Just call us Earlybirds

Garden Boules, Bocce Ball, Petanque.  

We have a new hobby. 

I am amazing two beers in.  Last time we only had one.  

Ariel 2, Pete 3

To thine own chocolate be true

I decided to finish the cake on a Demon Day.  Most people call it PMS or hormonal days. For me it's a Demon Day because when hormones, the housewife itch and my dramatic Sicilian tendencies mix, my husband hides in the lounge watching Formula 1 at unnecessarily loud levels.  If he has to cross my line of sight, he does it quietly like a mouse trying to get across the room with a sleeping cat (tail twitching) laying right in front of the mouse hole.  He's smart.  He's adapted.  It was the perfect day to make chocolate ganache from scratch. 




Let's back up.  The reason I decided to finish this particular cake on this particular day is because of our wedding.  On our wedding day I didn't get to eat my wedding cake.  I had the two ceremonial bites during the cake cutting portion of the evening (and also managed to drop one of those bites down my cleavage, a moment forever captured on the wedding video. Our vows didn't make it on film, but the classy cake cleavage was captured in full Technicolor with accompanying narration).  By the time I made it back to my table, the piece of cake waiting for me had been cleared.  


Last year for our first anniversary I made a small replica of our wedding cake.  I figured we had redone our wedding photos, redone our honeymoon, why not redo the cake fiasco.  I was also a little sad that, again, I would miss out on my wedding cake since the top tier was in a freezer in Cleveland and we were in London.  Dammit! I was going to have some cake!!! Last year it went relatively swimmingly, the frosting was a bit crumby, but it was brilliant. And so large and rich we had to cut it up into chunks to freeze.  We ate the last bit a few weeks ago.  


So as this anniversary approached, I prepared to do it again.  The actual baking went fine.  I make it a few days early as it only gets better with age.  It was the assembly that went tits up. In fact I woke up that day with sore tits, I should have known it wasn't the day to mess with chocolate and cream.  




I retrieved the fancy French chocolate I decided on for the ganache and got to work. Breaking it up with my mezzaluna knife, I was feeling very smug and assured in my ability to make this concoction from scratch and memory. The melting and gently folding begins and right away something is wrong.  The chocolate is melting in a gritty fashion.  Hmm, well, it is French, maybe it melts gritty and then emulsifies in to a beautiful smooth ribbon. 


No, it starts to release oil.  Oil!  What the F**k!!  All my domestic bliss and superiority begins to disappear and I start to feel the ugly cry bubbling up.  I take a few deep breaths trying to contain the completely irrational crying jag that is about to start.  It's just chocolate.  I sprinkle in a little powdered sugar thinking it is like whipping up double cream. Nope.  More oil is released.  Maybe a little raw cocoa powder.  Nope.  It begins to look more and more like something you would find in a diaper than in a beautiful chocolate stout cake.

F**K!!


At this point I start to think about how everything I attempt recently has failed and this is just one more thing to add to the list. This isn't really true, I have actually been having a run of good fortune, but what is a meltdown without letting those irrational hormones take the wheel?! With that ride comes some tears.  Why not? At this point I have lost all sense of reason. 


 F**k it!!


I pour out some of the oil in our kitchen sink,  praying it won't make that particular fixture any worse and let the chocolate slide (slide, like a big oily sh*t) into the glass measuring cup and then into the fridge thinking maybe it will cool and solidify into something usable, but at this point, pretty sure it is just going to be a cold lump of sh*t.  


I retreat to the bathroom to try and get a hold of myself before I lose it and start throwing stuff around the kitchen.  Pete is still sequestered in the lounge with one ear pricked for the pounding footsteps of his wife on the stairs so he can jump to and be the supporting husband.  He's already attempted the half hug, 'there, there' move which only makes me more frustrated because it is just pointing out that I have become completely irrational when I really just want to ignore that fact.  


Back to the fridge.  The chocolate sh*t has released more oil which is now cooling in a halo of yellow fat.  F**K!!!  


After throwing some utensils around in the sink I decide to head out to the offie and see if they have anything to offer to fix this situation.  I am routinely surprised by their offerings so I am moderately sure they will have something.  


Not today.  Today is not the day.  They have cake mix, but no frosting.  They have everything you might need to concoct an elaborate Indian feast, or just a meal with every known legume, but these Turkish brothers have nothing in the way of cocoa solids or even Betty Crocker frosting.  They have the fancy paste food colouring and three different kinds of yeast, but no baking chocolate. 


They do have Nutella.  I grab a small jar, the Sunday paper and at the last minute some chocolate bars from the candy rack.  


I hand over the change and walk outside.  The sky opens up and I walk the 500 yards back to the flat in pouring rain, dropping everything at least once.  I slam our front door with an expletive and the sun bursts forth.  


Back down to the kitchen I root around in the baking cabinet and find a small bag of baking chocolate that is probably past its 'best by' date, but what the hell, and break that up with the cheap chocolate bars I bought on impulse.  I'm going to give it one more go before I resort to the Nutella.  That's when I discover I have a huge glob of oily chocolate on the collar of my sweater and the inside of the apron.  Another glob on my neck.  


That's it.  Just pile it all on.  


At some point I have the fleeting thought, again, that this is just indicative of the past year, but, again, actually it isn't. There is a limit to the melodramatic. (Progress!) And again, I remind myself that while this past year hasn't been the best of my life, it hasn't been one f**k up after another either, even if it feels like it in this moment.  


I check the chocolate sh*t in the fridge one last time in a desperate hope.  It has released even more oil.  Where is it all coming from?  What kind of chocolate is this?  


With all patience and sense leaving me, I throw the cheap chocolate and the old chocolate into the pot with a bit of double cream and dare it to burn.  Just give me an excuse to really lose it.  As I move it gently around the pot (because even in my distress, I somehow have the patience to treat the chocolate with care) it becomes a beautiful smooth ganache.


That puts me in my place.  Who did I think I was, showing off with fancy French baking chocolate? 


I spoon the beautiful brown silk on the first layer, slice off the top of the second layer and suddenly all is right with the world (or so it seems after devouring the largish piece I sliced off).  I still have the buttercream to throw on and if last year is any clue, it won't be pretty, but it's out of a tub so at least I don't have to worry about it separating or going runny.  I don't have enough for a pure white coating but I have a new palette knife so at least it will be evenly spread.  And really, half the reason I am doing this is to have an excuse to use the palette knife. 




Three hours from the start and the cake is done and sitting under a tent of cling film.  I read the morning paper, Pete escaped the worst of the meltdown and the sun is shining.  




Perspective.  
A few years ago I wouldn't be able to tell you the difference between chocolate ganache and chocolate frosting.  I had a better chance of correctly identifying an obscure wrench than a palette or mezzaluna knife, let alone know how to use either.  


Lately I have been in a rut.  In writing, in life, in cooking.  Flying on auto and too distracted to do the work and remember what it was I really enjoyed about cooking, loving, writing.  


The cake was fabulous. 
From beginning to end.  

Another year, another adventure

7 years since we met

6 years living abroad

5 visas between us

4 years of PhD hell

3 years in Greenwich

2 years married

1 statement started it all…

"You have a stubby thumb”

Photo by Genevieve Nisly Photography

Who Knew?

For the first time in living memory I have no project or deadline to procrastinate. 

My entire existence, for the last 20 years, was built on a carefully structured hierarchy of procrastination. 


I'm not really sure how to proceed. 

The wheel turns...

Happy Anniversary, Mom and Dad!

Oops.

I’m all talk and no action. 

At least here. 

Sometimes you just have to live your life in order to observe it properly. 

The silence here is due to many factors.  But I don’t think this space is going away.  I’m just working on finding a way for it to fit my life a bit better.  The beauty of the space is that it can change with my life. 

When I started this little venture I was very lost and suffering from PhD-PTSD. 

It’s totally a thing. 

While speaking to a fellow PhD survivor yesterday we hit on the core of PhD-PTSD.  

You cannot stop analysing.* 

For at least four years of your life 20% of the 25% of the brain we actively use was taken up with constantly analysing.  No matter what you were doing, that bit of the brain was constantly ticking over and ‘making connections’ and pushing you to write, write, write, write.  When you finally finish, that bit of the brain is at a loss.  Especially if you don’t continue with the academic life.  That bit of the brain is habituated to analyse so it turns to whatever it can find.  It’s like a virus (or something else that just latches on to whatever is nearby, a seed pod, whatever) and you start analysing your breakfast choices, your friends, your partner, your marriage, the look a total stranger gave you on the tube.  It’s all up for investigation with any social theory you can remember and suddenly you can’t enjoy ‘time-off’ anymore because that bit of your brain is telling you that there is something significant to be said about your choice of breakfast.  It’s all culturally relevant and indicative of a greater social pattern and the fact that you think you made the choice because it was all you could find in the cupboard and were running late, means you aren't taking a broad enough view of your life and choices…………

Do you see? It’s exhausting.  Who cares? It gets to the point that you can’t register a feeling without analysing why it is that you might be feeling this way. 

I should point out that this may only be the case with Social Science PhDs as we are trained to see any aspect of life as up for investigation, so why not my breakfast choice.

Getting back to the silence…

I didn’t want to analyse my life anymore.  I feel pretty confident in saying that continued analysis will not make life enjoyable.  The unexamined life is definitely worth living.  At least for awhile. 

I can’t turn this training off but I don’t have to feed it. 

I do, however, have to keep writing.  I have been writing and telling stories since I was 5.  Probably before.  I have a compulsion to embellish the truth for the purpose of a better story.  Some call it compulsive lying, I prefer storytelling.  Any event that happens in my life, big or small, I process through snippets of description.  Lines of text run through my head as I feel joy or horror or contentment.  I can’t stop it.  So this space will continue, but not like before. 

I don’t think. 

I’m not sure. 

I’ll get back to you.



*there is also a guilt component that rivals any cultural mother/religion stereotype

Loose Ends

The remains of a meal in Fez.

 A new month.  A new goal.

Remember back in January when I said I was keeping myresolutions to myself?

I still am.  But I will let you in on one.  One that I think is probably the most important and the stepping stone for all the rest.

Be Mindful.

It’s that simple.  Be Mindful. 

I find that when I operate on auto-pilot I tend to end up in behaviour and thinking cycles that are less than productive or helpful.  I find myself anxious and antsy. 

Being mindful sounds easy enough, but is much harder in practice.

Being mindful, for me, is considering each action and thought.  Purposefully marking each action and thought and deciding whether or not it is the right one for the moment. 

I started this practice, unknowingly, when I joined Weight Watchers in December of 2010.  Then again, when I decided to start running. 

The practice was immensely helpful in more ways than I can count.  But most important for me was the feeling of control over some aspects of my life.  At the time I joined Weight Watchers I felt that I had lost control of some major aspects of my life.  My academic career had come to a screeching halt, my weight had ballooned and my health (mental and physical) was spiralling.

Taking the small step of being mindful of my food choices and noticing the effects those choices had on my body and health was the start of my healing process. 

Three months later I was 15 pounds lighter and running 3K on a regular basis.  I was feeling more confident and healthy.  Most importantly, I was feeling happy and able to see possibilities. 

This winter, for reasons I still am not sure of, I stopped being mindful.  Or at least I stopped taking the time to check in with myself.  I had made a lot of progress with my fitness and health and I had made a few small in-roads in getting back to work. 

Maybe these little steps, which were successful, let me think I could take a break. 

I now know, as with running, so it is with mindfulness.  I need to keep at it.  The positives gained through both are not permanent.  At least not yet.  They require vigilance and constant work. 

This past month of illness brought that realization home. 

Now that I am finally feeling better I have come back to my mindful resolution. 

First up, tying up a some loose ends I left dangling here. 

Mission: Declutter came to an unexpected stop when I worked my way through the flat to my ‘research.’  Boxes and boxes and shelves and shelves of book, articles, bits and pieces of my research from six years.  Research I spent a lot of time on and with.  Research that I have since stepped away from with no real plan to return.  However, I can’t get rid of it.  While I have decided to leave academia for the time being, I don’t think I am ready to leave that research.  It doesn’t feel done.  That journey, my circus/storytelling journey is not at an end and until it is I can’t get rid of all those bits and pieces. 

I became overwhelmed and stopped. 

Mission: Declutter ended abruptly, but it was successful.  It resulted in at least four trips to charity and quite a bit of recycling.  There are still bags of clothes waiting to be swapped and I still have yet to sell off the nicer pieces of clothes and stuff, but the overall declutter was helpful. 

And so I declare that mission complete. For now.

The sewing that was meant to accompany the declutter never started.  Or at least never got beyond collecting the clothes and cutting up some t-shirts.  This stalling is mostly down to a space issue.  I haven’t given up on it but I have accepted that it is going to have to wait until I have some space.  I will be sure to inform you when it starts back up again.

Morocco Motoring was abandoned just as I got started.  We went to Morocco in October and I have yet to tell those stories.  To be fair, there aren’t a lot beyond being ill and learning a bit about desire (hint: It’s suffering).

But not suffering as we normally think of it.  More like reality vs. expectation.

There are stories to tell, however and I intent to get on that.  If for no other reason than to preserve some of the good moments of those two weeks.  Despite the sickness, there were very good moments.  So I will endeavour to share those with you here and over in the Attic. 

It always feels good to tie a neat bow.