Up next?

Four years of our life turned out to be something for me to do... so I wouldn't have nothing to do.*




Two years later and I still have nothing to do.  


What does one do when they have a 100,000 word manuscript about a circus adventure only 5 people have read and nothing to do?  






*This revised quote comes from Meryl Streep's Julia Child after her cookbook is rejected in the movie Julie and Julia.

Thresholds

This past weekend I dug out my flip flops.  They were still covered in Morocco.  That last night in country when we walked back from dinner at the vegan cafe (because we just couldn't handle anymore tagines) through the pouring rain.  Weaving our way through the medina's alleys and passages now familiar after three days of exploration.  Our legs and feet slowly caked in rain and red mud and whatever else ran through those streets where horses, donkeys, feral cats and motor scooters shuffle the teaming crowds of humanity, even at that late hour.  


Those last three days in Marrakesh transformed our experience of Morocco but also transformed our vision of ourselves.  We had returned to Africa with the same mindset in which we left six years prior, rough and ready and willing to experience some hardship in the pursuit of the travel experience.  Then came two weeks of driving in a stuffy hot car for hours on end every day, hot hotel rooms above pumping night clubs, waves of sickness, fear of water and the inability to wash.  When we arrived in Marrakesh at the end of our tour, all we wanted was a shower and a plane home.  I wasn't interested in exploring any more, I couldn't look at another carpet or leather bag or handcrafted shoe.  




That was when I knew something had changed.  I had no desire to ogle shoes and handbags.  Something was definitely wrong and it had nothing to do with the searing cramps in my abdomen.  




In the most 'backpacker' moment I have experienced thus far in my life, we loaded up, (front and back) and hiked through the crowded alleys of the medina to a quiet corner, deep in the rabbit warren.  The directions indicating turns at the 'corner carpet shop,' 'fountain,' 'mosque' completely useless as they apply to every corner within the Old City.  Behind the big wooden door in a dark underpass was a beautiful and calm space we willingly fell into, covered in grime and sweat, bowels churning.  


In those last three days in Marrakesh, when we had access to working showers and quiet rooms and the freedom to roam as we pleased, we got comfortable with the fact that we had changed.  We weren't the twenty-somethings that ran away to Africa for adventure six years before.  We were thirty-somethings with obligations and responsibilities that had replaced 'exotic' adventure and we really were just too tired to try and replicate those magical weeks/months we experienced six years ago.  


This realisation, that I am no longer who I was, is a difficult double-edged sword for me to swallow.  One edge is 'thank goodness that time of insecurity and arrogance and ignorance is over' the other edge 'what fresh hell is this 'grown-up' thing of responsibility and obligation and constant effort?'


It's the constant effort that is catching me up lately.  There is no resting.  And while this is a lesson best directed at somewhat intangible goals, it is one that has come home in a very tangible way in the form of my physical body.


Three months ago I signed up for a half-marathon.  




I'll give you some time to let that sink in.  


A half-marathon. 


Me.  


At the time of signing up I had never run farther than 6K (about 3.75 miles).  A half-marathon is 21.1 K (13.1 miles).  I'm not sure what I was thinking.  


Three weekends ago I ran 10K.  


I got very cocky about it.  I tweeted and facebook-ed status-ed about High School gym stinking-that-in-its-pipe-and-smoking-it. 




I have yet to do it again.  After that I stopped running three times a week and have only gone for runs on the weekend and have yet to reach 10K again.  This is not how you train for a half-marathon.  


There is no real reason for this sudden apathy.  The weather hasn't been great, but it never is and I still managed to run three times a week throughout the entire winter.  The same thing with my weight loss/gain.  This past winter I reached my goal weight and then slid back into unhealthy eating patterns.  Coupled with less running, I have put back on about 10 pounds.


No.  There is something else going on with me.  For eight months I have been crossing a threshold without really being aware of the process.  It started with that realisation in Marrakesh.  I am moving toward a different version of me.  A grown-up version.  But every time I get close to embracing this next transition, I stop.  Almost afraid to continue through the door and leave the previous me behind.    


Two steps forward, one step back.  Reach a goal with 'grown up' responsibility and accountability, and then expect to reap the benefits without effort with 'childish' arrogance and entitlement. 


Intellectually, I know this is how life works and I think I am excited about the possibility of new-ish Ariel.  How horrible to stay the 'same' your whole life.  

But, damn.  It would have been nice to figured that out before we booked the 'rough and ready' Morocco tour.  Working showers and night club-free hotels would have made a world of difference. 




Photos: Tomb of Moulay Ismail/Meknes, flip flop full of Morocco/Sahara Desert

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!