It is raining. The confinement and the stuffiness inside have made me tired and short-tempered. I want sleep, but the inexorable natter of petulent children, teasing and arguing and crying, grinds away the soft drowsy edge. A door slams. They are short-tempered, too.
Wind-driven rain shears flakes of grey white paint from the window frames; they spiral downwards and then cling, sullenly inert, to the greasy pavement. The tree outside the window shivers and stretches sideways, its overturned leaves the same drained color as the ragged sky.
To break the monotony, we go out, a trip to the mall. In a place where it rains so much, it's surprising that there's so little for young children to do indoors. Television makes me hot and itchy. It makes my eyes hurt. It makes the children want things that they do not need. It steals our time.
The rain has slowed, it is now merely a wet dust. The drops dance in the wind and cling to my face and lashes like tears. This is not a falling rain, it is a settling one. A steel drum band plays grimly under a black canopy in the center of town. The children drop coins in the cases and dance until we are out of earshot. No one stops to listen.
The children splash in puddles with their boots, but even this is tedious to them. They want to go home. They want to be warm and dry. They want to watch television. So do I.
It is still raining.
Monday, May 26, 2008
Monday, May 19, 2008
That's No Way to Run an Airline
Geez, has it been a month since the last post? I'm sorry...
I'd intended to tell you all about the Italy trip, but I couldn't find a way to write it so that it reflected the true beauty and warmth of the places we visited, or in a way that didn't come across as travelogue or worse, as self-serving. Suffice to say that if you haven't been to Italy, go now if you can. You'll not regret it.
Parenting is hard. This should come as no surprise to anyone with children. We all like to think of ourselves as good parents, but what does that mean, really? Does it mean never disappointing our kids? I certainly hope not, since I really disappointed Caroline today.
Last night, in a fit of annoyance at all things messy, I threw something of hers away. It was a trifling little thing - a shoe box lid that converts into a doll house, along with whatever doll stuff was in it at the time - because it happened to be on the living room floor, and I happened to be tired of picking up the kid's crap.
When I threw it away, I suppose I knew that she'd be upset, but it wasn't until this morning when, my face just lathered for a shave, the dreaded question came.
"Daddy," she asked sweetly, "where is my doll house lid?"
"What's a doll house lid?" I knew, of course, exactly what she was after, but I stalled as best I could, hoping she'd get distracted by a bit of lint or something.
"That I got with my new shoes."
"New shoes?" I repeated, feigning ignorance; the lather squeaking its accusation across my chin and cheeks.
When I had finally run out of questions, I had no choice but to admit that I'd thrown it away. At first she didn't react, and I thought maybe she hadn't heard, or didn't care. It seemed to take a minute for her face to bloom into full expression of anguish, an unpleasant mix of disappointment, betrayal and anger. I don't wish to see it again.
To add insult to injury, I tried to make it her fault. "Don't leave your toys laying around - I'm sick of picking them up!" This is true enough, but in actual fact, what drove me to it was the cumulative effect of the toys and of the generally apalling state of the kitchen floor, the children having recently completed a project involving something called 'glitter glue'. Curse the twisted mind which spawned this hellish combination of microscopic bits of shiny colored plastic in a thick sticky substance. The residue of this project will be with us for some time to come.
Caroline refused to say goodbye to me this morning. She who usually elbows Michael out of the way for the best position to blow kisses from the front window refused to even look at me as I left.
I've always had a deeply morbid streak, so it's a rare day that I leave the house without at least a fleeting recognition that, life being short and relatively fragile, mine might end at any moment; and that the final mental image the children would have of me after my untimely death would be through that pane of glass, streaked with paint and dust. What a horrible thought, then, was the one that occurred to me today: that my daughter's last memory of me would be of me as asshole.
Off and on, this thought haunted me through the day, and so I was grateful that Caroline was awake when I came home tonight. My reception was chilly at first, but after telling her that it was stupid of me and that I was sorry, she softened. It seems we're on the mend now, since I got her to smile, and even let her scam me into telling her another story.
I used to know a guy who insisted that parents should be never be seen to be wrong by their children. This seems to me an impossible standard to live up to, and, even if one could twist the facts in such a way as to appear to be right all the time (and this is relatively easy to accomplish with kids), the offspring would surely develop a warped view of the world. I'm human. I'm going to be wrong sometimes. I'm going to do stupid shit. I'm going to be an asshole now and again. It's the way life is, best to learn to deal with it young.
This doesn't excuse me being an asshole of course. I'll do my best not to be, but I think it's important for kids to realize that everyone, even their parents, can be wrong sometimes, and even more important for them to see their parents admit when they're wrong and try to make amends.
When British Airways recently began full-scale operations in the new state of the art Terminal 5 at Heathrow airport, there were, predictably, many problems. Baggage handling systems malfunctioned, causing massive delays and cancellations, escalators abruptly converted themselves into steps, employees were late because they hadn't been told where to park. Days of public outrage ensued, during which time, the president of BA more or less buried his head and denied that there was a problem.
By the time he finally fessed up and tried to rectify the problems, it was too late. BA's reputation was damaged, and the airline will have a hard time recovering. I avoid it for business travel when I can (Virgin's sooo much better...). I recall an editorial on the subject, which with profound wisdom pointed out that customers are remarkably forgiving of you making a complete cockup of things, provided you react appropriately, acknowledge the problem, and be seen trying to fix it. The object lesson here is that if you're the president of an airline, a few hours spent helping to sort your customer's bags will do more than any amount of well-placed PR material. And the object lesson for me is that this forgiveness principle applies equally to many things beyond running airlines.
I just hope it applies to parenting.
I'd intended to tell you all about the Italy trip, but I couldn't find a way to write it so that it reflected the true beauty and warmth of the places we visited, or in a way that didn't come across as travelogue or worse, as self-serving. Suffice to say that if you haven't been to Italy, go now if you can. You'll not regret it.
Parenting is hard. This should come as no surprise to anyone with children. We all like to think of ourselves as good parents, but what does that mean, really? Does it mean never disappointing our kids? I certainly hope not, since I really disappointed Caroline today.
Last night, in a fit of annoyance at all things messy, I threw something of hers away. It was a trifling little thing - a shoe box lid that converts into a doll house, along with whatever doll stuff was in it at the time - because it happened to be on the living room floor, and I happened to be tired of picking up the kid's crap.
When I threw it away, I suppose I knew that she'd be upset, but it wasn't until this morning when, my face just lathered for a shave, the dreaded question came.
"Daddy," she asked sweetly, "where is my doll house lid?"
"What's a doll house lid?" I knew, of course, exactly what she was after, but I stalled as best I could, hoping she'd get distracted by a bit of lint or something.
"That I got with my new shoes."
"New shoes?" I repeated, feigning ignorance; the lather squeaking its accusation across my chin and cheeks.
When I had finally run out of questions, I had no choice but to admit that I'd thrown it away. At first she didn't react, and I thought maybe she hadn't heard, or didn't care. It seemed to take a minute for her face to bloom into full expression of anguish, an unpleasant mix of disappointment, betrayal and anger. I don't wish to see it again.
To add insult to injury, I tried to make it her fault. "Don't leave your toys laying around - I'm sick of picking them up!" This is true enough, but in actual fact, what drove me to it was the cumulative effect of the toys and of the generally apalling state of the kitchen floor, the children having recently completed a project involving something called 'glitter glue'. Curse the twisted mind which spawned this hellish combination of microscopic bits of shiny colored plastic in a thick sticky substance. The residue of this project will be with us for some time to come.
Caroline refused to say goodbye to me this morning. She who usually elbows Michael out of the way for the best position to blow kisses from the front window refused to even look at me as I left.
I've always had a deeply morbid streak, so it's a rare day that I leave the house without at least a fleeting recognition that, life being short and relatively fragile, mine might end at any moment; and that the final mental image the children would have of me after my untimely death would be through that pane of glass, streaked with paint and dust. What a horrible thought, then, was the one that occurred to me today: that my daughter's last memory of me would be of me as asshole.
Off and on, this thought haunted me through the day, and so I was grateful that Caroline was awake when I came home tonight. My reception was chilly at first, but after telling her that it was stupid of me and that I was sorry, she softened. It seems we're on the mend now, since I got her to smile, and even let her scam me into telling her another story.
I used to know a guy who insisted that parents should be never be seen to be wrong by their children. This seems to me an impossible standard to live up to, and, even if one could twist the facts in such a way as to appear to be right all the time (and this is relatively easy to accomplish with kids), the offspring would surely develop a warped view of the world. I'm human. I'm going to be wrong sometimes. I'm going to do stupid shit. I'm going to be an asshole now and again. It's the way life is, best to learn to deal with it young.
This doesn't excuse me being an asshole of course. I'll do my best not to be, but I think it's important for kids to realize that everyone, even their parents, can be wrong sometimes, and even more important for them to see their parents admit when they're wrong and try to make amends.
When British Airways recently began full-scale operations in the new state of the art Terminal 5 at Heathrow airport, there were, predictably, many problems. Baggage handling systems malfunctioned, causing massive delays and cancellations, escalators abruptly converted themselves into steps, employees were late because they hadn't been told where to park. Days of public outrage ensued, during which time, the president of BA more or less buried his head and denied that there was a problem.
By the time he finally fessed up and tried to rectify the problems, it was too late. BA's reputation was damaged, and the airline will have a hard time recovering. I avoid it for business travel when I can (Virgin's sooo much better...). I recall an editorial on the subject, which with profound wisdom pointed out that customers are remarkably forgiving of you making a complete cockup of things, provided you react appropriately, acknowledge the problem, and be seen trying to fix it. The object lesson here is that if you're the president of an airline, a few hours spent helping to sort your customer's bags will do more than any amount of well-placed PR material. And the object lesson for me is that this forgiveness principle applies equally to many things beyond running airlines.
I just hope it applies to parenting.
Saturday, April 19, 2008
Plot Synopsis and trailer
So we've returned from eating our way through the countryside of northeastern Italy, and are none too happy about being back in grey rainy London. But, on the upside, I no longer have to use my thumbs to blog from my Blackberry, so I will resume the verbosity to which you have surely become accustomed, and describe in glowing detail all that we saw, heard, felt, and most importantly, ate. But not all at once. That would be too overwhelming. For me, anyway.
The seed for this trip was a Fodor's guide to Italy which Michele bought a few years ago. That seed germinated one day some months back when we were racking our brains to find something to do with the kids for Easter break.
A note about the school system here - although the school year runs through mid-July, there are a number of weeklong breaks, called half-terms, which occur at apparently random intervals during the school year. There must be some consistency, though, as all of the airlines and hotels know exactly when to raise their rates so as to coincide with these breaks. I suspect collusion between the local educational authorities and the travel industry.
The Easter break, which is two weeks long, started April 7. Those among you who are either Christians or who study the complexities of the lunar cycles which determine the actual date on which Easter occurs (if you fall into the latter category, I suggest you find a more interesting hobby; perhaps lint collecting would be the way forward), will note that the start of the Easter break date bears no discernable relationship to the actual date of its namesake, which occurred at the end of March. I don't know why it's called the Easter break, and I suspect no one else does, either.
Regardless, the Fodor's guide suggested an itinerary for foodies, a group of which I am most decidedly a member, and this got our attention. The rest seemed straightforward. We decided to stay in four places for three nights each and booked our flights accordingly. From the staggeringly aggressive whirlwind tour suggested by the Fodor's guide (apparently written for those with private helicopters, since you'd need about two weeks just to do the driving), we chose four towns. We started about 40km north of Venice in Treviso, then headed into the mountains to Trento, so far north that it's practically Austria (and was, once), then back south to fair Verona (fictional home of the Capulets and the Montagues) and finally into Venice.
Finding accommodation turned out to be a little tricky. While the first three towns are not exactly off the beaten path, most visitors to northern Italy stay in Milan or Venice, and day trip to the smaller areas like Treviso. And, as we'd be travelling with the kids (this trip was, after all, intended to keep them occupied during the school break), we needed to find places that were child friendly, with room for the kids to stretch their legs and for us to get away from them when needed. Plus, as we were going for 12 nights, cost was a factor. Hotels simply wouldn't work - we've stayed in hotels with the kids and besides being pricey, there's just not enough room in the room.
Once again, Google came to the rescue. "Bed and breakfast, children and Treviso" turned up a bunch of useful and interesting places, and so, our first nights booked and our general approach to finding accommodation solidified, our trip was on.
For the Treviso leg, we stayed in the village of Codogné, about 30 minutes drive from Treviso. I already described the villa and its owner, and our first night's dinner, which was tasty but testy as the children (and us) were well knackered from the journey. Note to self, cheap and easy is the way to go for the first night.
We were pleasantly surprised by how well the kids took to eating late. We ate at 8:00 the second night, and by the third night we were pushing Italians aside to get a table at 9:00. For kids who are accustomed to eating at 5 and being in bed at 7, their adaptation was remarkable, and you may well wonder how we accomplished this transformation. We took a three-pronged approach:
1. Feed them ice cream at 4:00.
2. Make them nap from 5:30-7:30.
3. Find something to occupy them for the duration of the meal.
As you might imagine, item 1 was easily accomplished in the country that invented (or at least perfected) ice cream. The naps came naturally enough, as we simply structured our day so that we'd be in the car for about an hour around naptime, allowing them to fall asleep. Transferring them into the house without waking them was tricky but we managed.
Finding something to keep them busy enough to allow us to enjoy a 2 hour dinner proved somewhat troublesome at first. The initial shine of paper and colored pencils faded quickly until, purely by chance, we found a mealtime entertainment that occupied them for the rest of the trip. On the second or third night, Caroline had drawn an American flag in her notebook. I asked whether they'd learned how to draw the UK flag in school. They hadn't, so I showed her. From then on, both Caroline's and Michael's net output of world flags would have made a Taiwanese factory manager's tiny little stone heart swell with admiration. Their hunger for flag designs was so acute that our own paltry flag knowledge was rapidly depleted.
It seemed that our budding distractionary measure would die an early death until I remembered the lifesaving device I always keep in my pocket - my Blackberry. In 30 seconds, a search for 'world flags' yielded tiny little images of all 170+ flags of the world, and from then on, the kids happily made flags morning, noon and night. You know, I really think this Internet thingy is more than a passing fad.
The children thus occupied, Michele and I turned our attention to more pressing matters - namely, what and where to eat. And wow, did we have some fantastic meals. In fact, every meal we had was memorable in some way. But my fingers are tired, so consider this a starter(a primo piatto, if you will) and I'll describe some of them next time. In the meantime, you can find some of my favorite photos and informative and entertaining commentary here.
The seed for this trip was a Fodor's guide to Italy which Michele bought a few years ago. That seed germinated one day some months back when we were racking our brains to find something to do with the kids for Easter break.
A note about the school system here - although the school year runs through mid-July, there are a number of weeklong breaks, called half-terms, which occur at apparently random intervals during the school year. There must be some consistency, though, as all of the airlines and hotels know exactly when to raise their rates so as to coincide with these breaks. I suspect collusion between the local educational authorities and the travel industry.
The Easter break, which is two weeks long, started April 7. Those among you who are either Christians or who study the complexities of the lunar cycles which determine the actual date on which Easter occurs (if you fall into the latter category, I suggest you find a more interesting hobby; perhaps lint collecting would be the way forward), will note that the start of the Easter break date bears no discernable relationship to the actual date of its namesake, which occurred at the end of March. I don't know why it's called the Easter break, and I suspect no one else does, either.
Regardless, the Fodor's guide suggested an itinerary for foodies, a group of which I am most decidedly a member, and this got our attention. The rest seemed straightforward. We decided to stay in four places for three nights each and booked our flights accordingly. From the staggeringly aggressive whirlwind tour suggested by the Fodor's guide (apparently written for those with private helicopters, since you'd need about two weeks just to do the driving), we chose four towns. We started about 40km north of Venice in Treviso, then headed into the mountains to Trento, so far north that it's practically Austria (and was, once), then back south to fair Verona (fictional home of the Capulets and the Montagues) and finally into Venice.
Finding accommodation turned out to be a little tricky. While the first three towns are not exactly off the beaten path, most visitors to northern Italy stay in Milan or Venice, and day trip to the smaller areas like Treviso. And, as we'd be travelling with the kids (this trip was, after all, intended to keep them occupied during the school break), we needed to find places that were child friendly, with room for the kids to stretch their legs and for us to get away from them when needed. Plus, as we were going for 12 nights, cost was a factor. Hotels simply wouldn't work - we've stayed in hotels with the kids and besides being pricey, there's just not enough room in the room.
Once again, Google came to the rescue. "Bed and breakfast, children and Treviso" turned up a bunch of useful and interesting places, and so, our first nights booked and our general approach to finding accommodation solidified, our trip was on.
For the Treviso leg, we stayed in the village of Codogné, about 30 minutes drive from Treviso. I already described the villa and its owner, and our first night's dinner, which was tasty but testy as the children (and us) were well knackered from the journey. Note to self, cheap and easy is the way to go for the first night.
We were pleasantly surprised by how well the kids took to eating late. We ate at 8:00 the second night, and by the third night we were pushing Italians aside to get a table at 9:00. For kids who are accustomed to eating at 5 and being in bed at 7, their adaptation was remarkable, and you may well wonder how we accomplished this transformation. We took a three-pronged approach:
1. Feed them ice cream at 4:00.
2. Make them nap from 5:30-7:30.
3. Find something to occupy them for the duration of the meal.
As you might imagine, item 1 was easily accomplished in the country that invented (or at least perfected) ice cream. The naps came naturally enough, as we simply structured our day so that we'd be in the car for about an hour around naptime, allowing them to fall asleep. Transferring them into the house without waking them was tricky but we managed.
Finding something to keep them busy enough to allow us to enjoy a 2 hour dinner proved somewhat troublesome at first. The initial shine of paper and colored pencils faded quickly until, purely by chance, we found a mealtime entertainment that occupied them for the rest of the trip. On the second or third night, Caroline had drawn an American flag in her notebook. I asked whether they'd learned how to draw the UK flag in school. They hadn't, so I showed her. From then on, both Caroline's and Michael's net output of world flags would have made a Taiwanese factory manager's tiny little stone heart swell with admiration. Their hunger for flag designs was so acute that our own paltry flag knowledge was rapidly depleted.
It seemed that our budding distractionary measure would die an early death until I remembered the lifesaving device I always keep in my pocket - my Blackberry. In 30 seconds, a search for 'world flags' yielded tiny little images of all 170+ flags of the world, and from then on, the kids happily made flags morning, noon and night. You know, I really think this Internet thingy is more than a passing fad.
The children thus occupied, Michele and I turned our attention to more pressing matters - namely, what and where to eat. And wow, did we have some fantastic meals. In fact, every meal we had was memorable in some way. But my fingers are tired, so consider this a starter(a primo piatto, if you will) and I'll describe some of them next time. In the meantime, you can find some of my favorite photos and informative and entertaining commentary here.
Sunday, April 6, 2008
Italy, Day 1
For all its woes, the journey to, the transit through, and the flight from Heathrow couldn't have been better. We were having bloody marys in the lounge less than 90 minutes after leaving home. Well, at least I was. Michele needed to buy some good walking shoes. And a good thing she did, too, as we'll see later.
After the hustle and bustle of the world's busiest airport, Venice's Marco Polo seemed about as busy as the Scranton airport on a Sunday night in February. I had collected the bags before the kids were done with their post-arrival toilet. No trouble at the car rental, didn't even need those International Drivers Permits we agonized over getting (you can only get them in the US if you have a US license, which presents an obvious geographic challenge for us, since it's not like we can just pop over there).
Our first B+B, Villa Ariella in Codogne, north of Treviso, is lovely. It's a 18th century villa, and Patricia, the owner, was helpful and gracious. But as you might expect in a 300 year old house, it's pretty damn cold. The floor is marble tile, which is even damn colder. I think I have frostbite from it.
Last night's dinner was exceptionally tasty, but the kids were miserable. Well, mostly Caroline. She and I went to the grocery store instead of making her nap, which would have been a much better plan. We all ate apples and potato chips and parma ham from the store for a snack, thinking this would hold us until we could have a proper dinner. It didn't. We went to dinner at 7, which is about 2 hours too early by Italian standards, and were the only ones in the place.
Though the food was fantastic (I had venison stew with a sauce that included, I found out later, juniper berries), the constant whinging from the direction of our children made me a little testy. Ok, more than a little.
The water pitchers seemed specifically designed to pour water everywhere but in the glass, so both Michele and I managed to drench the tablecoth on more than one occasion. As if this weren't embarassing enough, Michael insisted on saying 'poop' every third word, and Caroline nearly fell asleep in her chicken.
They slept well.
This morning, after breakfast, the kids did some exploring in the back garden. Had we not insisted that we go sample at least some of what this generous land has to offer, I think they'd still be out there crushing snail shells.
we piled into our rented Mercedes (actually more like a Ford Focus, but comfortable enough) and set the GPS for a town called Asolo. What a lovely little town and well worth all the whining we had to listen to on the way.
One downside of Asolo is that it's pretty much straight uphill from the car park. And not just any hill, mind you, a great, huge, chest pain-inducing medieval hill. No wonder life expectancies then were about 15 years.
And once you reach the pretty little town and have a great big lunch, it's another few hundred feet up to the castle on top of the hill above town. Totally worth it, though, as the view of the mountains and surrounding countryside from up there was just amazing. Or maybe it seemed so cool because of the hallucinations brought on by lack of oxygen to the brain. Can't be certain.
Michael had a good nap this afternoon, and Caroline had a little snooze in the car, so we're all set for a late dinner. My Italian is somewhat limited, so I may or may not have made reservations, possibly for 4 people woth 2 children, and maybe for 8 o'clock tonight. Or I may have insulted the mother of the man who answered the phone. Again, can't be certain.
Now, off to dinner. Ciao!
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Saturday, March 29, 2008
Fish Tale
This morning dawned bright and glorious. Today is the last day of standard time, so it'll be dark again in the morning for a while (at least until the summer solstice, when the sun rises at like 4:30am).
Sunny mornings like today's make we want to jump out of bed and do something productive. The fact that the kids were in our room by 6:00 helped, too. So today, I went on an excursion to Borough Market by myself. I've written about the market before, and we went every Saturday religiously last summer. Visiting the Market makes me to think creatively about food. The rich palate of colors, sights and smells splashed boldly against a backdrop of ancient brick and Victorian iron make it nearly impossible not to be inspired to reach for a new culinary experience.
Today, though, was even better. I rarely get to go to the market without the kids, and never before about 10:00. Today I found myself climbing up from the London Bridge tube station at about 8:15. The streets around the market were empty, so much so that I was thinking that maybe it was closed for the winter right up until I turned into the alley that runs along the side of the market and saw the familiar reds, greens and yellows of the produce stall. Today, I could get as close as I wanted to the stalls. Today, I could browse at a leisurely pace. Today, I actually got to talk to some of the vendors.
Today, I am making sea bass.
Fish is good for us. We should eat more of it. As a kid, I never really liked fish. It was too, well, fishy. I liked fish sticks, though, which back in the 70's actually contained some fish. Ah, the good old days. But I digress.
I had gone with the intention of buying sea bass filets, since I know there are several fishmongers there. I figured I'd make the rest up based on what looked good. Trouble is, everything looked good. It was a difficult decision, but I finally settled on pan-fried sea bass with red chillies and fennel, asparagus and baby carrots and boiled new potatoes. Hm, but wait, that rocket looks good. Maybe a rocket salad to start. With fennel, stilton and a light vinaigrette. Wait, I can't put fennel in the fish, too. Oh, damn.
My first challenge was the fish. As one accustomed to buying his fish in filet form, the prospect of fileting my very expensive sea bass was somewhat daunting. In hindsight, I should have bought a few trout or something to practice on. The web is a great source of information, as I've alluded to previously, but it's difficult to learn from photos how to deal with fish on the hoof, as it were.
I managed to mangle the first attempt, eventually producing two thin strips of pinkish almost boneless flesh. The second turned out much better, though I nearly destroyed that one trying to remove the skin. We'll just have to eat them with the skin on. And watch out for bones.
The carnage over, fish parts sprayed around the kitchen, a sensible person would have taken pity on the poor creature gazing sadly up at me, covered in its own offal. A sensible person would have tossed away the carcass, happy to quit while he's ahead. A sensible person would have poured a glass of wine and read a book. Not me, though. What do you do with a perfectly good fish carcass? You make fish stock, of course! This required another heretofore unattempted feat of knifework, that of removing the gills.
Outside of high school biology, in which I paid very little attention, I haven't dealt with fish gills. Ever. Fortunately, Google came to my rescue yet again, finding for me a helpful diagram of how to remove the gills from a fish. It's a messy process, at least the way I do it.
I'm still cooking, so the menu might change, but here's what I have so far:
- Rocket salad with fennel and stilton, vinaigrette dressing
- Pan fried sea bass with thyme, chillies, leeks and lemon, sauce veloute
- Baby carrots and asparagus
- Boiled new potatoes
- Pear and dark chocolate tartelets
- A 2006 Viognier, highly recommended by my friends at Wimbledon Wine Cellar.
We'll see how this all turns out.
Sunny mornings like today's make we want to jump out of bed and do something productive. The fact that the kids were in our room by 6:00 helped, too. So today, I went on an excursion to Borough Market by myself. I've written about the market before, and we went every Saturday religiously last summer. Visiting the Market makes me to think creatively about food. The rich palate of colors, sights and smells splashed boldly against a backdrop of ancient brick and Victorian iron make it nearly impossible not to be inspired to reach for a new culinary experience.
Today, though, was even better. I rarely get to go to the market without the kids, and never before about 10:00. Today I found myself climbing up from the London Bridge tube station at about 8:15. The streets around the market were empty, so much so that I was thinking that maybe it was closed for the winter right up until I turned into the alley that runs along the side of the market and saw the familiar reds, greens and yellows of the produce stall. Today, I could get as close as I wanted to the stalls. Today, I could browse at a leisurely pace. Today, I actually got to talk to some of the vendors.
Today, I am making sea bass.
Fish is good for us. We should eat more of it. As a kid, I never really liked fish. It was too, well, fishy. I liked fish sticks, though, which back in the 70's actually contained some fish. Ah, the good old days. But I digress.
I had gone with the intention of buying sea bass filets, since I know there are several fishmongers there. I figured I'd make the rest up based on what looked good. Trouble is, everything looked good. It was a difficult decision, but I finally settled on pan-fried sea bass with red chillies and fennel, asparagus and baby carrots and boiled new potatoes. Hm, but wait, that rocket looks good. Maybe a rocket salad to start. With fennel, stilton and a light vinaigrette. Wait, I can't put fennel in the fish, too. Oh, damn.
My first challenge was the fish. As one accustomed to buying his fish in filet form, the prospect of fileting my very expensive sea bass was somewhat daunting. In hindsight, I should have bought a few trout or something to practice on. The web is a great source of information, as I've alluded to previously, but it's difficult to learn from photos how to deal with fish on the hoof, as it were.
I managed to mangle the first attempt, eventually producing two thin strips of pinkish almost boneless flesh. The second turned out much better, though I nearly destroyed that one trying to remove the skin. We'll just have to eat them with the skin on. And watch out for bones.
The carnage over, fish parts sprayed around the kitchen, a sensible person would have taken pity on the poor creature gazing sadly up at me, covered in its own offal. A sensible person would have tossed away the carcass, happy to quit while he's ahead. A sensible person would have poured a glass of wine and read a book. Not me, though. What do you do with a perfectly good fish carcass? You make fish stock, of course! This required another heretofore unattempted feat of knifework, that of removing the gills.
Outside of high school biology, in which I paid very little attention, I haven't dealt with fish gills. Ever. Fortunately, Google came to my rescue yet again, finding for me a helpful diagram of how to remove the gills from a fish. It's a messy process, at least the way I do it.
I'm still cooking, so the menu might change, but here's what I have so far:
- Rocket salad with fennel and stilton, vinaigrette dressing
- Pan fried sea bass with thyme, chillies, leeks and lemon, sauce veloute
- Baby carrots and asparagus
- Boiled new potatoes
- Pear and dark chocolate tartelets
- A 2006 Viognier, highly recommended by my friends at Wimbledon Wine Cellar.
We'll see how this all turns out.
Monday, March 24, 2008
Happy Easter
Geez, sorry I've been away so long. No excuse really, just haven't had the energy or time to write much lately. Seems I was pretty drained by taking care of the children while Michele went' back to the US for a week. It was a lot of fun, actually, getting to observe the children in their natural habitat and all, but I barely sat down from 6:15 in the morning until about 8:30 at night.
I did get a bit of time to myself later in the week - even spent a few hours in a suny park reading a book. Don't think I've done that since college, and back then I only went outside when I couldn't take the smell of whatver it was that had died under my pile of 6 weeks' worth of laundry.
So glad that Michele was back, I went back to work just in time to pack all of my stuff for the move to a new building. I say "new" only in the sense that it's not the building I've been in since moving here. In fact, it's about 20 years old, and shows it. The wallpaper is vaguely reminiscent of a set of kitchen chairs I had in the early 1990's, with colorful spongue painting effects on them. Very leg warmers and big hair.
The view is no great shakes, either. In the first building we were on the top floor, with panoramic views upriver to the City, and all of iconic London spread out below us - Tower Bridge, St. Paul's, the Gherkin, the Eye and, with a bit of a squint and a favorable wind, Big Ben. We shared the clouds with the gods.
Now, from my new 5th floor vantage, I can see the roof of my building and the tube station. Yeah, it's still London, and so by definition, even the new view is more interesting than the view from my office in Conshohocken, which was of the hotel next door, but still...
Caroline lost her first tooth the other day. Most kids would be happy to just stick the tooth under their pillow and get a dime in return for their trouble. Not my daughter. She had to leave a note for the tooth fairy, expressing her undying affection, and requesting a self-portrait. Fortunately, Michele took care of this, as she is, as has been previously noted, the artist in the family.
Having realized on Saturday that not only was I completely unprepared for any sort of Easter dinner on Sunday (except maybe ordering a curry), but also that everything was likely to be closed on Easter, I called a local butcher, who not only had a beautiful 2kilo pork loin in stock, but also delivered it within about 15 minutes! Who says service in England is bad?
What I hadn't really thought about, since I was fully expecting the butcher to be closed on Saturday, was just how much pork is 2kilos. A kilo is 2.2 pounds, for the metrically challenged among you. In short, it's a lotta pork. What to do with this gigantic slab of pig? So, pork loin in hand (er, fridge), I set out to find an interesting recipie.
One of the most wonderful things about the Internet is its ability to find things. Life would really be perfect if I could Google for, say, "where's my remote"? (In fact, I just tried this, and received this list of helpful suggestions). The fact that one can search by a bunch of arbitrary key words is incredibly useful. Finding recipies this way is a breeze. For example, I wanted to do something involving pork, mustard and rosemary (we have a rosemary bush). Rather than needing to know the name of a dish involving each of these ingredients, I just searched for "'pork loin' rosemary mustard".
One of the other downsides about the searching on the Internet is that search engines are generally kind of dumb. While a human of even modest intelligence would realize from those keywords that I was after one recipie containing all three ingredients, Google isn't that smart, at least not yet (the notion of intelligence in searching is part of what's loosely called Web 2.0). So while the results contained mostly recipies with the three ingredients, all three weren't necessarily all in the same dish. This actually turned out to be a good thing, else I'd never have found this: Roasted Pork Loin with Apples and Rosemary. I won't bother repeating the recipie here, but will note that I did this with just the two halves of the pork loin, butterflied, and that I added 3-4 large shallots, finely chopped, to the stuffing. It was delicious. If I did it again, I might lower the oven temp to 350 and plan to let it roast for about 1.75 hours.
In addition, I made a really good batch of Brussels Sprouts. Now, I realize that most of you are turning up your noses, but these are unlike any Brussels Sprouts you're likely to have had. I made a similar dish for Thanksgiving, but I think this one is much improved. The beauty of this is that you can get everything cooked ahead of time, and then at the last minute just heat it all up just before serving. The key to successful Brussels Sprouts is to not cook them too long - overcooked, they become most unpleasant, but done just right, they are crunchy, sweet and a little bit sharp. These went really well with the pork.
Totally Edible Bacon Brussels Sprouts
1 lb fresh Brussels Sprouts
1/2 lb bacon, diced
2 large shallots, finely diced
1 Tbsp olive oil
1 Tbsp white sugar (might be good with brown sugar, come to think of it)
Tabasco sauce
1/4c cider vinegar
Salt
Fresh ground pepper
Prep (You can do all of this on the day well in advance of serving): wash sprouts and trim off the stems and outer leaves. In a large pan (I use a wok, but that's just my style...), heat olive oil over medium heat, and when hot, drop all of the bacon in and stir it to break it up. Reduce heat to low and let the bacon simmer until it starts to brown. Add the shallots, salt and pepper to taste, a few drops of Tobasco, stir well and continue to cook over low heat until the bacon is dark brown and crisp. Remove from heat and set the whole pan aside.
In the meantime, cook the sprouts by bringing a pot of salted water to the boil and dropping the sprouts in. Cook for 5 minutes (the water will eventually start to boil again, but start counting the 5 minutes as soon as you drop the sprouts in. I happen to like mine pretty crisp; if you prefer them a little less al dente, you can cook them slightly longer, but in any case, no more than 7 minutes or you might as well just throw them away). Drain and put them back into the pot, filling it with cold water. Run cold water over them continuously for about 3 minutes, or until they no longer feel warm. Drain again and set aside.
Finish (just before serving): Heat the bacon mixture over medium-high heat until it starts to sizzle. Add the cider vinegar and stir for a few minutes to deglaze the pan. Then add the sprouts, turn them to coat with the sauce, and heat until hot (1-2 minutes) stirring occasionally. Adjust seasoning if needed.
I hope you all had a happy Easter...
I did get a bit of time to myself later in the week - even spent a few hours in a suny park reading a book. Don't think I've done that since college, and back then I only went outside when I couldn't take the smell of whatver it was that had died under my pile of 6 weeks' worth of laundry.
So glad that Michele was back, I went back to work just in time to pack all of my stuff for the move to a new building. I say "new" only in the sense that it's not the building I've been in since moving here. In fact, it's about 20 years old, and shows it. The wallpaper is vaguely reminiscent of a set of kitchen chairs I had in the early 1990's, with colorful spongue painting effects on them. Very leg warmers and big hair.
The view is no great shakes, either. In the first building we were on the top floor, with panoramic views upriver to the City, and all of iconic London spread out below us - Tower Bridge, St. Paul's, the Gherkin, the Eye and, with a bit of a squint and a favorable wind, Big Ben. We shared the clouds with the gods.
Now, from my new 5th floor vantage, I can see the roof of my building and the tube station. Yeah, it's still London, and so by definition, even the new view is more interesting than the view from my office in Conshohocken, which was of the hotel next door, but still...
Caroline lost her first tooth the other day. Most kids would be happy to just stick the tooth under their pillow and get a dime in return for their trouble. Not my daughter. She had to leave a note for the tooth fairy, expressing her undying affection, and requesting a self-portrait. Fortunately, Michele took care of this, as she is, as has been previously noted, the artist in the family.
Having realized on Saturday that not only was I completely unprepared for any sort of Easter dinner on Sunday (except maybe ordering a curry), but also that everything was likely to be closed on Easter, I called a local butcher, who not only had a beautiful 2kilo pork loin in stock, but also delivered it within about 15 minutes! Who says service in England is bad?
What I hadn't really thought about, since I was fully expecting the butcher to be closed on Saturday, was just how much pork is 2kilos. A kilo is 2.2 pounds, for the metrically challenged among you. In short, it's a lotta pork. What to do with this gigantic slab of pig? So, pork loin in hand (er, fridge), I set out to find an interesting recipie.
One of the most wonderful things about the Internet is its ability to find things. Life would really be perfect if I could Google for, say, "where's my remote"? (In fact, I just tried this, and received this list of helpful suggestions). The fact that one can search by a bunch of arbitrary key words is incredibly useful. Finding recipies this way is a breeze. For example, I wanted to do something involving pork, mustard and rosemary (we have a rosemary bush). Rather than needing to know the name of a dish involving each of these ingredients, I just searched for "'pork loin' rosemary mustard".
One of the other downsides about the searching on the Internet is that search engines are generally kind of dumb. While a human of even modest intelligence would realize from those keywords that I was after one recipie containing all three ingredients, Google isn't that smart, at least not yet (the notion of intelligence in searching is part of what's loosely called Web 2.0). So while the results contained mostly recipies with the three ingredients, all three weren't necessarily all in the same dish. This actually turned out to be a good thing, else I'd never have found this: Roasted Pork Loin with Apples and Rosemary. I won't bother repeating the recipie here, but will note that I did this with just the two halves of the pork loin, butterflied, and that I added 3-4 large shallots, finely chopped, to the stuffing. It was delicious. If I did it again, I might lower the oven temp to 350 and plan to let it roast for about 1.75 hours.
In addition, I made a really good batch of Brussels Sprouts. Now, I realize that most of you are turning up your noses, but these are unlike any Brussels Sprouts you're likely to have had. I made a similar dish for Thanksgiving, but I think this one is much improved. The beauty of this is that you can get everything cooked ahead of time, and then at the last minute just heat it all up just before serving. The key to successful Brussels Sprouts is to not cook them too long - overcooked, they become most unpleasant, but done just right, they are crunchy, sweet and a little bit sharp. These went really well with the pork.
Totally Edible Bacon Brussels Sprouts
1 lb fresh Brussels Sprouts
1/2 lb bacon, diced
2 large shallots, finely diced
1 Tbsp olive oil
1 Tbsp white sugar (might be good with brown sugar, come to think of it)
Tabasco sauce
1/4c cider vinegar
Salt
Fresh ground pepper
Prep (You can do all of this on the day well in advance of serving): wash sprouts and trim off the stems and outer leaves. In a large pan (I use a wok, but that's just my style...), heat olive oil over medium heat, and when hot, drop all of the bacon in and stir it to break it up. Reduce heat to low and let the bacon simmer until it starts to brown. Add the shallots, salt and pepper to taste, a few drops of Tobasco, stir well and continue to cook over low heat until the bacon is dark brown and crisp. Remove from heat and set the whole pan aside.
In the meantime, cook the sprouts by bringing a pot of salted water to the boil and dropping the sprouts in. Cook for 5 minutes (the water will eventually start to boil again, but start counting the 5 minutes as soon as you drop the sprouts in. I happen to like mine pretty crisp; if you prefer them a little less al dente, you can cook them slightly longer, but in any case, no more than 7 minutes or you might as well just throw them away). Drain and put them back into the pot, filling it with cold water. Run cold water over them continuously for about 3 minutes, or until they no longer feel warm. Drain again and set aside.
Finish (just before serving): Heat the bacon mixture over medium-high heat until it starts to sizzle. Add the cider vinegar and stir for a few minutes to deglaze the pan. Then add the sprouts, turn them to coat with the sauce, and heat until hot (1-2 minutes) stirring occasionally. Adjust seasoning if needed.
I hope you all had a happy Easter...
Tuesday, March 4, 2008
Research project
Some time ago, Michele started a fun little family tradition - enclosing a hand drawn picture in Caroline's lunch box. This was cute when she was in preschool and only had lunch at school maybe once a month, but it got old pretty quickly once we had to start sending her lunch with her every day.
Still, never one to willfully disappoint our darling little girl, Michele continued to supply a daily artistic reminder of her undying affection. Continued, that is, until Caroline decided she wanted to have school dinners instead of a packed lunch. There was much rejoicing in our household on the occasion of this pronouncement. School dinners meant that Michele could get back the 20 minutes a day she spent drawing and packing lunch. And at £1.85 a day, it's actually cheaper to buy lunch than to pack it.
Everything was fine until suddenly, for no obvious reason, Caroline decided to switch back to packed lunch. This week. The week Michele's away. The week I'm doing the childcare. Figures.
Any artistic inclination I may have had at birth was mercilessly stamped out of me in the fourth grade by that jackbooted thug otherwise known as Mrs. Sauter, our school principal's secretary. I'm not really sure what jackboots are, but as the word itself sounds fascist and repressive, I can only assume that she wore them. I'll spare you the details, but suffice to say that as the crayon-work of my construction paper snake evidently wasn't up to her exacting standards, she felt compelled to publicly critique my creation, much to the delight of my tittering classmates. Her constructive criticism, like "you went all different ways with your crayon," was just the sort of brutal honesty I needed at that age to quash any notion I may have had either at that time or in future of pursuing anything even loosely affiliated with the world of art.
Many years and many thousands of dollars worth of psychotherapy later, I still vividly recall that painful little incident from my formative years, which is why Caroline could not possibly have chosen a less inconvenient week to revert to packed lunches. I suppose I could have just packed the sandwich and left out the note, but backing down just is not my style.
Scrambling for some acceptable replacement for Michele's quotidien sketch, I hit upon a seemingly simple and foolproof (even for me) plan: a daily joke. What little kid doesn't love a joke? OK, so their sense of comedic timing is a little underdeveloped, but surely someone who thinks the 'orange you glad I didn't say banana' knock-knock joke just gets funnier with each retelling can't be that hard to please.
Or can she? There is a distinct lack of acceptable jokes for first graders. A google search for "first grade joke" turns up any number of jokes about first graders (a priest, a rabbi and a first grader walk into a bar...), but few which are actually for first graders.
A few websites seemed promising on the surface, but their categorization of jokes was utterly useless. Rather than grouping jokes by age range or by type of joke (e.g. knock-knock/what do you get when you cross x with y/dirty limerick/whatever), they choose to classify the jokes by their subject matter. Why on earth would anyone need to find jokes which are exclusively about elephants? Does anyone have that specific a sense of humor? Would they find other pachyderms equally humorous, or is it just the elephant that tickles their fancy? Talk about a fetish.
Anyway, I made do with a few old chestnuts on Monday and Tuesday: 'why did the banana go to the doctor' (extracted from the jokes about fruit section of the aforementioned website) and 'what time is is when an elephant sits on your fence', but I was a little panicky about finding material for the rest of the week.
So today I was browsing for books in the local thrift shops (absolute goldmines those places, by the way, Grandma seems to be on to something with her Nearly New addiction. Oh, and happy 21st birthday, Grandma (Feb 29th). I hope you weren't too hung over the next day...) when I came across the serendipitously titled "1,001 Cool Schoolyard Jokes". It was in new condition, and only 75p. It was bathed in a heavenly light. There were choirs of angels. It was manna in the desert.
But, as so often happens, the euphoria of a seemingly perfect purchase quickly dissipates under the harsh light of a closer examination (closer, anyway, than a glance at the title). Many of the jokes are too complicated or abstract, or just plain stupid to make their way onto that carefully crafted scrap of love in Caroline's lunch pack.
The book is also British (no surprise there, considering where I live), and I encountered, with a surprisingly high frequency, jokes which make absolutely no sense to me. One would think that any random string of words would be uproariously funny so long as at least one of the words is 'elephant', but sadly, I must either lack sufficient cultural context or possess a too high a degree of education to understand such knee-slappers as:
Why do elephants have Big Ears?
Because Noddy refused to pay the ransom.
Still, there are a few chuckles in the book, though almost none of them are going to help me out of the little jam I've gotten myself into.
At least there are only 3 more days. Hey, heard any good jokes lately?
Still, never one to willfully disappoint our darling little girl, Michele continued to supply a daily artistic reminder of her undying affection. Continued, that is, until Caroline decided she wanted to have school dinners instead of a packed lunch. There was much rejoicing in our household on the occasion of this pronouncement. School dinners meant that Michele could get back the 20 minutes a day she spent drawing and packing lunch. And at £1.85 a day, it's actually cheaper to buy lunch than to pack it.
Everything was fine until suddenly, for no obvious reason, Caroline decided to switch back to packed lunch. This week. The week Michele's away. The week I'm doing the childcare. Figures.
Any artistic inclination I may have had at birth was mercilessly stamped out of me in the fourth grade by that jackbooted thug otherwise known as Mrs. Sauter, our school principal's secretary. I'm not really sure what jackboots are, but as the word itself sounds fascist and repressive, I can only assume that she wore them. I'll spare you the details, but suffice to say that as the crayon-work of my construction paper snake evidently wasn't up to her exacting standards, she felt compelled to publicly critique my creation, much to the delight of my tittering classmates. Her constructive criticism, like "you went all different ways with your crayon," was just the sort of brutal honesty I needed at that age to quash any notion I may have had either at that time or in future of pursuing anything even loosely affiliated with the world of art.
Many years and many thousands of dollars worth of psychotherapy later, I still vividly recall that painful little incident from my formative years, which is why Caroline could not possibly have chosen a less inconvenient week to revert to packed lunches. I suppose I could have just packed the sandwich and left out the note, but backing down just is not my style.
Scrambling for some acceptable replacement for Michele's quotidien sketch, I hit upon a seemingly simple and foolproof (even for me) plan: a daily joke. What little kid doesn't love a joke? OK, so their sense of comedic timing is a little underdeveloped, but surely someone who thinks the 'orange you glad I didn't say banana' knock-knock joke just gets funnier with each retelling can't be that hard to please.
Or can she? There is a distinct lack of acceptable jokes for first graders. A google search for "first grade joke" turns up any number of jokes about first graders (a priest, a rabbi and a first grader walk into a bar...), but few which are actually for first graders.
A few websites seemed promising on the surface, but their categorization of jokes was utterly useless. Rather than grouping jokes by age range or by type of joke (e.g. knock-knock/what do you get when you cross x with y/dirty limerick/whatever), they choose to classify the jokes by their subject matter. Why on earth would anyone need to find jokes which are exclusively about elephants? Does anyone have that specific a sense of humor? Would they find other pachyderms equally humorous, or is it just the elephant that tickles their fancy? Talk about a fetish.
Anyway, I made do with a few old chestnuts on Monday and Tuesday: 'why did the banana go to the doctor' (extracted from the jokes about fruit section of the aforementioned website) and 'what time is is when an elephant sits on your fence', but I was a little panicky about finding material for the rest of the week.
So today I was browsing for books in the local thrift shops (absolute goldmines those places, by the way, Grandma seems to be on to something with her Nearly New addiction. Oh, and happy 21st birthday, Grandma (Feb 29th). I hope you weren't too hung over the next day...) when I came across the serendipitously titled "1,001 Cool Schoolyard Jokes". It was in new condition, and only 75p. It was bathed in a heavenly light. There were choirs of angels. It was manna in the desert.
But, as so often happens, the euphoria of a seemingly perfect purchase quickly dissipates under the harsh light of a closer examination (closer, anyway, than a glance at the title). Many of the jokes are too complicated or abstract, or just plain stupid to make their way onto that carefully crafted scrap of love in Caroline's lunch pack.
The book is also British (no surprise there, considering where I live), and I encountered, with a surprisingly high frequency, jokes which make absolutely no sense to me. One would think that any random string of words would be uproariously funny so long as at least one of the words is 'elephant', but sadly, I must either lack sufficient cultural context or possess a too high a degree of education to understand such knee-slappers as:
Why do elephants have Big Ears?
Because Noddy refused to pay the ransom.
Still, there are a few chuckles in the book, though almost none of them are going to help me out of the little jam I've gotten myself into.
At least there are only 3 more days. Hey, heard any good jokes lately?
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