amusing my British friends with my occasional lapses of knowledge and slips of the tongue. But I eat Marmite and chip butties and I read the Guardian every day and I always talk to total strangers in pubs and I thank the bus driver when I debark, even if he or she drives like a homicidal asshole, and I do all those British things because I'm a British resident.
I wouldn't have it any other way.
And my sandwich is simple: Kelham Island Beer Cheese with a bit of chopped red pepper and spring onion and a sprinkling of dried thyme. The beer is cheddar-ish, only with the wonderfully sharp taste of curd soaked in ale, and the texture is moist and sticky, almost like Stilton. It's a joy, and I agree with the landlady: it would be gorgeous with biscuits.
Although I usually try to write about my American take on British life, there is something on my mind that relates not only to all expats but also to all international travellers. A young British friend is currently spending a year travelling around the world, with her first few months spent in South America. Because this person is intelligent and has travelled to distant lands before, I was hoping to see photographs of interesting places and people and to read about the unique cultures and features of these new places. Sadly all that has appeared on this person's Facebook page are photos of herself smiling happily at the camera with her very British-looking grinning companions, all having the time of their lives in the sun. Considering that before she left she'd already uploaded over a thousand photos, most of her and her friends all smiling and having the time of their lives in the sun, one can't tell she's journeyed any further than perhaps Cornwall.
What a total disappointment. I'm reminded of a couple of British friends who have travelled the world, and how I always get that sickened feeling in my stomach when I hear about their recent exotic holiday spent by the swimming pool of a Brit-populated hotel enclave, reading books they could read at home and being excited to find the hotel stocks their British newspaper, when outside the walls the daily life of a foreign culture offers its rare and intriguing finds and discoveries. The same thing occurs with a lot of Brits I've met who holiday solely in Spain -- not to seek out the medieval towns or Moorish architecture or the Pyrenees landscapes, but to lie by a similar pool surrounded by like-minded Brits.
Why spend all that time and money travelling to a foreign country when one can pursue the activities one plans to pursue at home instead? When I lived in America and travelled to Europe, the last people in the world I wanted to hang out with were fellow Americans. In fact, if I found myself on a train in Belgium or Italy that happened to be carrying a group of loud Americans, I always kept my mouth shut and found myself a nice quiet carriage where I could sit peacefully with the local commuters as well as other lone foreigners like myself. And here I would have the opportunity to write about the amazing sites I was photographing, the people I was meeting and observing, the customs I was learning, and the unique experiences I was having, far away from not only America but from its newspapers, TV programs, and cuisine. I was in that country because I wanted to experience that country. Why else would I be there?
Now that I live in Britain I still feel basically the same way. Although my original intention of moving to another country was because I felt myself a citizen of the world and not a flag-waving American, I have gradually come to realise that I am still an American living in Britain, and my accent and personal history will never change. But I wear my foreign experience, naivety, and accent well, I think, amusing my British friends with my occasional lapses of knowledge and slips of the tongue. But I eat Marmite and chip butties and I read the Guardian every day and I always talk to total strangers in pubs and I thank the bus driver when I debark, even if he or she drives like a homicidal asshole, and I do all those British things because I'm a British resident.
I wouldn't have it any other way.
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