Slow cooking, 1950s style

One thing I'm enjoying during this ...

...sabbatical? career break? period of involuntary unemployment (I think I'll go for career break, that sounds very strategic and like I actually know what I'm doing) ....

......is focusing on the things I never had time to do when I was in full-time work.

Dinner parties, for starters.

I love the 1950s domesticity of preparing for a dinner party. Writing a menu, shopping for ingredients, dressing the table, arranging flowers - everything bar handing My One True Love a martini when he walks in the door after a hard day at work, a ribbon prettily arranged in my hair.
 
Usually though, the schedule of full-time work gets in the way (and it does though, doesn't it?) and the plan ends up more like this:

Rush to the train station after work, anxiously wait for the train which will inevitably be cancelled or late, shoulder my way in through the crowd, endure yoof talking at the tops of their lungs on their mobiles, get to my destination after suffering an unexplained pause for 20 minutes within sight of the Clifton Hill station during which the train driver will make no announcement at all and my heart rate will increase exponentially, dash up the street and in through the front door, pile all the dirty laundry into the washer and pull the door closed to hide it, run a wet rag over the bench, ignore the cat fur floating around on the floor, and pull together some kind of sad pasta dish made out of cannellini beans, old gherkins, and whatever else happens to be unopened in the cupboard.

Nice, huh? So relaxing.

So it's lovely to be able to have friends around for dinner, like we did the other Friday night, and NOT go through that rigmarole.

I started on Wednesday, reading through cookbooks to find some interesting menus. I wrote a shopping list for:

• pan-seared scallops wrapped with pancetta and speared with rosemary shoots, on the half-shell, with a bed of white bean and celeriac puree
  
• slow-roasted pork belly - 4 hours, this takes - with caramelised fennel, roast potato done with duck fat, and broccolini
• coconut pannacotta accompanied by pears poached in lemon, ginger and saffron
  

On Thursday I went shopping for the supermarket ingredients, and the pears. I took myself home and made the pannacotta in advance so it had time to chill in the fridge overnight, and then I gently poached the pears for an hour until they were soft and luscious and a wonderful toffee colour. Into the fridge with them too, for the flavours to deepen through the next 24 hours.

On Friday I went to the market early, to see my favourite butcher, who provided me with a wonderful pork belly and even scored the skin in readiness for it to become crackling. Yum! I found the perfect scallops, and bought the rest of the vegetables.

By 630 when our guests arrived - The Headmistress and Charismatic Dave - the house was spick and span from top to bottom, the mouthwatering scent of roast pork was floating down the hallway, and I was the picture of the perfect hostess - calm, well dressed (I wore my pearls, I though it was appropriate), ready to pour glasses of wine for everyone.

Poppies artfully arranged in a glass vase? Check. Candles lit? Check. Smug, self-satisfied smile on face? Check. I swear, if I had hair long enough, I might even have considered the ribbon.

THAT is the kind of dinner party I've always wanted to have, not the sad little effort I usually manage. And even though time did get away from me slightly and I had to forget the white been puree, the rest of the meal was spectacular.

I can definitely see the appeal of unstructured time when it means I can spend three days preparing for a meal. I loved it.

Now, where's that martini shaker?

Colourbombing (or: I'll have mine in hepatitis yellow please)

:

Today's post is a little overdue, to tell you the truth.

I had intended to write about The Women Of India And What They Wear while I was actually still there, but time - and intestinal parasites, eeeuw - got the better of me.

(In truth, there are two posts left from my Indian adventure: this one, and one which includes my favourite and as yet unpublished photographs.)

One of the things I love about India is the colours. People talk about the vibrant colours, the energy of life that's communicated through the way Indians dress, and every single word is true.

It might be a country where you have to take a dump on the street into an open sewer, but perhaps because of that - because it's hard to take pride in your surroundings when you live in conditions we would never accept, and there is very little you can do about them - people express themselves and their pride through their clothes. Clothes are VERY important in India.

Colours and bling, the more the better - only Muslims wear black (take note, dear Melburnians). If you're Indian the rule is colours, and sequins during the day, you bet. Crystals sewn all over your kurta or your sari; love love love it. Hot pink is the navy blue of India, and it makes me smile.

India even has a festival called Holi where everyone gets together and throws coloured powder all over the place, for heaven's sake - the point being to coat your friends, enemies and strangers and every inanimate object within a hundred-foot radius in eye-poppingly bright shades.

Colour bombing? Now that's a country I can feel comfortable in.

I never feel more at home in my clothes than I do in India - and I can sum it up like this: it's because I can wear yellow with impunity. Truly, yellow, in all its variations. Mustard, saffron, canary, sunshine, marigold and the particular - the peculiar - shade I like to call "hepatitis". Mmmm, hepatitis. 

One of the first outfits I bought in Delhi was a salwar kameez in a terrifically saturated mustard yellow, accented with burgundy block printing. I hesitated at first ... I LOVED it, but felt a little unsure. Clearly I have been living in Melbourne too long.

In the end I was talked into it, and thank heavens for that, because as soon as I'd handed over my 1100 rupees - about $25 - I got that magical tingly feeling you get when you just *know* you've bought something wonderful and you immediately adore it.

Here it is in its three pieces: on top is the dupatta, or stole, in the middle is the kurta, a long tunic, and on the bottom are the salwar, the pants. And I tell you, every single time I wore it (in Delhi, Udaipur and Jaipur) I was bombarded with compliments from the Indian ladies - and men.

That outfit met with universal praise. I was constantly asked where I bought it. I drowned happily in the seas of approval that washed over me from women who didn't speak English, but who fingered the fabric and smiled at me. It's a wonderful country that appreciates the power and impact of yellow.

Here in Melbourne, that's not the case. Wear yellow, especially head to toe, and you might as well staple a giant sign to your forehead declaring I Have Abandoned The World Of Fashion And All Sense Of Personal Pride Into The Bargain.

And that's sad, I think. That in a country where we have incredible freedom - where we have relative wealth, and independence, and choices; that we feel so constrained in our colour palette, especially here in Melbourne where we so often default to black - that is something to be mourned.

Black has its place, but I mean, really - is that the extent of our self-expression?What else are we repressing when we force ourselves into black so exclusively?

Some people think it is artistic and European, and it's true that in the right hands, a deep and inky black can be a wonderful thing. Velvet black, sooty black, onyx, jet, midnight, carbon ... and when it's played with inventively and texturally as well, the results can be spectacular.

But so often they're not. How regularly do you see people wearing black and they just look conventional? Conformist? One-dimensional? Washed out? Unimaginative? Frightened? Or ...... (dare I say it) boring?

Not so in India, oh my wordy no. In India, colours rule the day.

Banish the black, my friends. And in the wise words of Cyndi Lauper, let your true colours shine.

Thyme to plant a new lawn

Ladies and gentlemen, it's Grand Final Day in Melbourne today, and you know what that means, don't you?

While virtually the entire population of the city is glued to their tv screens, or the public outdoor event screens, or actually at the MCG as spectators or transfixed by the action in sports bars and pubs all over town; anxiously awaiting the outcome of the gladiatorial battle between St Kilda and Collingwood; while the entire population holds its breath in one great collective gasp; while hundreds of thousands of dollars change hands in accord with tribal loyalties and friendships are made or broken on the result, what will I be doing?

I will be doing the gardening.

Yes, it's true. I don't care for football. I am the unsporty child who always had her nose in a book and was constantly rounded on by teachers urging me to "go out and get some sunshine". And me and my youthful skin thank heavens we never listened to that advice, because of course twenty-five years ago, no one wore hats or sunscreen, did they? No they did not. And now I look at some of my contemporaries, and I thank heavens again that I loved the library more than life itself. But I digress.

Grand Final Day in Melbourne, it's an annual ritual in which I don't participate. Instead, I will be drawing up square metre plots in my back garden and planting in the 240 thyme tubes I've ordered from Bulleen Art And Garden supplies.

Thyme, I hear you ask? Yes, thyme. We've had buffalo grass in our sorry little patch of lawn for the past four years, and no matter how much I wheedle, cajole, coax, nag or yell, My One True Love simply will not mow it. He doesn't do this out of spite or malice, it's just ... well, it's just something that never gets done when there is a long list of other more interesting or pressing things to do.

Consequently, the backyard always looks like the yard of a crazy person, and we frequently misplace the pussins in the jungle. When the cats started walking around the grass instead of walking through it, that's when I knew something needed to be done.

So we've ripped out the lawn (oh, my aching back) and prepared the soil, and now we're ready to plant in a herb lawn instead. Thyme is a lovely groundcover that will never need mowing, thrives in tricky soils like our clay-and-rock mix, smells lovely when you crush it underfoot, and I already know the pussins will like it because Fathead has previously loved to death a number of thyme plants in the herb garden by sitting on them.

Right, I can't spend any more time here, I must be off to Bunnings. Before and after shots will come soon!

It never rains but it pours ....

.... so, after being worried about work and jobs and finances and all the rest of it, the universe has given me a sharp and spiteful little smack on my bottom.

Get this: in the coming week I have not one, but three - yes, THREE - job interviews. One for an innovative start-up company I'm quite keen on, one for a government agency that I think would bore me senseless, and one for a position overseas that could be very exciting.

AND, I received a prospective job offer from someone I've peripherally worked with for a very long time.

Hah! How's that!

And you know what it made me realise? When I was confronted with the very real prospect of imminent employment?

Ideally, I'd like the rest of the year off.

So at least that's decided now, hooray. Though if I DO get offered one, I should put my mind to convincing them to let me start in January 2011 ..... hmm, I'll get back to you if I have any brilliant ideas on that front ......

PS - just got another phone call - make that four interviews next week!

We Feel Fine

Dear readers, thank you so much for your lovely, reassuring comments on my last angsty blog post. You have no idea how much you helped! It was wonderful to read your advice and to be able to feel some comfort from your words. I am indebted.

One of the things I love most about blogging is the sense of connection with other people - no matter whether I know you or have never met you, whether you live in Australia or on the other side of the world. I love knowing that somewhere out there are people who care about what I write and what I feel, and who make the effort to give me comfort when I need it, or encouragement, or scolding, or support. I hope that in turn my blog gives you some of those things as well.

I just find it completely astonishing that we live in an age where the internet can make connections between people from so far away, different walks of life, different colours and creeds, that we might never hope to meet in our day-to-day lives?

Which leads me to the point of today's post. When I tracked back my stats from Am I Over-Thinking This?, I found some readers who came to that post via a website I hadn't heard of before. It's called We Feel Fine.

We Feel Fine is a database of human emotions, harvested from blogs around the planet. It crawls the web, looking for phrases that use the words "I feel" or "I am feeling", and then it puts those into a searchable database. You can click on other people's feelings, sort feelings by age, gender, location, weather (!), country and year.

It sounds really techy, but BELIEVE ME you MUST log on and have a look. I logged on and found it had pulled out my phrase "I feel almost immobilised by the freedom I've got right now; paralysed by choice".

And then I lost two hours of my life clicking on other links and finding other blogs and reading other people's words. I love it! And I hope you love it too.

Am I over-thinking this?

I'm cold sitting here at the dining table, despite being wrapped up in snuggly track pants, fat socks and fleecy top. Outside, it's drizzling rain and the sky's leaden with disappointment. The pussins are curled up into tight balls and not even the birds are singing. It's another spring day in Melbourne.

I'm all at sixes and sevens. I still feeling reasonably unsettled. I am sort of rattling around the house, picking things up and putting them down again, not quite sure what to do with my time. I feel like sewing but can't settle on a new project.  I'd like the house to be tidy, but don't feel like tidying up. I did a bit of gardening and then couldn't be bothered any more. I'm wasting a considerable amount of time surfing the internet and not really enjoying it.

I feel almost immobilised by the freedom I've got right now, paralysed by choice. Nothing is holding my attention.

Clearly, I'm going to have to put more structure into my days. I joined the local YMCA gym so perhaps I should start doing that at a regular time each day - probably first thing in the morning so that I a) get out of bed and b) don't talk myself out of it as the day passes. I need to paint one of my fabric cupboards so I should draw up a list of the stuff that I need, go to Bunnings, buy it all, bring it home and actually make a start. I should decide on a new sewing project and get started.

Should, should, should ..... my world is made up of "shoulds" right now, because all I've got is the feeling that I ought to be doing interesting and exciting things with my time, things I never had the time to do when I was working, and yet I can't fix on a single thing to do. 

I wonder if this is a passing phase - an adjustment to the new status quo - and whether in a month or two (or three) I'll have settled into some kind of new normal?

Rationally, I know these opportunities don't come along often, and so I feel a kind of pressure to really make the most of it. But is making the most of it actually something like relaxing and letting go, and experiencing the silence and collecting the blossoms along the way; rather than launching into activities left, right and centre? Is the blessing actually having the room to NOT do anything? Is it giving myself that permission?

I really want to be enjoying this time off, but between the anxious feeling of "I should be doing interesting and exciting things" and the desire to just hang out without doing anything, and the added nervousness that I'll get a job before too long and will then fatefully discover, either way, that I've wasted this rare fallow period by a) not doing enough interesting exciting things or b) not relaxing and just letting go and revelling in it, but instead straddling a tightrope between the two and never setting a foot properly into either camp (to mix my metaphors) ..... sheesh, it's overwhelming.

As I said to the Sister Of My Heart, do you think I'm over-analysing this?

Welcome back to Melbourne

It's taken me close to ten days, but I am FINALLY over the jetlag from India. Who'd have thought four and a half little hours could make so much difference? Not me, until I couldn't drag myself out of bed before 11am when I got home, which is unheard of.

You might be thinking that the first thing I did when I got home was start sewing, and you'd be right. And it would be logical to think that I ploughed straight into the 91 metres (yes! 91 metres in total!) of fabric I bought in India and posted home - but that would be slightly off the mark.

In fact I've spent the last week washing my 91 metres of fabric and hoping for it to dry in this cold, cold weather. When they make material in India they absolutely saturate it with dye, so it's imperative to do a warm water wash before you make anything, to get rid of the excess and ensure you don't accidentally dye other clothes or fabrics the first time you put your new thing into the wash. So, ten thousand tonnes of laundry later - and I'm still not quite finished, I have all the yellows and oranges to do yet - I am looking forward to breaking out my new scissors and using them with gay abandon on the new stash.

In the meantime though, while I was tapping my feet impatiently and drumming my fingertips as I hoped for more sun, I made this quilt. It's called Tangerine Dream, and I love it. Off to the Etsy shop you go, little quilt!

The last full day in Delhi

Cost of local bus trip to Shahjahanabad area, complete with eagle-eyed men and chickens, 10 rupees (25 cents)

Entry fee to Jama Masjid Mosque, 200 rupees ($5)

Fee to climb the minaret for a breathtaking view of Old Delhi in all its filth and glory, 100 rupees ($1.50)

Purchase of roast cashews, dried coconut, pomegranate pastilles and aniseed sugar for tomorrow's flight back home, 440 rupees ($11)

Discovery and excited purchase of silver-coated cardamom pods like the ones My One True Love and I had in Egypt – they're served as a breath freshener at the end of a meal - and have been searching for ever since, 400 rupees ($10)

Masala tea from chai wallah in the tiny twisting streets of the market, 8 rupees (20 cents)

Heartbreaking cost of having to exert astonishing willpower and self-discipline to walk past the many, many fabric shops without entering because we are on a mission to the Metro station, 0 rupees

Metro train to Connaught Place, 9 rupees (22 cents)

Wonderfully vibrant saffron yellow salwar kameez outfit patterned with burgundy khadi block print, and tailored to fit my exact measurements within half an hour, 1010 rupees ($25)

Brass and silver bangle for the Sulker, a travelling companion, who bargained hard and well for it, 100 rupees ($1.50)

Two bars of fragrant neem soap at FabIndia, 116 rupees ($2.70)

One "Thums Up" cola drink, 20 rupees (50c)

Metro train to Karol Bagh where the hotel is, 9 rupees (22 cents)

Rich and thick pistachio lassi in the street market as an effort to rehydrate after the incredibly hot train trip, 20 rupees (50 cents)

Three-course meal of chick pea curry, lentil dal, rice, roti, vinegar onions and pickles, and lime soda, 99 rupees ($2.50)

Deep purple kurta with lots of fake bling sewn around the collar, just like the locals wear, 150 rupees ($3.90)

Another full day in magnificent and chaotic Delhi – priceless.

Even more pictures of India

Father and daughter at the Jain temple, Ranakpur

Palace apartment, complete with royal swing, Udaipur

At the Hindu temple, Udaipur

The old elephant bathing pool, Fatehpur Sikri

Lovely frothy lassi, a yogurt drink, served in earthenware cups in Jaipur

Assorted betel nuts in the spice market

Birdcage, in the harem sara of Udaipur palace

Terrible spelling mistake - check out the last item on the menu.

Genuine snake charmer - that's a real cobra there

The Taj Mahal

I had expected to be unimpressed by the Taj Mahal.

It's true of so many famous monuments (and other things, especially paintings,) that the familiarity we already have from photos and documentaries means that when you finally see them in reality, they can be a little anti-climactic. Underwhelming.

So when I rounded the red sandstone corner and entered the gate that leads to the Taj, and caught my first glimpse of this massive mausoleum, and felt my heart thump in my chest at the sight of it, there was no one more surprised than me.

Words truly can't describe how impressive it is - how big, how white, how beautifully symmetrical in every aspect. Photos can't capture the grandeur, the scale, the delicacy of the ornate work that's gone into it.

So I'm not going to try. I'll just say this: if you haven't been to India to see the Taj Mahal, and you have any inkling that you might like to, I say GO! Go NOW!

There are a lot of people to contend with, though hardly any foreign tourists. You have to wear little white booties over your shoes to protect the stonework from dirt and wear - like the things surgeons wear over their feet in theatre. You can't take anything inside except a tiny little bottle of water - they make you check your bag, mobile phone, everything. It's hot and stuffy inside the building. There's an iffy smell. People will push you.

But the feeling of magnificence and awe that overcomes you as you walk around it in your little white booties is phenomenal.

The wide banks of the Yamuna River come almost right up to the site, and over in the background people will be swimming and doing their laundry. Indians will ask to take your photo with them - ladies, watch out for the Romeos who may try to grab your hand while their friend is snapping the picture. Chipmunks will run across your feet as they dash to the nearest tree. It's a fantastic experience.

The story of the Taj is well known - the king spent 22 years building it as a tomb for his wife, and it's a tribute both to the grace of Indian womanhood and to the devotion of Indian men. The marble work is inlaid with precious and semi-precious stones such as turquoise, onyx, lapis lazuli, carnelian, jet, malachite and amber. Intricate patterns of flowers, tendrils and lacy edging cover every inch of the decorative surfaces, and they are marvellous to behold.

And so it is fitting that the Taj is the last big monument I will see on my trip. I have seen so many forts, temples and palaces that I'm completely forted out. The next couple of days in Delhi will be spent unwinding, picking up my clothes from the tailor, and thinking about returning to real life. 

Getting on with things

The rain is pounding against the windows of the bus and because there aren't any window seals, it's pouring down the inside of the vehicle and soaking everything within a five-foot range of my left leg.

Strangely, I'm ok with my clothes being saturated and the water running over my feet. I don't wish it wasn't happening, I don't wish I was in an aisle seat instead, and I don't mind being wet. I pull the thin and dirty curtain across to try and stem the monsoonal onslaught, but other than that I accept the reality. This is India, and cursing the situation isn't going to change it, so there's no point in getting my knickers in a twist.

As the lake around my feet gets big enough for a child to sail a wooden boat in, I wonder about the state of a nation that can function in this way. That is, most things essentially work – services, utilities, objects and people - but in a kind of chaotic and haphazard manner that feels very unique to this country. If a bus leaked this badly in Australia there'd be outrage, in America there'd be a lawsuit, and in Britain there'd be shared if subdued grumbling at least.

But here in India, there is a general acceptance that things are generally crappy and broken and filthy (or all three); people don't get upset about it as far as I can see. So it's filthy and crappy and broken – hey, at least it's still working to some extent, right?

Perhaps this acceptance is the genesis of the Indian head-wobble; which can mean yes, no, maybe, perhaps, and god willing - sometimes all at once. I might get to Bharatpur wet, but I'll get there in the end. People simply get on with things or find some kind of innovative solution – and I wonder if this acceptance is the quality that characterises India the best?

Your patience is tested everywhere, in even the smallest things. The constant electrical blackouts. The dodgy powerpoints. The icecream sundae that comes without half its listed ingredients. The sink unconnected to a pipe, so the water gushes out over the floor. The squat toilets filled with faeces. Villages – lots of them – where women have to carry water for miles to their homes in pots on their heads in the blistering sun.

The festering piles of rubbish all over the streets, with pigs and dogs and cows and kids truffling through it for food. The roads that probably cause more accidents than they prevent. The hotel room I had in Ranakpur where I could get water from the taps in the bathroom sink but no water from the shower.

The barefoot beggar children, with hair like scarecrows, carrying gunny sacks over their shoulders as they collect any scrap of plastic, metal or string off the streets that might be useful for something, somewhere, someday.

All of this goes on with an apparent sense of acceptance and reasonable good humour. That is of course a sweeping generalisation and cannot possibly be true of everyone, but the great extent of what I've witnessed to date is that there is certainly an atmosphere of just getting on with things rather than having a pants-down tantrum about it.

Because I suppose if you did do your lolly, who would listen? Everyone is too busy just trying to survive and make a living in their own small corner of the country.

Holy cow!

Cows to the left of me, cows to the right of me, cows in front of me, and cows behind me.


And cow manure everywhere, as a consequence. As if the streets weren't filthy enough, with the open sewers (quite literally, people ahem, ablute directly into them on the street – if only the cows themselves could be that precise) – the sheer quantity of cow dung takes some getting used to.

I have so far managed to avoid any messy disasters, but I can't say the same for the Southern Belle, who has put her foot in it.... so to speak, three times now.

But the cows themselves, they are something to behold. They're Brahmins usually, the cow with the hump on its back, which is named after the highest Indian caste of Brahmins; and part of the reason they became holy to the Hindu faith over time is because it was illegal to hurt or kill a Brahmin's cow. Brahmins were the governors, politicians and priests of ancient India, so they were pretty important. You didn't want to go messing with a priests' cow.

Hindus believe that the cow is an embodiment of Mother Earth herself. They provide food in the form of milk, they provide butter and ghee which are used both in every type of cooking as well as in sacred Hindu ceremonies, they provide fuel in the form of their dried manure (which is still used to this day) and they are herd animals – the ultimate mothers.

So it is sacrilege to hurt or kill a cow - In India, McDonalds doesn't serve beef, just chicken, fish and vegie burgers - and that's why they wander the streets even in modern cities like Jaipur, where I am right now, and why everybody just leaves them to their business and goes around them.

I'm sure when little calves are born their mothers say to them "Don't worry dear, you just do what you like, because we have the run of the place. You want to sleep on the traffic island? That's fine. You want to lie in front of a shop and block their doorway? That's fine. You want to curl up like a cat in a hotel's garden? No problem."

In the street outside right now there are at least twenty that I can see, and a group of them have formed a little coterie in the middle of the road where they are no doubt discussing the upcoming elections and reviewing the latest restaurants.

I'm sure there's some kind of cow bulletin that goes out about the best garbage dumps to eat at, too, because that's where you often see them, snuffling through the rubbish in search of something edible. Of course cows are grazers and should eat grass, but there is a dearth of fresh grass in urban India (and even in rural India too), so they end up eating all sorts of stuff they shouldn't. Like plastic bags. They can eat up to 36kg of undigestible plastic, which sits there making them feel as though they're full, which of course they aren't, and then they die slowly of starvation.

Plus, shopkeepers will feed them chapati – flat bread - which isn't good for their stomachs, so they bloat up like malnourished babies with all this bulk in their tummies; but their ribs show through their skin and their hips stick out like a teenage anorexic's. It can be very sad to see.

I think I said in a previous post that being headbutted by a cow is meant to be good luck – but still, I mean, it's being HEADBUTTED by a COW. I have the bruises to prove it. Some of the cows are pretty massive creatures, and when they lumber up to you in the street it can be a bit confronting. I try to keep a reasonably wide berth now.

But the best cow event yet has to be the one yesterday in Udaipur, where the monsoon was exploding out of the sky and all the cows were standing on the shopfront ledges trying to keep dry. One cow had even gone INTO the shop and it was hilarious watching the shopkeepers try to shoo out this massive animal that had no intention of budging. Heh heh. Cows always win in the end.

And that leads me to the unanswerable question. I asked my driver this: if you're driving, and something bad happens and you cannot avoid killing something no matter what choice you make, and on one side of you is a man and on the other side is a cow, which direction do you go in?

My favourite Indian signs

This sign shows a marriage has occurred in the house - the date is given on the left ... 16 February 2009

At the bottom - Fatty Pasta. For fatties?