This weekend I will be making Simon Hopkinson's Parmesan Biscuits. He won't mind. And thinking about making Parmesan Biscuits has reminded me of the infinite pleasure in a savoury treat. I don't mean crisps or Twiglets, though they are both savoury and pleasurable, I mean the home-made treat. A couple of weekends ago I made mini pigs in blankets, with a mustardy yogurty sauce. It's Nigella's. Delicious. Herself and I ate the whole lot.
Cheese straws, little sausage rolls, home-made flatbread with home-made hummus, toasted almonds tossed with chilli flakes and sea salt - I'm sure there are many others I have forgotten, but I'm so busy dreaming about Parmesan Biscuits I'm finding it hard to concentrate...
Friday, 21 October 2011
Thursday, 20 October 2011
208. 'I Capture the Castle' by Dodie Smith
Back to books. Back to basics.
Yes, Dodie Smith wrote '101 Dalmatians'. So she is responsible for Pongo (named after her own dog), Perdita, Cruella De Vil, and the Midnight Bark. She is also responsible for this:
'I write this sitting in the kitchen sink.'
Sigh.
So we already know that we are forever in her debt. But then we get to read the rest of 'I Capture the Castle' and it just gets better.
Anyone who has ever been seventeen, ever been lonely, ever been filled with that mixture of anticipation and anxiety that precedes adulthood (and in some cases continues well into it), should read this book.
It was written in 1949, so it isn't modern. It hasn't got any technology in it, and you will not find the word 'digital' within its pages. She probably wrote it by hand, and then typed it on a typewriter while wearing a twinset and pearls. Then she probably had a cigarette and a martini before changing for supper.
I wonder if she had any idea that 62 years after she wrote it, her book would still be making people happy. Hope so.
Yes, Dodie Smith wrote '101 Dalmatians'. So she is responsible for Pongo (named after her own dog), Perdita, Cruella De Vil, and the Midnight Bark. She is also responsible for this:
'I write this sitting in the kitchen sink.'
Sigh.
So we already know that we are forever in her debt. But then we get to read the rest of 'I Capture the Castle' and it just gets better.
Anyone who has ever been seventeen, ever been lonely, ever been filled with that mixture of anticipation and anxiety that precedes adulthood (and in some cases continues well into it), should read this book.
It was written in 1949, so it isn't modern. It hasn't got any technology in it, and you will not find the word 'digital' within its pages. She probably wrote it by hand, and then typed it on a typewriter while wearing a twinset and pearls. Then she probably had a cigarette and a martini before changing for supper.
I wonder if she had any idea that 62 years after she wrote it, her book would still be making people happy. Hope so.
207. Coleslaw
Or cold slaw, as Herself calls it.
One small white cabbage and four carrots will make you enough coleslaw for the entire post-Christmas period. I think you're supposed to wring the cabbage in muslin or something, to make it give up its water, but I like my coleslaw on the sloppy side, so I won't be doing that.
I do not add onion. I know, controversial. But Herself says that raw onion repeats on her and, frankly, I'd rather not live with a burpy onion-breather.
So you just grate your two main ingredients. Add mayo, some plain yogurt (if you want to be fancy) and some S and P. Mix. Leave to amalgamate and improve.
Serve with baked potatoes and leftover roast turkey/ham/beef/chicken. Slurp.
One small white cabbage and four carrots will make you enough coleslaw for the entire post-Christmas period. I think you're supposed to wring the cabbage in muslin or something, to make it give up its water, but I like my coleslaw on the sloppy side, so I won't be doing that.
I do not add onion. I know, controversial. But Herself says that raw onion repeats on her and, frankly, I'd rather not live with a burpy onion-breather.
So you just grate your two main ingredients. Add mayo, some plain yogurt (if you want to be fancy) and some S and P. Mix. Leave to amalgamate and improve.
Serve with baked potatoes and leftover roast turkey/ham/beef/chicken. Slurp.
Wednesday, 19 October 2011
206. A Shelf of Books
In moments of genuine distress I look for a cuddle from somebody I love who loves me. This, I believe, is what everybody does who is lucky enough to love and be loved. It's certainly why we should all have a pet.
But the unanimity of our response ends when it comes to gentler moments of sadness or doubt. Some people drink. Others eat chocolate, bake cakes, pick fights, take vigorous exercise... You get the picture.
I stand in front of bookshelves and look at the books.
What do you do?
You can lose yourself in a bookshelf. And there, standing proudly or slumped disconsolately, are some potential sources of solace. So there is the peace of looking, and the potential peace of discovery.
(I loved being a bookseller, as you can imagine. Loved it. Would still be doing it were it not for the third-world wages and the customers.)
Today I took myself off to the second-hand bookshops on King Street and spent half an hour standing in front of bookshelves. I bought three books and returned to my desk a calmer person. This strange emotional dependence is only one of the reasons why I am against the closure of libraries and the rise of e-books. Also, bookshops smell nice.
But the unanimity of our response ends when it comes to gentler moments of sadness or doubt. Some people drink. Others eat chocolate, bake cakes, pick fights, take vigorous exercise... You get the picture.
I stand in front of bookshelves and look at the books.
What do you do?
You can lose yourself in a bookshelf. And there, standing proudly or slumped disconsolately, are some potential sources of solace. So there is the peace of looking, and the potential peace of discovery.
(I loved being a bookseller, as you can imagine. Loved it. Would still be doing it were it not for the third-world wages and the customers.)
Today I took myself off to the second-hand bookshops on King Street and spent half an hour standing in front of bookshelves. I bought three books and returned to my desk a calmer person. This strange emotional dependence is only one of the reasons why I am against the closure of libraries and the rise of e-books. Also, bookshops smell nice.
Monday, 17 October 2011
205. Johnson's Spot Gel
I'm having a spotty time of it at the moment. There's a lot going on and most of it is sad or stressful or both, but you have to understand that I don't really get spots. I will allow all the other encroaching signs of age: grey hair, thickening middle, uncontrollable grouchiness, intolerable 'Iknowbetternyou'ness, but I will not have spots on my face. It's too much.
Anyway, of course I do get spots every now and again. I am only human, after all. But some years ago The Artist told me about Johnson's spot gel and I am now evangelical about it. It's not expensive, you don't need too much of it and it only stings a little bit. I'm using a tube of it a day on my face at the moment and it's doing a very good job. I had to wear my specs out with my mother the other day (which I don't normally do in case she takes them off my face so I can't see and then expects me to get the right bus home, like she did when I was a teenager) but that spot was enough to frighten small children, and the glasses covered it. Two days later, the spot gel has got it on the run.
Alternatively, you can use toothpaste. I'll leave it up to you.
Anyway, of course I do get spots every now and again. I am only human, after all. But some years ago The Artist told me about Johnson's spot gel and I am now evangelical about it. It's not expensive, you don't need too much of it and it only stings a little bit. I'm using a tube of it a day on my face at the moment and it's doing a very good job. I had to wear my specs out with my mother the other day (which I don't normally do in case she takes them off my face so I can't see and then expects me to get the right bus home, like she did when I was a teenager) but that spot was enough to frighten small children, and the glasses covered it. Two days later, the spot gel has got it on the run.
Alternatively, you can use toothpaste. I'll leave it up to you.
Friday, 14 October 2011
204. Fran Lebowitz
On the effect of the smoking ban on New York's cultural life:
I said directly to Michael Bloomberg, “You know what sitting around in bars and restaurants, talking and smoking and drinking, is called, Mike?” He said, “What?” I said, “It’s called the history of art.”
On being a writer:
I never wanted to be anything else. Well, if there had been a job of being a reader, I would have taken that, because I love to read and I don’t love to write. That would be blissful. Sometimes you meet people who really enjoy their work. Those are the people I am most envious of, no matter what their work is.
On not writing:
When I started getting real work done, I realized how much easier it is to write than not to write. Not writing is probably the most exhausting profession I’ve ever encountered. It takes it out of you. It’s very psychically wearing not to write—I mean if you’re supposed to be writing.
On funny writing:
I learned tricks, but being funny is like being tall. That is surely a thing that can’t be taught or learned. Either you’re funny or you’re not funny. You either see things in a funny way or you don’t. It’s a reflex action with me or anyone I’ve ever known who’s funny—whether funny conversationalists, stand-up comics, or funny writers. It’s a reflex, the way things strike you. Being funny in writing, especially in the essay form, which is so distilled, I learned certain tricks. I don’t think they would be of real value to anyone else.
Several years ago, someone asked me to talk to a class at Yale—a humor-writing class. To me this was the joke. Really, why not have a class on how to have blue eyes? If I was a parent and I found out that my child, on whom I was spending eight billion dollars a year sending to Yale, was taking a humor-writing class, I would be furious. I can’t imagine a more fraudulent activity than teaching a humor-writing class. Certainly those people should be in jail. I would like to arrest them personally.
When I have dinner with Nora and Alan we're going to invite Fran.
I said directly to Michael Bloomberg, “You know what sitting around in bars and restaurants, talking and smoking and drinking, is called, Mike?” He said, “What?” I said, “It’s called the history of art.”
On being a writer:
I never wanted to be anything else. Well, if there had been a job of being a reader, I would have taken that, because I love to read and I don’t love to write. That would be blissful. Sometimes you meet people who really enjoy their work. Those are the people I am most envious of, no matter what their work is.
On not writing:
When I started getting real work done, I realized how much easier it is to write than not to write. Not writing is probably the most exhausting profession I’ve ever encountered. It takes it out of you. It’s very psychically wearing not to write—I mean if you’re supposed to be writing.
On funny writing:
I learned tricks, but being funny is like being tall. That is surely a thing that can’t be taught or learned. Either you’re funny or you’re not funny. You either see things in a funny way or you don’t. It’s a reflex action with me or anyone I’ve ever known who’s funny—whether funny conversationalists, stand-up comics, or funny writers. It’s a reflex, the way things strike you. Being funny in writing, especially in the essay form, which is so distilled, I learned certain tricks. I don’t think they would be of real value to anyone else.
Several years ago, someone asked me to talk to a class at Yale—a humor-writing class. To me this was the joke. Really, why not have a class on how to have blue eyes? If I was a parent and I found out that my child, on whom I was spending eight billion dollars a year sending to Yale, was taking a humor-writing class, I would be furious. I can’t imagine a more fraudulent activity than teaching a humor-writing class. Certainly those people should be in jail. I would like to arrest them personally.
When I have dinner with Nora and Alan we're going to invite Fran.
203. Musical Theatre
My friend JT took me to see the musical Crazy For You at the Novello Theatre last night. We had the best seats in the house, which always helps, but you'd have to be in a sorry state not to enjoy the show, which is both insane (because the story makes no sense, really) and wonderful (Gershwin tunes, excellent singing and dancing, excellent sets, lots of laughs). We had a ball. And suddenly a sad and difficult week felt a little lighter on my shoulders...
I had to see Mary Poppins twice (and would have seen it many many more times had it not been prohibitively expensive). I will have to see Priscilla again before it comes off in January. I have a famous, and – for some – worrying, fondness for Rocky Horror. La Cage aux Folles made me happy even though I'd been made redundant earlier that day.
I could go on.
I am clearly a gay man trapped in a rather gorgeously curvaceous girl's body.
Lucky me.
I had to see Mary Poppins twice (and would have seen it many many more times had it not been prohibitively expensive). I will have to see Priscilla again before it comes off in January. I have a famous, and – for some – worrying, fondness for Rocky Horror. La Cage aux Folles made me happy even though I'd been made redundant earlier that day.
I could go on.
I am clearly a gay man trapped in a rather gorgeously curvaceous girl's body.
Lucky me.
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