There are times when my pickiness with regard what I will and won’t eat leads to discomfort or even outright awkwardness. This tends to lead to progressively more awkward situations when I find myself in circumstances where the opportunity doesn’t present itself for me to simply ferret out some sweet food to stave off hunger until I can feed on something bland enough that it doesn’t offend my admittedly childish palette.
There was a time, shortly before the visit to the old folk’s home I described some weeks ago, when I was placed practically in my girlfriend’s care. During a trip to France (a country in which, it turns out, I am particularly poorly equipped for survival) she was forced to effectively make sure I had enough food that I wouldn’t, for one reason or another, die. Scurvy was an unnervingly real threat.
As it turns out, I lack the aptitude in foreign languages to do very much more than to understand the kinds of conversations that young children might carry with confidence. Worse still, this means that I spend an uncomfortable majority of my time frustrated and, embarrassingly, jealous that they can understand their elders, who tend to speak with their words rammed together, intimately intertwined as are the carriages of a train crash.
I find the most difficult aspect of learning any foreign language to overcome is the doubt evoked whenever someone raises a subject that seems in any way unusual or misunderstandable.
When confronted with the possibility of spending the guts of a month in France, I had meticulously prepared a survival kit. It was constructed in the same manner as I imagine the SAS might construct a survival kit – light on clothes, heavy on familiar food and drink. It was this preparation that prompted me to bring more tea than could be reasonably consumed by two men in a month, against the chance that I might simply sit in and read for the duration of our stay – a process which seems to involve the consumption of a copious amounts of tea.
On arrival at Gaelle’s cousin’s apartment, in which we would spend the vast majority of our stay, I sprang for the kitchen and (much like a guided missile finds a target from low orbit) secured the necessary accoutrements for the construction of a cup of tea. The first hurdle was the want of a teaspoon, which proved somewhat difficult to satisfy...
I leaned from the kitchen and called Gaelle’s cousin, “Ou est le... spoon,” For reasons of dexterity, I won’t be on any French bomb squads in the near future, but I can mime “spoon” passably. Julien returned a barrage of French, impossibly fast, hammering words into one another with a kind-hearted warmth that suggested:
A) that he knew exactly what I was talking about
B) that I am a simpleton for not understanding what is clearly a very simple exposition of the philosophy underlying his lack of spoons
C) that I need to consult Gaelle before asking simple questions
As it turned out, Julien’s philosophy with regard the spoon dilemma is relatively simple, and what follows is a rough description:
If you own multiple spoons, you are wasting time. Surely the day is far better spent using spoons as needed, and then simply throwing them away when they’ve been sullied by whatever corrupted filth you’ve decided to eat or drink. The point is that once you’ve committed to actually washing spoons, you might as well just own one spoon, and wash that as many times as you need. If you think about it, you’ll end up washing multiple spoons anyway. In a sense, it’s simple, beautiful even.
You can’t imagine the effect this has on a person with a staple diet principally composed of tea. I don’t wash spoons; I use the same one over and over and throw it in the sink at the end of the day. This seemed to be a concept with which Julien had never been faced before- but he being a man of action, was able to secure (by means I can only imagine involving theft) from the café above which we lived a small crate of spoons.
When a man’s first interaction with you in his home country culminates in the mass theft of cutlery, it’s hard not to view them as fantastically sanguine (in the sense of “hopelessly optimistic” not “bloody”). On this foundation we built a passably bilingual routine; we would play chess most mornings, and his English would gradually improve as my French far less gradually deteriorated. Having taught someone to speak to you on your terms, it becomes very difficult to revert to a position where the primary method of communication is charades...
I would later learn through my distinctly one sided French, thanks to what can only be described as an acute academic disinterest, he is considered to be a little less than the sharpest knife the drawer. This is a distressing thought to introduce to someone incapable of reply, particularly coupled with the idea that, despite the appearance that I had been teaching the man to play chess, he had begun to beat me under conditions that were increasingly less favourable.
Initially he would lose while I was reading a comic or watching a film, playing offhand. Later we would play over breakfast, and if I were sufficiently tired, he would gain an advantage. Within two weeks though, we would play early in the morning, with him having slept for less than four hours (often not at all), still drunk from the night before, in the clothes he wore the previous day, reeking of smoke and wine and somehow seeing through every effort I might muster, however carefully guarded. At the same time he learned to speak English passably, with little or no prior education, to an extent that laughed in the face of my six years of French.
In many ways he reminds me of Ross. I’m not sure why, though I suspect a large part of it is his startling aptitude with Cubase, the program from which the name CLED Error was unexpectedly supplied. Within an evening he learned to use a copy of Cubase entirely in English to an extent I have yet to see anyone else manage. There’s something distinctly depressing about that.
Marc "Hopelessly Outclassed" Mac
It's only worse because every time we played chess he'd use tricks I'd used on him in the previous game... it's depressing to see how poorly I play against someone who can use my own duplicity against me.
Friday, July 25, 2008
Canary Row
I happened to spend around an hour sitting in place in town earlier in the week, for reasons that are both too secretive and altogether too boring for me to relate before a particular project bears fruit.
While sitting on a stone bench, listening to a book (as is my way), I watched as a tiny yellow bird, I can only assume a canary, flitted directly out the window of a particularly shady looking bar. It being only about 7 o’clock, and the street being relatively uncluttered by buildings, if ever the bird crested a height of about seven feet the setting sun would gleam red across the edges of its wings, streaking after-images across the eyes of anyone near enough to appreciate it.
I’d have been happy enough for this to have been the end of the story, but I had plenty of time left to sit around and enjoy the ambiance. I had the abundant pleasure of watching four bouncers, each stocky and broadly built, cross the road, having been told (quietly) to recapture the escaped avian.
The four strode, Reservoir Dogs style, across the road towards the canary, the whole time trying to look like angry, muscular men who had far more important places to be, while simultaneously trying very hard not to look threatening to what seemed to be an increasingly tiny and ill-equipped bird. The combined effect built into a kind of bullish tiptoeing, which proved effective only in communicating (both to the lone onlooker and one particularly savvy canary) that these men were not routine or efficient poultry hunters.
This scene quickly led to the establishment of an awkward three man tableau, which would last only until the gleaming yellow bird flitted closer to another of the four than the one currently investigating it, at which point the new closest man would begin to close on it, while the others tried to remain frozen.
The look of anguish in their eyes as they stood immobile in the wind and cackling laughter of a passing hen party communicated more than just frustration. These were men who, even if they didn’t enjoy their jobs, were a lot happier dealing with people than with birds… their employer seemed to think that, they being capable of dealing with mammals, a bird should prove little difficulty. Some fifteen minutes later, one was pecked in the hand as he finally reacquired the feathered escapee…
Sadly, this sudden retaliation caused him to let the startled canary go, and as it soared away, at a near right angle to the ground, the look on the faces of all present, myself included, communicated accurately using a line from The Shawshank Redemption – “I have to remind myself that some birds aren’t meant to be caged. Their feathers are just too bright. And when they fly away, the part of you that knows it was a sin to lock them up does rejoice. But still, that place you live in is that much more grey.”
I guess that’s a pretty big inference though. If I’m honest, I was almost definitely the only one thinking that. The bouncers were almost certainly just glad the thing had fucked off… it was beautiful though, to me if to no one else.
Marc “Read some Stephen King I guess” Mac
In my pocket there is a token for a carousel. I don’t know where it came from, but I treasure it. It has become a talisman.
While sitting on a stone bench, listening to a book (as is my way), I watched as a tiny yellow bird, I can only assume a canary, flitted directly out the window of a particularly shady looking bar. It being only about 7 o’clock, and the street being relatively uncluttered by buildings, if ever the bird crested a height of about seven feet the setting sun would gleam red across the edges of its wings, streaking after-images across the eyes of anyone near enough to appreciate it.
I’d have been happy enough for this to have been the end of the story, but I had plenty of time left to sit around and enjoy the ambiance. I had the abundant pleasure of watching four bouncers, each stocky and broadly built, cross the road, having been told (quietly) to recapture the escaped avian.
The four strode, Reservoir Dogs style, across the road towards the canary, the whole time trying to look like angry, muscular men who had far more important places to be, while simultaneously trying very hard not to look threatening to what seemed to be an increasingly tiny and ill-equipped bird. The combined effect built into a kind of bullish tiptoeing, which proved effective only in communicating (both to the lone onlooker and one particularly savvy canary) that these men were not routine or efficient poultry hunters.
This scene quickly led to the establishment of an awkward three man tableau, which would last only until the gleaming yellow bird flitted closer to another of the four than the one currently investigating it, at which point the new closest man would begin to close on it, while the others tried to remain frozen.
The look of anguish in their eyes as they stood immobile in the wind and cackling laughter of a passing hen party communicated more than just frustration. These were men who, even if they didn’t enjoy their jobs, were a lot happier dealing with people than with birds… their employer seemed to think that, they being capable of dealing with mammals, a bird should prove little difficulty. Some fifteen minutes later, one was pecked in the hand as he finally reacquired the feathered escapee…
Sadly, this sudden retaliation caused him to let the startled canary go, and as it soared away, at a near right angle to the ground, the look on the faces of all present, myself included, communicated accurately using a line from The Shawshank Redemption – “I have to remind myself that some birds aren’t meant to be caged. Their feathers are just too bright. And when they fly away, the part of you that knows it was a sin to lock them up does rejoice. But still, that place you live in is that much more grey.”
I guess that’s a pretty big inference though. If I’m honest, I was almost definitely the only one thinking that. The bouncers were almost certainly just glad the thing had fucked off… it was beautiful though, to me if to no one else.
Marc “Read some Stephen King I guess” Mac
In my pocket there is a token for a carousel. I don’t know where it came from, but I treasure it. It has become a talisman.
Thursday, July 24, 2008
We Made a Cake
Myself and Adam (Ross being in work) ended up playing Starcraft today, an experience I relish, but after that, things got a little slow, so we decided to make a cake. We’d seen a recipe for a “Five minute cake” earlier in the week, and figured it’d be worth a go.
The recipe includes “Cake Flour” but we didn’t have any of that, so we subbed in self-raising flour, and it worked out alright. We just used half a tablespoon less.
The recipe calls for the cake to be made in a mug and, given the number of comments involving mug related injuries, we figured an expendable mug would be best.
It’s hard to find anything very much more expendable than Goofy… that fucker.
We added all of the ingredients in the right order (which is basically, all the powders first, then an egg, then oil, then milk and mix). We’d been worried until now that it wouldn’t emulsify, or might take significantly more space than we had to give it, but in the end it all fit in alright.
No shell, motherfuckers!
The smell of cocoa permeates everything, it’s surprisingly strong, and smells somehow caffeinated. Adam is literally still coughing ten minutes after the event… that said, we did inhale more cocoa than most over the course of our arguing whether or not certain things would work. Among those things, can you efficiently measure milk in tablespoons? Can you still do so with a tablespoon covered in cake batter?
“How many are even in there? Is that three spoons?”
“Three… ish. I guess. Look, it’s fine”
Adam looks far less frustrated in sepia, so it makes us look like better people if we include this shot. It’s so homey and 1950s. I wonder can we get a spot in good housekeeping…
He’s like a cross between the joyous mother, helping a retarded child to bake a cake, and a palsied child trying to bake a cake.
After that, all we had to do was learn to use the new microwave, which was far more difficult than it needed to be. We spent at least twenty minutes trying to use the microwave this morning, so it had yielded most of its secrets to us, with the exception of how to make it work for a certain amount of time.
To operate this effectively you need to be a safecracker… :(
Fortunately enough, the microwave kind of did its own thing… I think it might have been set to “Beverage”, though whether or not this was because it could somehow tell there was a mug or not is pretty up in the air. I wonder could it ever have told if there was a cake mug within…
In the end, the cake kind of escaped the mug, but that was an eventuality for which we were entirely prepared.
Just below there’s a shot of the actual cake itself; we broke it into chunks and dropped it in a bowl. It tasted like a Swiss roll, but it was still warm and since we’d constructed it with our bare hands – yeah, and some spoons and stuff, but you know what I mean – it tasted all the sweeter.
It tastes better than it looks. next time though, we’ll add some toppings.
The temptation to build a second cake was almost overwhelming, but instead I took this shot of our assembled ingredients… it pretty much sums up the whole process.
The total cooking time, including preparation and finding ingredients, was five minutes and thirty seconds.
The recipe includes “Cake Flour” but we didn’t have any of that, so we subbed in self-raising flour, and it worked out alright. We just used half a tablespoon less.
The recipe calls for the cake to be made in a mug and, given the number of comments involving mug related injuries, we figured an expendable mug would be best.
It’s hard to find anything very much more expendable than Goofy… that fucker.
We added all of the ingredients in the right order (which is basically, all the powders first, then an egg, then oil, then milk and mix). We’d been worried until now that it wouldn’t emulsify, or might take significantly more space than we had to give it, but in the end it all fit in alright.
No shell, motherfuckers!
The smell of cocoa permeates everything, it’s surprisingly strong, and smells somehow caffeinated. Adam is literally still coughing ten minutes after the event… that said, we did inhale more cocoa than most over the course of our arguing whether or not certain things would work. Among those things, can you efficiently measure milk in tablespoons? Can you still do so with a tablespoon covered in cake batter?
“How many are even in there? Is that three spoons?”
“Three… ish. I guess. Look, it’s fine”
Adam looks far less frustrated in sepia, so it makes us look like better people if we include this shot. It’s so homey and 1950s. I wonder can we get a spot in good housekeeping…
He’s like a cross between the joyous mother, helping a retarded child to bake a cake, and a palsied child trying to bake a cake.
After that, all we had to do was learn to use the new microwave, which was far more difficult than it needed to be. We spent at least twenty minutes trying to use the microwave this morning, so it had yielded most of its secrets to us, with the exception of how to make it work for a certain amount of time.
To operate this effectively you need to be a safecracker… :(
Fortunately enough, the microwave kind of did its own thing… I think it might have been set to “Beverage”, though whether or not this was because it could somehow tell there was a mug or not is pretty up in the air. I wonder could it ever have told if there was a cake mug within…
In the end, the cake kind of escaped the mug, but that was an eventuality for which we were entirely prepared.
Just below there’s a shot of the actual cake itself; we broke it into chunks and dropped it in a bowl. It tasted like a Swiss roll, but it was still warm and since we’d constructed it with our bare hands – yeah, and some spoons and stuff, but you know what I mean – it tasted all the sweeter.
It tastes better than it looks. next time though, we’ll add some toppings.
The temptation to build a second cake was almost overwhelming, but instead I took this shot of our assembled ingredients… it pretty much sums up the whole process.
The total cooking time, including preparation and finding ingredients, was five minutes and thirty seconds.
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