Sunday Evening, Water and Bread

When you are living your life -literally- in crates and boxes, you tend to simplify the cooking. For me simplify translates into handing over the kitchen to the Better Man. And for him, nothing says simple like slaving for 2 hours over the perfect pizza, and throwing together a few loafs of bread for good measure.

As seen by backdrop, we eat them among piles and piles of packing…

Dusting the Greats: The Blue Bicycle and Three Men in a Boat

Dusting the Greats is a blog-in-blog about literature. Unpacking crates of books – the books that made my generation what we are – I try to remember why they were important. Today: La Bicyclette Bleu and Three Men in a Boat.

Red cover of Blue Bike

Author: Régine Deforges
Title: La Bicyclette Bleu / The Blue Bicycle – which is pretty much a tale of shagging in the shadow of WW2
Language: Original French, I read it in Swedish
First Read: at 8 or 9, looting the parental shelf of “summer-reads”, which is a euphemism if ever there was one.
Number of times read: can’t count them. Funny thing is, I only ever read the 2 part of this reportedly 7 book series. Have no idea whether it would be improved or not by being put into context.
Influenced: My kissing technique. Having read about the great effects of hard kisses (at parting, at meeting again, in a rage, when reconciled, fearing for your life, hurrying into the night, and on the sly) I was dying to try them out on my first crush Martin, of jean-jacket and spaghetti-incident-on-tape fame. At a party – this back when cacti with sweets speared on the spikes was still ne plus ultra of hostess gifts – we were playing spin the bottle and I got my chance. The Bottle decided I was to KISS MARTIN ON THE MOUTH and I, blushing a hot crimson, decided to try my new move. Clamping my lips between my teeth, I set my jaw rigidly, and smashed my lower face into his. The effect wasn’t quite the leaping flame I had been led to expect, but rather some bruised and bloody lips on his part. Soon after, he started dating a 50 pound blonde little poppet of a girl, with very very soft and red lips. She was rumored to suck on crayons to get them that colour, but it was never proven… And I? I went back to the books. Turns out reading about passion is easier than inspiring it, at least when pre-pubescent.
Opinion today: Today I am flabbergasted at the author’s blatant theft of both plot and characters. This is the hugest rip-off from Gone With the Wind – except the dresses are different, and less slaves.
Shelf or Attic: Attic, I think. But if I ever have a daughter, it is coming back down. After all, can think of no surer way of keeping her out of mischief, than letting her learn the hardships of hard-kisses the hard way…

Not the Grand-Pa copy, but it'll do...

Author: Jerome K Jerome (Jerome Klapka Jerome. How about that.)
Title: Three Men in A Boat
Language: English
First Read: So far back I cannot even remember, this is what my Grandfather would read us when he baby-sat.
Number of times read: In its entirety, maybe twice. The funny parts? Oh, about once a week between the ages of four and 13.
Influenced: My grandfather had the pages with the funny parts written down on the fly-leaf. He’d sometimes try to read other bits, but my brother and I would protest immediately. So he’d consult his little list and flip directly to the one about putting up the tent, and the hanging of the picture, and the cheese on the train, and we’d be on the floor, listening, rapt and ready to laugh at what we knew were coming. Afterwards, we’d go in the kitchen and stir cocoa and sugar with cream for out morning hot chocolate. Our grandmother had measured out the ingredients, and put our mugs in the fridge, ready for breakfast. Then we went down to the twin beds where we slept, in the basement, and they’d come down and tuck us in. At this point, it was probably eight o clock at night, and we’d had the perfect evening.
Opinion today: Funny thing is, this is still funny. So funny I’ve even bothered to read some of his other titles, like for example Thought of an Idle Fellow, which isn’t as HA HA HA but still a pretty excellent little bit of writing. Also, every time I think I have cancer of the eyelids, a spell of H1N1 or am concerned about the shady coloring of my big toe I think of what would be likely to happen if I decided to take a holiday, and realize that it would probably make everything much, much worse…
Shelf or Attic: Definitely shelf. Or even nightstand.

The Hitch and the Wardrobe

As previously discussed, the Better Man and I have pitted the force of our consumer power against that great giant of Swedish interiors: Ingvar Kamprad and his house of gloom – IKEA. We are trying to boycott the old man. Trust me, it’s hard. Everywhere you sit, these days, you sit on a Målhålmen, Askerskjär or a Gnutteliten. But our home, we have agreed, shall be furnished in nameless pieces, made from wood, not tooth-picks.

The thesis was this: somewhere out among the wild forests and barren heaths of Sweden, there must be a multitude of little old ladies dying. And their stuff should be pretty great, if only we could get our hands on it.

If we were to go through recognized channels, such as Stockholm antique dealers, we would have to pay through the nose. But if we head far enough out the countryside, we should be able to stock our home with artfully salvaged, unique pieces, found at no cost at a “little hidden gem” of a barnyard sale. I mean, out in the sticks, the don’t know the value of a little bit of early Scandinavian, right?

We should have known wishing the life out of Magda, Agda and Haggda would cost us.

After some diligent Internetting, the Better Man had come up with a plan of attack. Out in the great gray somewhere that is the Swedish countryside in Winter, there was supposed to be a barn in which furniture could be got.

The road which would lead us to the correct barn took us by his old Uni town, through the suburbs of his old Uni shags, and finally arrived at a dirt-track far beyond even his powers of reminiscing.

And there we were. After approx 3 hours of driving through pouring rain, we found ourselves in the middle of a bleak, dank, November forest. Nary a yard-sale in sight. The locals, peering at us through their three eyes, were friendly enough, but uncomprehending. They had not heard of any “gems” lately, nor were they familiar with any vast quantities of mid century teak on sale in the neighbourhood.

Backing down the dirt track, nearly colliding with a cloaked rider, we tried the next lane. And the next. They all ended in the same way. Dripping wet trees. Uncomprehending peasants. A complete lack of Danish Design.

As the dark fell, so did the mood. I had not had my lunchtime sandwhich. He had not had his every-fifth-minute-fag. I was coming down with a cold. He was trying to get something listenable on the radio. We were just about to admit defeat and crawl to the cross of the rig-it-yourself-Billy when a barn appeared. It was huge, and red, just as promised. It shone with inviting lights. And it had a fucking great big sign on the wall decaling “ANTIQUES”.

Tumbling out of the car, we made for the door. Yes, it was still open. Forgetful of our taxed bladders and empty stomachs, we started wandering the fairy-land of this magical store. Everything we ever wanted was there. The dark wood shelf with monkeys worked out of the mahogany. The sit-down-ten dinner table with a dusky sheen. The glossy brass lamp-feet, and the musty red rugs. The quaint blue ceramic door-handles, the mirrored and compartmentalised wardrobe, and the futuristic red plastic chairs for a modern-feel balcony, too.

Unfortunately, what it also had, the barn, beside all the furniture we could ever need, were the price-tags to match. Not only great design, but astronomical prices, greeted us at every turn.

When I asked the little old lady at the till about this, she shrugged her shoulders and said “Well, ja, we do sell our stuff also at the X, the Y, and those two little places on Upplandsgatan” – naming no less than four of the antique-dealers I walk by daily, panting with unrequited longing. “Also, she added, that house just over the road? It belongs to the former Prime-Minister. He tends to buy a lot of his stuff from us.” And finishing of she salvoed “After all, we’re only forty minutes from Stockholm, on the main road”.

It was then I noticed the sly look in her eyes. And her name-tag, fastened on a baggy grey twin-set. It said “Agda”.

It turns out those little old ladies aren’t dying yet. Or at least, not before they squeeze the last drop of blood out of their Poul Henningsen lamp.

The Path of More Resistance

All right, so the flat is bought, keys to be handed over on December 18. Excitement is in the air. But one question remains: what do we put in it? The flat, I mean. Filling up the rooms should be easy – in theory. At our combined age, we should have collected all that is necessary for a comfortable life. Only turns out, we have had slightly different takes on what this constitutes, exactly.

The Better Man has spent the past 40 or so years collecting miscellanea. “Yay” I thought when I found out. “This means he has already bought all the muffin-pans, throws, darling prints of wallpaper and quirky bedside lamps that make a home.” But I was quickly disillusioned.

Sure, he does have “everything a man could ever need”. As in: a plaster head of Bob Marley, ten sixties style eye-glass frames, and an extensive collection of 19th century erotica. Pardon me for feeling this is a far cry from “everything I would ever want”. I do love Reggae as much as the next girl, but I cannot bake a quiche in it.

My belongings leave him equally flabbergasted. “What is this” he questions, holding up yet another gin-soaked clutch-bag “and why must it live under our bed?”

I have a salmon coloured couch by Malmsten and the arm-chair to go with it, he has a Victorian escritoire fit for a legless midget. I have a small pink radio and a shower-curtain with gold-fish on it, he has every Gospel record ever cut and a mega-size table-top dish washer. I have a fine linen tablecloth and (one) oven-mit with elephants, he has a safe and an alarm-clock shaped like a mosque…

Neither of these, you will note, are things you can actually sleep on, much less eat at. Which is why we found ourselves, a week-end not long past, on that Via Dolorosa that leads to IKEA. That did not end well. After what seemed like endless trailing trough faux-this and fake-that, I was ready to cry and the Better Man was willing to torch the place. The end came when I stood, dubiously eyeing a can’t-believe-it’s-plywood-oh-but-look-it-is-not-even-plywood kitchen counter and said ”well, at least it’s better than the plastic one? Or isn’t it?” “I’m getting you out of here” said the Better Man forcefully “Before the linoleum eats your brain”.

Bundled on the subway in haste, and being fed chocolate for chock, we decided that we’d rather eat with the mosque-clock for a table and store our clothes under the salmon couch than succumb to the flat-pack. A holy pact of sorts we entered: the two of us against Ingvar Kamprad. And to seal the deal, the Better Man came home the next night, proudly toting a perfectly serviceable, and GORGEOUS, fifties mixing bowl picked up for nothing at a flea-market.

Perfect for storing my collection of 19^th century buttons, when not used for baking…

Things We Did and Didn’t Do

Sunday night we’re watching some stupid dating show on TV – that is I am watching some stupid dating show on TV and Better Man is patiently trying not complain while hiding behind newspaper – and one of the stupid girls is given a stupid rose by one of the stupid boys and I turn to the Better Man and say “You Never Bring Me Flowers” and he turns and looks at me and answers “No. But I took you to IKEA”.

Romance isn’t dead, it’s just been packed into boxes for the duration of our move. And with hearts smothered in bubble-wrap, you discover whole new areas of conversation. These days it isn’t so much about our deepest secrets and hidden longings. It’s rather about the breadbox I saw, or the merits of wicker (on balcony).

The Better Man, on entering any room, comments on the height of the ceiling. If ours will be “at least another 30 cm” he’s happy for the rest of the evening. We went to see an exhibition Sunday, and all I took away from it was the ceramic pattern in the background of the Portrait of My Mother.

But while we are firmly lodged in the practical, it is also a season of dreams and naïve imaginings:

“Every Sunday in our new place” says the Better Man, bitterly eyeing 9 $ loafs at the baker’s “I will be baking bread. We’ll never have to buy bread again.”

“In our new place” I say, sniffing a sock and deeming it passable, “We’ll by a small laundry hamper and always do the washing before it gets filled up.”

“In our new place” I say, staring at the half emtpy carton of youghurt mocking me from an otherwise empty fridge “We’ll have such a big freezer we’ll always keep it stocked, with whole chickens and squid, and like veg.”

“Yes” agrees the Better Man, listlessly chewing on a cooling pizza-crust “And on week-ends we can cook big vats of sauce, to eat when we don’t have time to cook. Imagine what we’ll save on take-out”

“Yes” I say, as we rush for subway, one arm still un-coated “I mean, how hard can it, be remembering in the mornings to take something out of the fridge and leave it out to thaw”.

“Yes” says the Better Man.

 

PS: meanwhile, as you can see from the stolen pic above, it seems there are people who actually manage something in the way of house-keeping beyond switching the occasional light-bulb. Hats off to ye, and please swing by if you find yourselfs bored and looking for a project….

Maira Kalman’s Pink Chair

 

Dusting the Greats: Breakfast at Tiffany’s, Bergdorf Blondes, Appassionata

Dusting the Greats is a blog-in-blog about literature. Unpacking crates of books – the books that made my generation what we are – I try to remember why they were important. Today: Breakfast at Tiffany’s, Bergdorf Blondes and Appassionata.

I have been briefly deterred from unpacking any more books, through the buying and devouring in fevered daze of Wolf Hall, by that author who got that award the other day. Forgive my forgetting, but the author and the prize are of no importance, when you consider the ABSOLUTE greatness of the writing itself.

I have been scrunched up on the sofa for days, the deeply uncomfortable and lumpy sofa, forgetful of the sofa still, peering at the text through glasses that could increasingly use a good clean – occasionally barking out orders for more crisps and cappuccino ice-cream to be brought into the Presence of the Book.

Anyhoodle, after that bout of the Cromwells, I thought it was time to wash the aforementioned crips and cream from my body, and thoughts of purgatory from my mind. For this I needed not only a bathtub, but also one of those books that go in the bath. (Puritans and Henry VIII, you definitely want to keep out of there). I plan to have a special shelf for these bath-books in our new apartment. The basic requirements are:

- there must be descriptions of clothes, which you may as you soak, imagine you would fit into once you get out of the tub
- there must be love and sex, in an approx 20-80 ratio, which you may as you soak, imagine would be yours if ever you exited the tub
- some sort of plot – I am not a stickler for this – but authors seem to pride them selves on putting one in there. Expect murder, slander, backstabbing and/or alcoholic foolery dispersed between the gowns and the nudes.

Alas, I dove into the bags and boxes and came out with three contenders for the “Books, Bath, and Beyond” shelf. They are:

Words are half the price of diamonds

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Author: Truman Capote
Title: Breakfast at Tiffany’s
Language: English
First Read: 12, at Christmas, just prior to taking up smoking and brittle laughs
Number of times read: 6, consecutive, with pauses for posing in the mirror and feeling inadequate
Influenced: Never having seen the movie, I got to make all the pictures in my own mind. And what pictures they were! For the longest time, I imagined that for a girl to be truly loved, she need be whip-thin, aloof, high as a kite and in possession of a cat weighing more than she. Actually, nothing as disabused me of this notion yet.
Opinion today: Arriving at the doorstep of actual Tiffany’s – 15 years later – was a huge let-down. It felt like someplace my grandmother would go – were she in to jewels instead of gardening. Frumpy, dumpy, if sparkly. However the Holly of my mind stays young, and wrapped in fox-furs. Those damn furs, they make me look boxy.
Shelf or Attic: Shelf. But cigarettes, I have quit for real.

Blondes eat more prunes

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Author: Plum Sykes
Title: Bergdorf Blondes
Language: English
First Read: 26, and even at that age it made me bleach my hair. Disaster
Number of times read: Never again, I can’t trust it close to a bottle of peroxide
Influenced: An agonising period of trying to get back normal hair, mousy brown though it may be. Also, I think it had me on an all liquid diet for a day or two, but this was more from looking at the picture of Plum herself than from the actual reading.
Opinion today: Has it or has it not been replaced by the devil wears prada ugly betty the moment gossip girl entire world of fashion blogs including that girl from texas? Well, kinda. And when I read those blogs, I can pretend to my boss that I am doing Important Reseach on Impact of Social Media.
Shelf or Attic: Shaftic – that is, I am undecided. I guess it should be packed away, but I may need that picture of Plum to ward of the evils of cheese and wine with boyfriend who loves me just the way I am…

There's a pun about bow-legged here somewhere, but I can't bring myself to it

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Author: Jilly Cooper
Title: Appassionata
Language: English
First Read: 23, and that was when I first realised the glory of staying in reading about far-fetched sexual antics, instead of being out at clubs trying to re-enact them.
Number of times read: I suppose there was a time or a dozen I went back. But just for laughs, mind.
Influenced: If you haven’t broken up with a boyfriend because trashy books have given you an inflated view of what sex should be, you haven’t really lived.
Opinion today: I couldn’t say without a re-read. And as not to leave you wondering, I shall get on that right this minute…
Shelf or Attic: Attic, if for no other reason than that I actually rather like my current boyfriend. Long-haired Celtic horn players cannot bring you the satisfaction that a long-term relationship gives you. They are made of paper you see, and cannot be trained to heat chicken soup.

Boho Boo Hoo

Garance Doré: read this and weep. Malheureusement, il y a -aussi- des filles comme moi:

My sense of dress is a finely tuned instrument for the gauging of my level of social commitment. If I expect to interact with relevant others/strangers I tend to make some sort of effort. However if the others are limited to man in mailroom and boyfriend, I might easily slip into something more comfortable…

This morning I did not shower. I was not very enthusiastic about combing my hair. I did not give a damn about the coffee stains on my jeans, or the hole on my elbow. I just slipped into the most pyjamish things “in my wardrobe” (read: from the heap on the bedroom floor) and stumbled into work.

Which was fine, till three-thirty rolls around with a phonecall from the Better Man, “reminding me” of cocktail ballyhoo straight after work. (read: appraise me of for first time.)

A fashionista could no doubt pull off the disheveled look. But I never look casually tousled. Instead, to speak in fashion lingo – I channel gutter-nutter. My complete lack of glamour is not helped by any sort of lint. If I were Mary-Kate or Ashely, I’d be surrounded by a swarm of pigeons, not paparazzi. If I were Helena Christenssen on that long ago Isaak beach, my nose would be peeling and there’d be sand lodged in…places. For christ sake: I’d make a Grace Kelly get-up look like I were just about to put on the kettle for another cuppa.

My outfit would stand a better chance if I were, at least, wearing comfortable shoes. And by comfortable, I mean shoes that make my feet ache and my back burn, but that give that little bit of height needed for me to look down my nose at people. But instead of purple superhigh wedges or blue velvet stilettos, today I am wearing decidedly dodgy old Stan Smiths. Returning to the analogies: they scream locker-room, rather than whisper club-house.

Solution? Simple really. Sure I’ll meet the Better Man straight after work. After a short detour to the shops, courtesey of his bill. I am thinking it will take at least three inches to glam up my thrift-store self. And I am thinking, also, that a fur might be a valuable lesson – teaching him the economical benefits of not springing surprise interactions….

Dusting the Greats: Donna Tartt Secret History

Dusting the Greats is a blog-in-blog about literature. Unpacking crates of books – the books that made my generation what we are – I try to remember why they were important. Today: Donna Tartt’s Secret History.

Four years ago I put down Ulysses having stated that, it does, indeed, end in a full stop. Then I carried it, along with my other pretensions, into the attic. I barred the attic door with five different locks. I hid the keys well. I left town. And I did not look back.

An infinite number of chick-lit, bit-lit, frock-fic and Vouge later, this weekend saw the resurrection of my past life. 90 plus boxes and bags of Literature have been moved from their dusty confines to the floor, table, bathroom and kitchen sink of my present abode. There they will get a good cleaning, before being installed in the pristine shelves of The New Apartment.

Or so I thought.

Last night, after 48 hours of uncomplaining and tender lugging, carrying and lumbering, the Better Man sat me down with a calculator and a scale sketch of The New Apartement. Apparently, it was time for a reality check. If I were to have all my books up, and he all his, we would be left with a negative amount of space for anything else.

So, cutting a long story short: join me as I sort trough the Greats and the Pretentious, the Influential and the Hardly Recognized, the Speckled with Damp and the Smudged With Chocolate.

First out:

Author: Donna Tartt.
Title: The Secret History.
Language: Swedish.
First Read: 1995 on holiday in Greece
Number of times read: Astronomical, mostly in bath or while treating parents with contempt
It influenced: Choice of major, choice of cigarettes, entire sense of self between ages of 14 and 18
Opinion today: Naïve, over-laden, but sweet, like memory of childhood birthday cake
Shelf or Attic: Shelf on strenght of time served.

The Book Taped and Battered

 

What is in a honey-bun?

I might have told you this story before, but bear with me. It starts with me being a kid, runny nosed and knit-haired. A girl, a friend, lived a few blocks over. Her house was such a fascinating place, for it was done with frills, and gilt. Stranger yet, her mother, when calling her father, called for “Dearest”. Even if only to say that it was Dearest’s damn turn to hoover the bright faux fine rugs.

It wasn’t the inter-parental love itself that seemed strange to me. My parents could stand each other well enough, among their minimalist black furniture. I learned early to recognise the subtle balance between Paris week-ends and the throwing at each other of quality steel kitchen utensils as the hallmark of harmonious adult love. But the public name-calling, the wording of the love was alien.

No kin of mine ever beloved or sweetied another. No matter how they’d beam at or beat each other, mom and pop always did it under their own sturdy northern names. In our house, nothing was ever swept under “Persian” carpets. Our floors were hard, wooden, unadorned.

I haven’t grown up the same. Quite the opposite. My relations build on aliases. I enjoy all the shrinking, shrimping, girly names given by boyfriends. They allow me to be the sort of simpering type who has one. Being called babe when slouching around in fat-day jeans, or doll-face when snot-nosed, is good for morale. Under another name, I seem, to the casual listener, a woman.

And I, in turn, herald friend and foe alike with a series of more or less heart-felt gorgeouses, babys and studs. If nothing else, it efficiently masks social incompetence. Greeting someone with a firm hug and a slick Darlin’ makes you look like you remember having met them, no? Whereas harking and humming Tom-Dick-Harry makes one seem ever so slightly a floozy.

(Funny story. I once dated a man for upwards of two years before finding out that I had got his first name wrong. The big reveal was one awkward moment, and pivotal to our not being married with kids today. I blame the silent haigh).

Any’ow. My point:

 This morning was not a super one. We scurried around the flat, trying to pack for a weekend away, while simultaneously fighting over the last of the Kleenexes (flu season) and the interesting bits of the paper (the financial pages – see yesterdays post).

True to form, I “Darlinged” in line for the bathroom, I “Darlinged” over burnt toast, and I “Darlinged” at the watery residue from the leaking garbage bag. Due to my shitty mood, they were increasingly nasty-toned “Darlings”, ending in a final one, phonetically very similar to “Damn you”.

To which the better man responded by putting down his suitcase, looking me in the eye, and calling me by my christian name. As in: “Christian name, calm the fuck down”.

It was relief. It was a home-coming. And most importantly it was recognition. He’s not living with Sugar anymore. And he still loves me.