I Loved You Okay
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
Serves 6-8. This is great if you have excess bananas that are going bad, or if you have some dumpstered. The latter is generally more likely in these post-flood days as bananas are worth their weight in gold.
50g brown rice
6 ripe bananas
1lt vegetable stock
1 red capsicum
2 cloves of garlic
30ml olive oil
1 can creamed coconut
120g ground peanuts
salt and cayenne to taste
Cook brown rice. Combine bananas and stock, simmer for 10 minutes. Sauté onion, capsicum, and garlic in oil. Add coconut and sauté. Add rice and peanuts. Simmer covered for 15 minutes.
My zia (auntie) Maria taught me how to make this traditional Pugliese fresh pasta when I was staying with her in her small southern town of Zollino. You should see her little face when she asks 'Vediamo, sé ch'lhai la cappacita', as in, 'let's see if you can do it'; rolling out the pasta on your finger and getting it perfect is obviously seen as something only little nonnas and zias can do. After making it about four times now I have almost got it.
1 cup double O flour
1 cup plain flour
1 tsp salt
3/4 cup tepid water
Combine flours with 1/2 water and salt. Slowly add more water while kneading; more or less water may be needed until dough is smooth. Let relax for 20 minutes. Cut into 1/2 inch sptrips and again into small squares. Make ears by pressing down on a square and rolling with your finger, then turn inside out. Dust with semolina flour and boil in salted water until they float.
Serve it with pan steamed broccoletti, grated strong pecorino or parmigiano, and good olive oil.
Thursday, June 9, 2011
Sunday, December 26, 2010
Working through Christmas was always going to be a little trying. This year I spent the 'special' day with the family of my 91 year old client at the manor: an intimate gathering of around 15 upper-class toffs, and yours truly. They put on a lavish spread, although being a vegetarian I did bring my own nutroast just to be sure of some protein intake. They pulled the biggest bird I'd ever seen out of their AGA, and I now can appreciate why artificial insemination is essential for modern turkey production. The fatties have been bred so big they are unable to do the deed on their own. Images of live turkeys being inseminated with, well, turkey basters, was almost enough to put me off my sprouts. The seating plan had me placed between spinster vet Aunt Jane and one of my clients grandsons, freshly arrived home from boarding school. I had the option of listening to endless stories about Auntie's horsey vet practice or trying to get blood (i.e. any conversation) out of a stone (i.e. a 14 year old boy). The champagne and wine soon did their job and everyone was embroiled in deciding whether Amanda Knox, the American girl convicted of murder in Milan, was a homicidal hussy or an innocent angel. Having been in Italy when the scandal happened I'd had quite enough of the whole matter and sat tight waiting for pudding.
Other conversational highlights included family friend Horatio's sailing trip to the Antarctic and whether a kick turn was an essential move to master on skiing hols. The skiing part went on for what felt like hours and I was at a loss to recall any appropriate skiing anecdotes, having, um, never actually been skiing. Flaming pudding arrived and was run 'round the table by the youngest granddaughter until it went out. I have to say I love this tradition. Get the youngest child present to run with burning dessert soaked in alcohol, brilliant. Unfortunately it was followed by a tradition that might be my least favourite: watching old Queenie's Christmas message on telly. When my client asked us all to stand for it I had to tell my Irish Republican blood to cool it and think of the hefty fee I was charging for working Christmas day. Lizzie's focus this year was on sports and their ability to build community. Trying to link this up with communities of early Christians in the Bible was drawing an exceptionally long bow I thought, but hey, who is really listening to the old bird?
Next up was games in the drawing room, listening to my client's son tell age-inappropriate dad jokes, bad coffee (another British tradition), and chatting with the 20-something grand kids in the kitchen. The last part was actually enjoyable and I thought to myself 'I could almost like these toffy gen-Yers if their weren't so blissfully unaware of their privilege'. Discussing tertiary education fees and job security with these youngsters was just so odd because I knew they would never really worry about these issues from a place of personal experience. They were born with a sense of entitlement as much as they were born with arms and legs. This entitlement, however, is not extended to the general population, we must tuff it out while the toffs and tories live it up. I can only thank sweet baby Jebus that my 'upstairs/downstairs' days are nearly at an end and I can once more go amongst the commoners, free to badmouth the monarchy, say 'torie scum' instead of 'the conservatives', and never again have to pass up the roast potatoes because they are covered in rich goose fat. Happy Christmas to the tuffs. x
Friday, November 5, 2010
I made the stupid mistake of watching the new film about The Runaways, instant regret. Where was the intensity, the passion for music, the fire that burned in the hearts of these teenage cherry bombs and threatened to explode? And most importantly, where was the angry? That Joan Jett and Cherie Currie had so much input into the film (Jett co-produced and the script was adapted from Currie's biography) makes it so much worse. I can believe that these young girls were not confident enough to stand up to the sexist bullying of their odious producer Kim Fowley, but I cannot believe they meandered through their Runaway days like the little lost personality-lacking lambs Dakota Fanning and Kristen Stewart so blankly portray them as. The film tries to take on the issue of exploitation in the music industry but never really comes out and talks about it. There is enough screen time to show scene after scene of pretty girls in makeup and lingerie wasted on uppers and downers, but not enough time to let the characters complain or even just comment on being manipulated. More cherry soda than cherry bomb.
Ari Up (pictured) died almost three weeks ago. Ari formed The Slits in 1976, a year after The Runaways started playing together. She is remembered as a vanguard of punk and feminism, even at 14 she was defiant and rebellious, the real wild girl who developed into a real wild woman. If they do make a film about The Slits I just hope they can convey the conviction they played their music with and the fun they had doing it, because this is what's missing from The Runaways film. That and angry teenagers, and surely they aren't that hard to find?
Friday, October 29, 2010
My sis sent me a link to Angus Mcdiarmid's page about his zook (zine/book) The Shire, mentioning that it reminded her of Skills and Glamour, the zine I made with my good friend Lottie while living in Somerset. Mcdiarmid's is a collection of photographs he took from his time in Devonshire, idyllic countryside England, living by the roadside with the gypsies. Images of giant marrows and the twisted rockscape of the west coast made me homesick for the simple days we spent growing veggies, making tables, building fires and pimping out our caravans.
From one countryside anarchist to another, Angus, may you stay beautiful, dirty broke and free.
Thursday, October 28, 2010
In 1970 renowned, reviled and revered gonzo journalist Hunter S Thompson ran for Sheriff of Aspen, the Colarado ski resort town that he had chosen to call home. In classic Hunter S style he used the local pub as his campaign HQ. Apparently he almost won but perhaps his policy on drug legalisation was a little too much for small town America to handle. Aspen used to be where the intellectuals came to drop out, but now it's all spas, saunas and ski lodges, a place where the disgustingly affluent go to do dropping out of a different kind. Me, I would prefer to holiday gonzo-style, quibbling with armchair philosophers on mescalin in the pool at Owl Farm rather than paying to fall over repeatedly in the snow. Sign me up Sheriff Thompson.
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
Ok so I stole the title of this post off a great blog, but it portrays exactly how I feel after writing an assignment for the first time in years. I'm studying horticulture and while the science of it all is at times baffling, it's also thankfully very practical and aimed and getting people to grow happy healthy plants. I am following an organic path but super-hippy-compassionate it's not! For example biological controls for pests include types of bacterium that eat up the insides of foliage-attacking caterpillars! Eww.
It's what's for dinner.
Woodland strawberries Fragaria vesca are growing in the pavement in my yard.
Saturday, October 23, 2010
The man I'm working for at the moment is an old sailor, and so the house is filled with literature on war ships and yacht racing. Mr S was on the HMS Repulse when it was sunk by the Japanese in 1941. He went on to race yachts for England. He sure is a survivor.
Surrounded by images of sea-going vessels my craft is inspired by this world of sailor tales. Although pirates and ships have become a bit of hipster cliché I still am drawn to the eerie wonder of life on the high seas. My late uncle was a sailor, he built his own ferro-cement yacht in the late 80s and after he sold it he claimed he never really felt at home again.
Sunday, October 17, 2010
I take my hat off and bow to you David Sedaris, in thanks for 'Squirrel Seeks Chipmunk: A Wicked Bestiary'. After requesting it at the library I was briefly dismayed to find myself holding what I thought was a children's book, illustrations and all. But upon finishing the first tale I realised that yes it is a children's book, a children's book for adults. Just because we grow older doesn't mean we stop wanting to read about cats and baboons chatting in the barbershop. Animals, with all their varied appearances, diets, grooming processes, sexual preferences, habitats and disgusting habits often make much more interesting subject matter than humans. Even humans with disgusting sexual grooming habits. This is Aesop's Fables for the potty-mouthed.
Saturday, October 16, 2010
Croatia: Cres Island. My good friend and I spent two languid days and nights on these rocks in our own private paradise. As part of our European Freedom Ride we were sleeping out most nights when we could, but nothing compared to waking up to this beautiful calm blue ocean and generous warm sunlight. I couldn't count the amount of times we turned around to each other with great big smiles and squinty eyes, only able to describe our pure happiness by shrugging our shoulders and diving once again into the gentle sparkling Adriatic.