Round and Round

As many of you know, though I don't think I've mentioned it here before, I am a cycling enthusiast and an enthusiastic cyclist. I think I would put myself in the Intermediate category -- perhaps not a complete novice, but I've got a very long way to go before I look like those serious dudes in spandex and eye-searing reflective jackets. I also have little enthusiasm for actually watching cycling as a sport, though I'm not sure why that is. I respect what those athletes do, but I find it boring to watch.

What I do love about the summer cycling season is just that: these cycling races (the crown jewel of which is undoubtedly the Tour de France) spark lots of people's interest in bicycles again! As soon as the weather gets nice, there is nothing I'd rather be doing most days than pedaling around and stopping for the occasional iced coffee, and it seems that many others share the sentiment, even if they aren't normally cyclists.


A couple of months ago (at the very end of March) I bought a bicycle here in London: a gorgeous little 6-speed M-type Brompton -- used, but not very much! (there was actually dust on bits of it from being stored in a closet...) The Brompton is a thoroughly Londoner bike: it is small and efficient, folds to fit behind my wardrobe or next to me on the bus/train, has a stylishly clean look, and is manufactured in London! As soon as I began looking for one used, I started seeing them everywhere -- isn't that always the case? -- and now that the weather is nice and I cycle all over, I see even more! Yesterday, for example, I was pedaling through Hyde Park Corner and in the midst of the 30+ bikes surrounding me, there must have been easily 15 Bromptons. It's truly impressive.

I still haven't decided on a name for my bike, nor have I ever named by other one -- my beloved forest green Bianchi hybrid, who lives in Portland at the moment. But I'm working on it. Feel free to make me some suggestions.

One thing that struck me immediately about cycling in London is the helter-skelter nature of the bicycle accommodations in the city. If you have ever been here, you already know that the streets are massively confusing because they change names, twist and turn, and generally have no rhyme or reason to their layout. It is one of London's peculiar charms, I think -- its streets. It is also one reason I would hate to drive here, particularly because many of the streets are one-way, at least for parts of their length. Bicycles have similar problems to cars in that respect, but the problem is exacerbated when accommodating lanes start and stop, when the signs indicating the best bike routes appear and disappear at intervals, and when it is not always certain that your fellow vehicles will see you.

Having come from cycling in Portland (the most bike-friendly city in the US?), where there are bike highways and wide lanes, I think this difference stands out more starkly for me than for many others. Comparisons between London's poor accommodation for cyclists and Amsterdam's magnanimous accommodation are often made, disparagingly, and it does make one wonder why the Dutch developed into such a cycling people. I suppose I'll just have to go and see for myself.



In the meantime, I continue to hope that Boris' London Cycle Hire Scheme will bear two kinds of fruit: more casual cycling, and better traffic accommodation for bikes in Central London. Boris should, after all, know that these things need improving! Unfortunately, he's been criticised by the London Cycle Campaign for cutting funding for cycling improvements. I guess we'll see.

The Bog Standard

Now that my time in London, at least this iteration, is winding down I thought there was no better opportunity to make some enumerative reflections. Here's the first.

Strange things about my flatmates:

• They do not rinse their dishes. Perhaps I've mentioned this before? If so, please know that it still bothers me, and still perplexes me, despite the research I've done suggesting that this is not an oddity particular to these six people. W. T. F.
• At least a few of them have no notion of how to logically put away the 'clean' dishes from the drying rack. The two stacks of big plates -- one set of white, one set of yellow and blue -- perhaps appear to them to be circumstantial and not a template. Similarly, the three different sizes of bowls seem to have no bearing on where they stack the clean bowls in the cupboard.
• They don't talk to me. Some do, more than others, but by and large we exchange a bare minimum of speech.
• Sometimes I come home at 22.00 and find the flat completely deserted. Yet all of them are in bed normally by 22.30, even on weekends.
• Last night I was washing some dishes at 23.15 and one of my flatmates, who lives down the hall from the kitchen, came in in just his pants and shut the kitchen door, as though I was making too much noise, despite my being almost silent. He didn't say anything, nor did he really even look at me.
• The girl who now lives in the room next to mine moved in while I was away in France over a long weekend. Although I met her just before I left, I don't recall her name and have almost no way of finding it out, apart from directly asking her. That would be awkward.

* The nasty little buggers at the top live to inspire terror in the Regent's Park. I took their photograph yesterday. I know they look innocent enough, but they were making mischief of one kind and another throughout the afternoon. Still, it's a charming spring image, innit?

14 Rows

The fronts, just before the raglans got the party started.

Once upon a time, I knitted. It may shock you to learn that I still do. Yes! It is true! My passion for the craft has not waned!

Although I truly love to read about others' works in progress, I find it difficult to write about my own in any compelling way. I'm not sure why; perhaps because rehearsing the minutae of such things is somewhat boring for me? It is significantly more enjoyable for me to take on topics in an instructional manner, as unvented sock constructions or discussions of decrease methods.

Nevertheless, because I'd like to write more often and because knitting is once again consuming a great portion of my life, I feel the need to share more of it here. As many of you know, I am nearing the completion of Oblique (and at Ravelry), my second or third Véronik Avery pattern. It is quite outside my character to voluntarily knit a sweater in pieces, particularly one with raglan shaping and no real surprises in the construction or stitch patterns. However, I respect the designer quite a lot and felt that, in this case, the seams might have a real structural benefit: lace lacks structure (as opposed to drape), especially when blocked flat, and the shape of the cardigan takes full advantage of the drapey nature of lace in its loose silhouette. Thus, if the cardigan were to look the part of a stylishly casual piece -- and not, say, like a dressing gown or bathrobe -- it needed the structure that only seams could provide.

Not to mention my aversion to any extra work, some of which would be required if I wished to convert the pattern to something unseamed.

The back. Posed on the dining table near the only natural light of the week.

Of course, for a variety of reasons (yes, mainly one: my loose, Continental style*) the pattern has required extra work anyway. I suppose my two impulses have both had their day now, between primarily following a pattern and needing to fuss some numbers after all.

The photo below probably captures the color best. The yarn is Rowan Scottish Tweed Aran, picked up at massive discount during the Holy Crap the Economy is Collapsing post-Christmas sales. I bought six balls with no direction in mind, but it looks as though I'll use something just shy of five (depending on how much yarn the collar and button bands eat up).


* Much to your surprise, perhaps, I do not mean slutting it up in France (like some people), but rather my style of knitting -- that is, I hold my yarn in my left hand while my right-hand needle is my working needle, half "picking" and half "flicking" the yarn in a concerted manner that yields a rapid rhythm with quite the economy of movement. And you know how much I love economy of, well, anything.


I've now just about done the sleeves, but discovered upon "completion" that I'd ended up with a few extra stitches. This was especially strange and worrisome because I began the sleeves with fewer stitches than the pattern called for, and had maintained this situation until the last 14 rows of raglan decreases. So what happened in those 14 rows? This is the question you should be asking me, and it was the question I would have asked myself -- if I hadn't already known. What happened was this: I couldn't imagine the decreases here would be any different to those on the fronts, so I translated my notes from said previous section without reading the pattern carefully -- or, more importantly, thinking carefully.

You may already have gathered from my excellent foreshadowing that the sleeve raglan decreases are not the same as those on the fronts. Yes! Shocking! Believe me, I nearly fell over, but I was semi-engrossed in Ice Age 2: The Meltdown, so I didn't. I just said a bunch of unpleasant things in my head, such as, "Bugger!"

Well. I still haven't had a proper think about why this is the case, but here's a summary of what happened: Both my stitch and row gauge are off, predictably, so when decreasing on the raglans I've had to modify the rate of decrease slightly. Crucially, whereas the pattern calls for repeating a decrease row and a "rest" row 21 times, I instead have repeated them 11 times each and knitted an additional 14 rows (7 RS) in which I alter the rate of decrease. On the back, this resulted in alternating 4 RS rows of double decreases on each end with 3 RS rows of single decreases. However, on the fronts I worked fewer stitches because I wanted a slightly smaller overall cardigan circumference, so the double decrease rows became resting rows (i.e.: no-decrease rows).

Having worked fewer stitches on the sleeves as well, I naturally translated the crucial 18 rows (Rest/Decrease/R/D/R/D/R). Instead of ending up with the expected 11 sts to bind off, however, I seem to have ended up with 15.

Bugger.

A Very Good Read

To begin with this photo is a bit misleading, as this was actually my parting shot. But considering this is how most people will probably approach it, I thought this would be a nice thing to show you. Plus it gives you a sense of what else is on this block -- i.e., a rubber stamp shop, which is awesome. AWESOME.

When I first approached the London Review of Books, however, it was through the dark doorway you can barely see at the left side of the photo above (behind the car). This doorway actually leads into a charming courtyard, comme ça:


into which I planned simply to peek, snap a delighted photo, and move along down the street. Except I looked around the corner to the right and discovered this:


Double delight!

I should point out that while this shot makes it seem as though sitting on the patio is a fantastic idea, only the most desperate of smokers would prefer such a fate, as it was about 10ºC. Not exactly balmy. I imagine it will be ideal on a rare summer or autumn day, however, both for café patrons and those enjoying a meal and a pint at the pub next door.

After a fortuitous post on Lantana's blog the other day, I decided only the day before I went that I wanted to pay a little visit to this bookshop -- or, more precisely, to its Cake Shop. I'm always eager to find new Coffee 2.0 sources, and most particularly ones near school. This little gem was ideally situated: 7 or 8 minutes' stroll through Bloomsbury Square and next to the British Museum, tucked into a quiet block and ensconced in books. Even discovering the café within the bookstore was a treat.


Having both worked in a (struggling) café and done much studying in many cafés, I have a complex opinion of the etiquette around inhabiting such places for hours at a time. Perhaps one day I'll write a treatise on such things; in the meantime, I shall say that I was very pleased from a student's perspective to be allowed to sit at the large communal table with one cappuccino for about two hours without being bothered, reading a couple of articles on my laptop. It felt like borrowed time, particularly after my experience at Fleet River last week.

The Cake Shop itself is truly lovely. I'm sure my impressions were tinted by the bright afternoon light streaming in the large windows (see below), but even if had been a leaden-skied day outside I feel certain the well-crafted cappuccino, array of sweet and savory treats, and respectably large menu of teas would have had me swooning. I successfully resisted the temptation presented by a rhubarb, almond, and orange blossom tart, the first thing to catch my eye and the last to leave my mind, but I am determined to make my own attempt soon.



I suppose I should say a bit about the coffee itself, no? Well, it was wonderful! I had a cappuccino -- in the true style of my friend A., who considers it a real test of a café -- and it was delicious. The espresso was earthy, making me think of African coffee from Rwanda or Ethiopia. At first, I thought the milk was too thin, but I changed my mind later and decided it had been too hot when I took my first sip, as the texture seemed to thicken a few minutes later. As you can see from the photo below, cappuccini here come with a generous sprinkling of dark chocolate...bits? It's not sweetened cocoa powder, my friends. This is like very fine grating of nice bittersweet chocolate. Really the only way to go, I think.


You may also notice the Elegant & English shortbread biscuit tucked betwixt cup and saucer. Yes, that is a complementary and -- may I say so? -- utterly stylish detail.

Cappuccino: 8.5 (£2.20, including tea biscuit)

(P.S. I returned a couple of days later, accompanied by a friend. This visit confirmed the excellence of the coffee -- and we also sampled the latte, which was equally well-executed.)

Fleeting Pleasures

In the mornings, middays, and afternoons when I'm walking from the Holborn Tube to LSE for class, I often abhor the clotted crowds of Kingsway. Everyone rushes at a different pace so that walking that way leaves me feeling hurried and harried. Instead, I usually try to duck into a side passage that is mostly hidden by the produce stand that sits in its mouth, a passage that opens onto the square around Lincoln's Inn Fields.

It was my good fortune to have strolled this way a few times in the last two weeks and, thus, pass the corner building at the northwest side, where the Fleet River Bakery was coming into being. A rather cryptic notice in the window (reproduced on the website under "Petition") alluded to a neighborhood dispute of some sort about the bakery's being there, but as I passed it every couple of days progress certainly didn't seem to be stalled. And then, last Tuesday, the café appeared to be open! I ducked in after lecture with my friend A., and we had a couple of coffees and shared a plain croissant. Initial impressions were good, though the croissant tasted somewhat stale. I resolved to come back soon to do another review, preferably after their business was in full swing.

Today I went back and had a flat white and another plain croissant. Soon they will sell bread and, I assume, a wider range of boulangerie products -- all baked on the premises -- but for the moment their spread is nothing to scoff at. Here were my impressions, scribbled in the half-hour before lecture from a seat along the window counter:


11.45. Nearly empty but for the occasional walk-in/take-away customer. Appears to be mainly professionals on their coffee breaks -- likely barristers from nearby chambers. It is on Lincoln's Inn Fields, after all. The music is a triumph: 50s doo wop and pre-Elvis black soul and rock, maybe Chuck Berry or Sam Cooke? Rockin', but otherwise not especially obtrusive and entirely pleasant for a Monday elevenses.

Plain croissant: seemingly baked either on premises or at the least fresh this morning. Flat white; a small sip of heaven on a bright pre-Spring day; the rosetta resembles mine, actually (when I used to be a barista) -- A for effort, but lacking the exacting hand of a champion. Its presence, however, promised well-textured milk and it hasn't disappointed. The space is, as I discovered on my previous peeks and visit, inviting in a mod-warm sort of way. The lines are precise, angular, sharp; high chairs (done in raspberry mottled vinyl, new) are retro but manage to look fresh, too. The wood everywhere (reclaimed?), the huge arched windows, and the smörgåsbord-style pastry display -- not to mention the fresh tulips in a metal can -- all soften the feel of the place. It has a kind of rustic appeal, which marries well with its mission: to bring the place back to a time when bread was baked on the premises. Lemon slices in the water carafes -- the water really tastes of lemon! Neutral décor (aka: nothing on the fawn-beige walls).


Ultimately, my impression of the place is one of space and clean lines. It is precisely the kind of place to spend a half hour on a crisp vernal morning or perhaps a lazy afternoon. I imagine it will be lovely in the rain, too: the long bar alongside the windows invites a bit of lingering on such days.

Unfortunately, last week's visit with A. gave us the feeling that the architecture is the only thing encouraging lingering. As soon as I'd taken my last sip of flat white one of the girls working there came over to collect my cup and asked if I'd like another. I declined, and A. continued to sip his latte as we chatted. We were having a very nice conversation, but it became clear to us over the next 15 minutes that the three people working there were growing tired of our sitting in their café -- first they came to collect the other dishes, and then A. told me two of them were glancing over at us every few minutes and, at one point, gestured toward us in a frustrated manner. What gives, Fleet River? Customers are not battering down the doors just yet; don't you want friendly-looking people populating your windowside counter?

Today's visit was significantly less tense, but I didn't stay very long. I shall post an update in a few months' time, once the bakery has settled into its normal routine. Meanwhile, I fully intend to visit regularly for a flat white fix. For the record, the sandwiches look divine and I am eager to taste their breads.

I would like to point out that, in fact, I am aware it is March. Not February. 2009. Yeah.

Croissant: 8.0 on the Calibrated Tartine Scale (£1)
Flat White: 8.0 (£2.40)

Snow Day (Pt I)

Rather than going for a morning swim, I woke to find all of London blanketed in snow, quiet and chaotic with the soft flakes. London, rather like Portland, is ill-equipped to deal with winter's fury -- at least in the last few decades. Thus: Power Off. Uni closed, bus lines withdrawn, nearly every Tube line suspended. Norwegian friends chuckling condescendingly at the silly Londoners who can't deal with 10cm of snow.

I promised some gorgeous winter soup, and what better day than to give it to you?

Because I have most of my produce delivered in the form of an organic veg subscription, I pay less for good, mostly-local vegetables than I would at the store or farmer's market, in exchange for little control over the contents. Hence my tiring of parsnips and my mounting mountain of new potatoes. And carrots. Always the carrots. Having grown weary of my usual all-root-vegetables-in-a-pot puréed soup, and having tasted a rather nice carrot-coriander soup in Caffe Nero recently (I know! but it was silky and subtle and organic), I'd been thinking quite a bit about carrot soups.

At first, I simply tried to recreate the carrot-coriander wonder, using organic greek yoghurt in place of the crème fraiche in the Nero version (I know because I studied the ingredients, like the supreme foodie dork that I am). That went pretty well, but when the next week came around, I wanted to do something different. You see, I'm one of those people who, while adoring variety, is given to obsession with particular dishes. One day I'll make a very good salad and I have to keep making it every day or so for two weeks before I get sick of it. Then I can't eat it for a long time.

So I wanted to try for something a bit different, but preserving all the things I really loved about the first soup: the smooth texture, the carrot taste fronting the whole thing, the balance of flavours (sweet and earthy carrot, hint of creamy yoghurt, sharp cilantro).


What came of it was this beauty. A Thai red curry carrot soup, containing some red lentils (for protein and heft) as well as the makings of a curry: Thai red curry paste, garlic and ginger, bruised fresh lemongrass, coconut milk, fresh coriander, fresh lime juice.

I was worried about the addition of the curry paste and coconut milk, actually. Every time I've made Thai-style curries in the past, I've felt it was unbalanced -- too creamy and sweet, definitely spicy, plenty salty, but there was no sharpness, not enough sourness or pungence despite the acid of the lime juice. Lemongrass, however, was apparently the missing ingredient. Lemongrass! Suddenly, there was the deep, sour pullthat stretched the three-dimensional salty-spicy-sweet into a proper square, suddenly highlighting a new range of flavours in the curry paste that I always knew were getting lost under the silk of the coconut milk.

Anyhow, I finished off the last of this stuff a few days ago, but have another pile of carrots awaiting. Still unsure what I'll do with them, but I suspect more soup is on its way... especially if this snow sticks around.

Red Curry Carrot Soup
two dashes of oil
1 yellow/brown onion, sliced
2-3 leeks, cleaned and sliced, white and light green parts only
~1 inch ginger
2-4 cloved garlic, smashed and chopped roughly
1-3 T Thai red curry paste (I used a generous 2, but like mine spicy; heat varies by brand)
1 small stalk lemongrass, pounded (this releases the flavour but keeps it mainly intact)
2-3 handfulls red lentils, rinsed and picked through
5 medium carrots, chopped roughly (or as many as you need to use up)
stock, veg or chicken -- maybe about 3c but can be supplemented with water
1 mini can coconut milk (full fat, light, whatev)
fish sauce or salt
fresh coriander/cilantro
fresh lime

Heat your soup pot of choice over medium heat. When it's warm, add the two dashes of oil and the onion. Sautée until softened, then add leeks and sweat for a few minutes. When those have softened, add the aromatics: ginger, garlic, curry paste, and stir with a wooden spoon for about a minute, just until everything starts to release its scent. Add the lemongrass, lentils, and carrots, then enough stock/water to cover. Bring to a simmer and cover partially to avoid splattering all over your stove. Stir in the coconut milk when everything starts to soften (actually, you can probably do this when everything else goes in... I did it later), along with some fish sauce or salt. At this point, you'll be able to see if it needs more liquid -- if so, add some!

Using a fork, test the carrots -- when they are quite soft, purée the soup in a FoPro, blender, or, if you're posh, using a hand blender. Here you can also adjust the liquid; I almost always make a thicker soup than I really intend, but it makes for a concentrate that I can dilute when reheating later.

Once puréed, squeeze in the lime juice and add the chopped coriander/cilantro. Taste and adjust the seasoning as you see fit.

When I ate this the first time, I stirred in a bit of yogurt, which toned down the heat of the curry paste a bit. I ate it without the yogurt a few times, too, and that was swell. As the photo above indicates, I ate it with some dark whole-grain bread. It would taste marvelous with just about anything, though.

Muttaring

I've been remiss, but perhaps I can make up for it.

Now that the cold has retreated a bit, London is left under its usual blanket of grey wet, but I find I don't mind very much. The new term is already three weeks old and I feel as though I'm drowning under readings and upcoming papers, not to mention the looming spectre of a dissertation.

I'm also drowning under an assault of new potatoes, a new batch of which arrives each Thursday. Although I love potatoes, I simply cannot eat them fast enough to use them up. Desperate times have called for desperate measures: I am marshaling the troops on Sunday and, under the guise of a roast chicken and an awesome movie, I plan to stuff H. and I. with potatoes. I shall report on the success of my (frankly, foolproof) plan.

Meanwhile, I made a delicious, rather improvised muttar paneer this evening -- satisfying, warming, simple, healthy. It's exactly the kind of dish I have been striving toward for the last year. There will always be a place in my palate for restaurant Indian food, but I've been trying to develop my confidence with the spices and methods common in Indian cuisine. I feel the same way about Chinese food -- I will never be able to replace the satisfaction and indulgence of restaurant chow fun or braised bean curd, but I love being able to whip up a competent eggplant-broccoli-tofu stir-fry in my little wok.

Thus, I have been particularly pleased with my two latest efforts in the kitchen, the first of which is this muttar paneer. The second will follow.




To pretend there was a recipe here would be ludicrous. However, I'll provide a general guideline, both to help you on your way and to demonstrate how easy it was to create such a delectable Wednesday night dinner.

Muttar Paneer
- cubed half a package of ready-made paneer, tossed around in a sea salt/turmeric/curry-powder (probably turmeric/cumin/coriander/mustard/a few other things) "rub", then pan-fried in a little bit of vegetable oil
- sliced half an onion and, when the paneer cubes were brown on a couple of sides and removed to a bowl, sautéed the onion in a little more oil and a touch of butter
- added salt, pepper, turmeric, coriander, cumin, tomato paste, half a sliced chili (best guess? jalapeno) and garlic
- almost immediately added a tin of chopped tomatoes, plus a bit of chicken stock I'd recently made (but water would be fine, just not as ludicrously tasty and self-satisfying)
- let that simmer for a while, then added back in the paneer, plus some frozen peas
- simmer, simmer, simmer (muttar, muttar, muttar)
- added a generous couple of dollops of greek-style yoghurt

I probably should have remembered that I had fresh cilantro/coriander in the fridge, but... I didn't. I usually don't have it when I need it. Luckily, this made enough for two meals, so I shall certainly remember the cilantro next time (aka: 'tomorrow').

Served over an improvised pulao which goes something like this:
- toast sliced almonds in the dry saucepan; remove when fragrant and golden (or longer if you're chopping onions at the time and forget)
- add a bit of veg oil and sautée half a sliced onion
- add the (rinsed) rice, stirring around to coat and lightly fry
- add some sultanas, and the almonds
- add a pinch of salt, then water (about 1.25 parts of the rice); stir around, cover, and turn the heat down
- let cook until done; fluff with a fork*

*I always thought it was funny that directions for steaming rice ended with this. I mean, the fluffing is entirely unnecessary to the proper execution of steaming rice. Or so I thought. Now I've realized that, while it doesn't change the actual cooking of said rice, this step aerates the rice and makes a bit difference to its texture when it's served. Plus who doesn't like a little rice-fluffing action?

Reason #47 that I should be a British citizen...

... I adore prawn-mayo sandwiches. I have loved them since high school, the first time I remember coming to the UK. I fully realize that many, many Britons find them revolting. I respectfully disagree with them. Further, despite the revulsion, these sandwiches are undeniably British.

Don't tell me you've never had a prawn-mayo* sandwich? Well, whenever you come to this magical country, please do indulge your baser instincts and settle down to one. Preferably one that comes like this:


This is, after all, a foodie's blog. So let's get right to the point: the food. As I remarked to J., there is something about the conceptualization of a sandwich here in England that makes sense to me. A kind of sensibility that extends to food in general: simplicity and moderation. In a sandwich, this translates to the essentials only: bread, filling, maybe a condiment or crunchy enhancement. That's it.

Let's take a closer look, shall we, at the object of my affection?


What you see here is soft wholegrain sandwich bread pillowing a proper amount of small shrimp mixed with mayonnaise, and a thin layer of crunchy iceberg lettuce. The lettuce is not strictly necessary, but I find it to be a bonus when it's included. The shrimp are tiny and tender, the mayo lubricating the whole affair and providing a richness that complements the wholegrain bread. I hesitate to use the word "pure" about a food item that comes in a triangular plastic box and costs somewhere around £2-2.50, but it's hard to deny its simplicity.

I contrast this 'sandwich sensibility' to that in the US. Like most things, of course, Americans generally value bigger over better. The Subway regime dictates that we should pack in as many ingredients as can fit between two spongy halves of vehicle-bread, just as the American concept of pizza is vehicle-dough with piles of toppings.

Not so with the impeccable prawn-mayo vehicle of tastiness, nor its brethren in sandwich cases across London, in newsagents, off-licenses, Prêt-a-Mangers, supermarkets...anywhere the telltale plastic pyramid is to be found.


While on the train where I consumed this particular specimen of seafood delight, I also drank an M&S Raspberry Brekkie to Go Go, which intrigued me for this reason: one of its four or five ingredients is... oatmeal. Call me crazy, but I had to investigate. Oatmeal -- smoothie? Smoothie -- oatmeal? Could it be that this was not disgusting?

I'm here to tell you, folks, that this is fantastic. My only complaint was that it was a little too sweet. Otherwise? Delish. The oatmeal gave it some texture and chewiness -- I'm aware of how gross this sounds, but just go with me on this -- that reminded me of eating something nutty and working on the little bits of nuts that get left behind after swallowing. Do you know what I mean? Additionally, it made this into a powerful energy-source that would probably be great for a morning when dashing to the Tube is all I can manage before 9am seminar. I've been fairly successful so far at spending next to nothing on breakfast (cereal, tea and toast, yogurt, or some combination), but I know there simply will be Those Days, and it's good to have a backup.

Thank you, England, for not letting me down. Please expect my application for citizenship shortly.



* I should explain here that, contrary to the distinction many Californians (and other Americans?) make between "prawns" and "shrimp", all of these curling sea creatures are termed "prawns" here in England, at least as far as I can tell. The prawns included in such sandwiches are what we might call "bay shrimp" in California/Oregon.

The Eagle Has Landed

When I arrived in London three weeks ago, 23 September, I'd like to say I was terrified or excited. Mainly, I was exhausted. I spent most of that afternoon trying very hard not to fall asleep while sitting up, listening to the classic English rain pattering outside the windows in Camberwell.

Since that Tuesday, I've had several weeks of what I now look back on as madness. At the time, I felt overwhelmed with tasks, exhaustion, loneliness, depression, and -- ultimately -- joy. I won't recount all my adventures in finding a flat, opening a bank account, registering for classes...all that really just provides an unnecessary backdrop. Suffice it to say that I have intense empathy for anyone relocating anywhere, especially on one's own.


The more remarkable part of this story is also a piece of the background. Alongside all these swirling feelings, and more than anything else, there has always been a thick sense of familiarity since I touched down. In a sense, I think this feeling of comfort, of rightness, probably made it that much more difficult to cope with the simultaneous loneliness and longing: after all, if I was home, why was I homesick? For whom, for what, did I long?

What is it about some places? Is it the scent? Is it the architecture? The temperature? The people? I don't know. Perhaps it's all of those -- and none.


I intend to explore this city I now call home. I expect to have adventures, and I expect to find infinite corners of comfort. After all, as Samuel Johnson once said, 'When a man is tired of London, he is tired of life.'


Quite so, SamJo. Quite so.

Hey, Hot Stuff

Between the glut of summer produce at the farmers' markets and the plethora of food-related sharing on the internet*, my cup runneth over with inspiration. Doesn't yours?

This past weekend, S and I went to the main Portland Farmers Market downtown in the Park Blocks by PSU, as our weekend habit dictates. Although the temperature by the time we left had reached over 90 degrees (32C), it was gloriously bright and the market brimmed with vegetables and fruit. Our potato guy finally had potatoes, our artichoke family had many enough artichokes that they were rolling off the crates, our egg people still had a couple of dozen left! Not to mention asparagus, cherries, berries, mushrooms, cauliflower, onions, and the It Girl of the season, garlic scapes. Garlic scapes are like Rihanna, that's what I'm saying: everyone's talking about them, they're plastered all over the internet, no one can get enough.

I like Rihanna, so I picked up some garlic scapes. Haven't used them yet. I'll let you know.

Meanwhile, I made a pesto to save some other ingredients, most of which hadn't fared well in the hotter 'n hell kitchen this weekend. Modern refrigeration (not to mention living in a basement) can do only so much, and the basil was staring at me longingly, its extremities already heavy with death. A couple of squishy, plump tomatoes went in along with a few cloves of garlic, the salvaged basil, well-toasted walnuts, black pepper, smoked salt, a little pasta water, some arugula... Tossed with some asparagus and orzo, plus a couple of toasted walnuts. Et voilà! Served with a boiled artichoke, it was the essence of an unfussy, fantastically fresh summer supper. This afternoon I tossed the remainder of the orzo pesto asparagus salad with some fresh arugula leaves and it might even have been better.

(Have I ever mentioned how horrible my blender is? Yeah, whoa. We pulse gently through each blending procedure with lots of coaxing and cursing.)

Speaking of arugula, I've suddenly realized how much I like it. Whereas garlic scapes are the It Girl of the season, I think arugula is a more understated, quirky, yet perpetual ingredient. Perhaps more like Cate Blanchett, or Irene Dunne.** Someone who's always great, always pretty, always hilarious, but every so often they come into soft focus and KA-BLAM! Great with a leading man like Cary Grant or chevre, but equally exquisite lingering in support.

More fun to come. I've got some nice rock cod, a bag of clams, asparagus, artichokes, some petit potatoes, and Rihanna garlic scapes in my fridge!


P.S. Photo at top is of a gorgeous, delicious vanilla affogato from Nostrana.
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*When TasteSpotting disappeared, we got Food Gawker. Now we have an embarrassment of riches: both!

**What? I just watched 'The Awful Truth', okay? Irene Dunne is amazing.