Water and Soap

Last night, things in the kitchen took a sinister turn. Let me take it from the top.

We have, the past few weeks, been trying to work out a new division of labour in the house. From a formerly strictly adults only do any work whatsoever policy, we are edging towards the “a nine years old may have small hands but sure aint handicapped” approach.

Little things. Like sorting the socks when the laundry is done, tidying his room every month, or packing his own bag for school. And then, the humdinger: helping out at dinnertime.

Now, as you may have noticed, I am a big fan of cooking. That does not automatically make me, however, a big fan of washing dishes, wiping down the counters, setting the table, taking out the garbage and putting the leftovers away. So I am trying, early on, to set a pattern whereby this dull drudgery will be shared.

Using normal arithmetic, there are three of us, which means, that the work should also be split in three parts. Not necessarily equal, but yet, more than nominal.  I thought that a natural and easy split would be to have one set the table, one cook the food, and one do the dishes and sorting afterwards. Ah, I look back now, and cannot belive my naivité. Here is a slice of reality, if you please.

Last night, I came home from work to the lovely scents of the Irish cooking a divine meal. I did set the table, on the balcony, and keeping him company while he tossed the salad, even did a bit of pre-dishwashing tidying up in the kitchen, taking care of the remains of breakfast and such, thinking this set the stage perfectly for the kid to do his bit, after eating.

If you could call it eating. The vegetarian lasagna was perfect, foreceful tomato sauce, just the right amount of cheese, and chewy greens of spinnach trown in to set of the other textures. Even the Kid liked it, for the first few bites. But then, I made a basic mistake. I blame myself. I said I loved the food.

Immediately, he started demolishing his serving, fidgeting in his seat, leaving all that was not pasta. This would have been no more than normal behaviour, had he then not proceeded to fill up his portion. Again. And again. And again. Each time picking out only the pieces of pasta and leaving the rest. The end result being a hafty serving of spinach left on the plate. 

On being told to eat it – only once, and in a very low-key fashion, by his dad – he then started pouring spoon after spoon of balsamic vinegar onto to the plate, rendering it, in the end, unfit for human consumtion. As to the salad, yes, he did have one tiny leaf and four pieces of cucumber. He then asked to be excused.

At this point in time, I was clenching my jaws hard enough to almost snap a molar and muttered something under my breath about the kids in Burma, or Africa, or wherever they are starving nowadays. He chose to ignore it. I comforted myself with the thought that at least, the cleaning up was to follow, and with it some sense of structure. Alas, it was not to be.

His father, valiantly, made him rinse his own plate of. I picked up the slack and carried the rest of the stuff into the kitcen. While I was juggling empty glasses and silverware on way bak he (the kid) banged his (still the kids) thumb against the counter and was out for the night, choosing instead, after a few token tears, to play gameboy with said injured didgit. Which left the three plates, three knifes, three forks, three glasses, one saucepan, and one salad bowl looming like a flock of bad omen crows in the kitchen.

Now, I have done communal living with people who refuse to clean up after themselves. Sharing a kitchen at Uni has left me relatively thick skinned. Normally, I would have no problem leaving the damn mess just to make a point. But I hadn’t counted on the Irishs deep veined Catholic guilt. The minute I turned my back to the kitchen, he was there, suds flying.

It turned into quite a little power struggle, wrestling the dirty dishes between us, jostling for space at the zinc. I was determined that he shouldn’t do them since he had cooked. He was determined that the kid shouldn’t do them – god knows why. The Kid determinedly sat on the sofa, ignoring our bickering.

In the end, I washed and he spent the night on the Internet, trawling the web for cheap dishwashers. It’ll be the salvation of many a night, but fuck me if I belive it will solve the underlying problem. Paper plates might, though.

And a sobering thought. Am I turning into a person who acutally notices who is doing the dishes? Damn staight I am.

Packed Lunch

There comes a point in some relationships, when you realise that the outlooks of you and the other person are so fundamentally different as to make you virtually incompatible.

It is very annoying to find this the case when you are living half time with the other party, and the world expects you to keep mum about your reservations, since he is only nine and doesn’t know any better.

It is yet even more annoying to find that the other party is just a megaphone for someone else, someone hiding out backstage, someone…the ex. The Mother.

To go back: I have been trying to adjust to my new stepson. (Am still trying, of course, slip of the tounge). He is a charming child in many ways, and I am perfectly willing to get to know him, love him maybe someday. Am even happy to change some of my ways in order to make this transition period smoother.

But then there are the ways he gets from his mother. Am sure she is also, in her way, an interesting woman. But she and I haven’t got a single opinion in common. And I find it a little bit wearying to have her views trumpeted at me from the rosy lips of the little cherub. Trying to mould myself around my fiancées exes ideas and hang-ups is distinctly less palatable than getting to know my fiancées son.

Case in point; the food. It was fine, the drudgery of the unspiced, for a while, when I thought it was just the natural pickyness of a child. You know, something to be got over in time, and then there would be Dover sole and Cherry Tartlets galore. But then I met Her.

She has been avoiding me like the plauge – or more like – ignoring the fact of my existence, for quite a while now. So I did what I thought I was duty-bound to do, and invited her out for lunch. Explaining, that I felt, that since I am now effectively living part time with her child, she might want to know who I am.

We met at a café I had chosen for her benefit, thinking of their wide range of excellent vegetarian and vegan options. I planned that we could, if nothing else, share a meal togehter. An ageold way of showing concern for someone is to feed them, or at least, break bread with them, no? But it didn’t pan out.

The greeting was stilted and I realised what I had let myself in for  when she decided there was nothing on the menu that was to her liking, so only a tea, please, and then, as a starter, commented on the rumors that my fiancé had a wandering eye, and hand, and all the rest of it. I countered by ordering the bacon-avocado salad and digging my nails into my palm. And then it was downhill from there.

I am sure the salad was good, but I couldn’t eat it, and will probably never choose bacon again. Picking at a sliver of cucumber, crumbling a crouton with my fork, I sat frozen as she started to bombard me with her hurt, her opinions, and her dislike. In the space of a lunchhour I was faced with reference to my age, childlessness and general newness, with threaths of social services and subtle hints of dooming the Kid to a life of drugs and debauchery if I didn’t take myself of, pronto.

I tried lifting the discussion to a less personal plane, but to no avail. I tried agreeing with her in part, only to have her change her mind. And the strange thing was, I couldn’t meet her assaults with any of my usual deadpan or fury. As the minutes went by, I felt myself sinking deeper and deeper into my chair, and she seemed to grow: pale and pudgy before my eyes. The Mother.

It was accident that saved me. Just as I was ready to back out and ship the Irish and the Kid back to the certain gloom of her cloying love, she mentioned my cooking. That it wasn’t what they liked. They, being in this case, her and her men. I don’t think she realised what a favour she did me. But just like any mother rushes to defend her young, I imediately felt the adrenalin pouring back in. Take my love and my future, but do not touch my skillet.

I drew myself up to my full “height”. I stared her down. I said what I thought. I left. It was only a few blocks away that I realised I was crying like a fool. She will be in my life forever, she and her dislike of onions. But at least, once, I said what I meant.

Meat, meat, more on meat

In Sweden early summer is very much Bon Jovi – living on a prayer, slippery when wet. We all slouch around hoping fervently that each quivering ray would please be the start of some serious heat – rather like early dating, actually, but getting our hopes doused by daily cold showers. Yesterday, The Irish and I decided that we’d had it with rain and squalor. We needed some serious sun, or the next best thing, drinks with tiny umbrellas in them. As a result, we climbed the wooden stairs to the terrace of one of Stockholms few skybars – Gondolen.

My legs were distinctly chilled and grey skirt ballooning, the artists and punters at the surrounding tables were in heavy black and belted macs. There really was nothing for it but to order the most frivoulous and colourful, the most Croisette and white sands drinks on the menu. The Irish had a concoction of puréed rhubarb, vanilla liquor and some sort of sour – I went for a modest double strawberry daquiri.

We sat looking down on the seagulls and the yatches, the traffic and and green copper roofs, sipping our icy potions and rubbing our freezing fingers. A good laugh, yes, but then the clouds over the Baltic started letting out their first fistfuls of pebble size drops. We ran for cover, hopping on a crosstown buss and plonking ourselves down within reach of the biggest, most sizzling grills in Stockholm, a Texas style steakhouse.

First some background. Neither the Irish nor I are Texas size or, usully, Texas minded when it comes to the persual of dead things to throw on the barbe. But it is not like we have never had a bite before. I have worked my way through six course and tasting menus with them best of them, had real life soulfood and polished of big steel trays of Indian and even, but only once, survived a rustic French farmdinner. Goddamit, I am a Swede. I was borught up in close proximity to The Smorgasbord. And the Irish, well, he’s known to handle porridgelike multiple servings of Guiness and still have room for a fish dinner. To sum up, we are no babes in the woods when it comes to devouring. We thought we could handle it. That we would be able to take whatever the grill-manner would throw at us. Little did we know.

We should have known by the appraising gleam in the waiters eye, and the sheer bulk of the rest of him. A massive man in a checkered shirt, his barnyard forehead crossed with veins very much in the fashion of a Dutch countryside run through with winding waterways. He handed us, from gargantuan hands, an unceremonious roll of kitchen paper, filled of our water glasses and dissapeared, leaving us all alone and vulnerable, facing Valhallan dishes. Each of us were given half a side of swine, corncobs, fries and coleslaw. It was an intimidating sight. But we called on our Viking forefathers (I discretely undid the bow at the waist of my Hepburn skirt) and tucked in.

It started out nice and breezy enough, licking heavenly sauce from the exposed bones of the former pig. The meat was tender, perfectly crusted in places. The fries were crisp. I even added some extra salt, little knowing, at that point, that every extra grain would be a later potential stumbling block. After fifteen minutes, conversation halted. After twenty, we wiped our foreheads surrepetitiously. After half an hour, we decided to give dessert a miss. After fortyfive minutes we threw down our weapons, eyes glazed and backs crooked, panting, proclaiming seasefire. On my plate, at that time, were still three quarters of a serving of fries, half a corn cob and a whole coleslaw. But by god, there wasn’t a scrap of meat to pick from the bones. The Irish had gone even further, and finished his beer.

It is a bit of an embarassment, of course, not finishing. I am a firm believer in not eating what is bad or bland and will happy send back the lobster springroll or the primeurs with a withering look and tight lip, should they fail to please me. But this was not the case last night. There was just too much food. It is then that the well-versed eater chooses his battles. And I for one, will pick meat over corn any day. Or at least, the unknown over the everyday. But I suspect not everyone reasons the same.

I have people I call my friends who eat first what they like and know, then filling out the corners with the experimental. I have people who call me their friend who eat the boring stuff first, giving themselves the quirks and salty bits as rewards. Never I say, will I force anyone to eat in that fashion. Food should be about heady enjoyment. Leaving the corn. Shall have to try to remeber that when the kid fills up on tofu.

And also: hats of to Butter On the Endive and The Barbecue Bachelor and all the rest of you devotees picking up the meateater slack out there. Your are doing heroic work!

 

 

 

 

 

 

Champers in PJ:s – the end of an era

Friday night a good friend and I threw our skimpiest LBDs in our overnighters and buggered of to Brussels for a weekend of gossip and smooth goat cheese. Our Girl Friday, Karin, is getting married this coming Saturday, and we thought we should proclaim the end of boozing and schmoozing in style. We all camped out in her tiny bedsit – on top of a karaoke bar – and planned to have our fill of folly and Fernet.

We started out high on the hog, straight out of the taxi from Zaventem airport, throwing back Pimms and cigarettes and loosing ourselves in the thrum of the Brussels jazz festival. Ever onwards, we were soon twirling among the low lights of a young-professional intense, Cuba libre swilling private party. After which, along with her scarily sweet but ambitious Commission friends, we stilted it over to the art deco mahogany depths of Karins favourite grotto like local.

I guess it was here we finally gave in to reality. After a few minutes of propping up the bar and shouting gin tonic at the smouldering barmaid, we took our drinks outside. Chatting is difficult at the volume of a Samba, and instead of working up a pre-marital sweat on the minuscule dance floor, we wanted nice comfy seats and a chance to hear each other out. Standing around and watching the light drizzle turn our sequins to diamonds, we realised that the end of the era had already come and gone.

Previous weekends have been not so much about daytime action as about obscene quantities of dry martinis. Previous weekends have been not so much about constructive analysis of mother-in-law-wrangling techniques (gave Karin the must have tip of the Bewildered Housewife and consider it the single most useful thing I ever gave her) as about rash decisions to end it with some poet or other. Previous weekends have never been about missing the crook of shoulder of the man you love, in a slightly faded t-shirt, but about dancing the night away with lizard like strangers. Previous weekends had been about reckless abandon and cheep wine. But thinking back, we realised that it has been a while since we couldn’t remember our postcodes. Somewhere sneakily along the way, we grew up, and we all had the sense and the flat shoes to show for it.

The realisation that we are no longer the go-go dancers of yore did nothing to dampen the weekend, however. In fact, giving up on the search for a permafrost hangover left us all the more time to actuallt enjoy the city. Which, given horrid pavements and a humid clime, means eating. Belgian cuisine, is of course, atrocious. But as Italians and Thai, French and Lebanese go, they know their business. And then there is the international language of breakfast.

Saturday we spent most of the day in the conservatory of Le Pain Quotitiden, dipping rye in soft boiled eggs and smearing apricot jam on croissants. Coffee, fruit salad and flushing pink ham on the side. In the afternoon, we cleared a space amongst the powders and the glossies for blueberries and strawberries, naturel, wrinkly black olives , crackers and three types of individually pungent cheeses. After a few hours on our backs, drinking champagne from the only clean white wine glasses and discussing the nature vs. nurture of the career mom, we went out for truffel and porchini pasta and a vat of rosé.

Sunday we spent at the penthouse of the concert hall, with a startling view of the silver Brussels sky and skyline. Salmon in the plural – gravad, smoked and cold boiled – crépes fresh from the skillet, mushrooms weighed down with thyme, roast beef bleeding all over the plate and brioche to wipe up the juices; another glass of bubbly, all made for a very nice pelt of the dog. No matter your age, there will be the brassy kinks of honey and sour cream, Marcolini chocolates and the oyster bar. They do beat late morning curries and blistered feet. Oh, and also, there will be friendship.

 

chrystal clear

I went for a meal with my good friend Hanna. We sat down together in plush womblike Le Bar Rouge; where the music is french, the waitresses wear bodycon red silk minis, there are gold tassles on the red suede tables and the food is divine.

It was only to be a quick fix, really, come chat and a bite to eat; then I had to hurry back to the office for an unexpected all nighter. So along with our food we had not a single glass of red, nor white. Instead we drank cool cool water from cut crystal tumblers.

I went for the trois plats, three small dishes each divine in itself. A carpaccio with shredded parmesan, gravelly black pepper and juicy morsels of green olives. An calamari with wafer thin batter and a marjoram intensive mayonaise. An a blade of tuna, rawer than a hand in freezing water, thrown over a fennel and artichoke salad. Hanna had the chili-fest of a burger and I stole a few of her crisp fries.

While we enjoyed our meal and our conversation – focusing mainly on giggles, her sudden departure from her old job, and my ethical qualms about a church wedding - a couple were seated next to us in the feathery intimacy of the red print walls.

The lady wore structured white, the man carefully dishevelled grey. Her nails were like talons, only marginally thinner than her emasciated arms. He studied the menu, she demanded champagne. Then they commenced to order. They were to eat, if memory serves me right, oysters and the shellfish plateu, goose liver and the truffels, the three kinds of cheese and the créme brulée. For her. He had the hambuger.

Hanna and I both noticed, and communicated to each other in the silent language of the raised eyebrow and crooked smile,  that they didn’t seem very up beat. In fact, they were distinctly short of conversation. Not a beep, in fact, passed between them.

This didn’t bother me half as much though, as the silence that continued when their food arrived and they commenced to eat. I eyed them sidelong, poised for the jealousy inducing oohs and ahs with which I assumed they would greet each new salty swallow. But it was not to be. They poked at their food wearing matching his/hers frowns, leaving most plates to be carried out again: ruins of an ancient civilization, torn to shreds by the passing rampaging wild folks.

Well, it struck me, as I watched the oysters shrivel in their pearly graves and the foie gras lie untouched next to its fig, that it really isn’t only a matter of learning. The food thing, that is. She of the snippy mouth clearly knew her pricelist. Possibly also her spicing. But the spirit that needs go with eating - not to mention – the simply physical fact of needing to introduce the foodstuffs into your mouth, she hadn’t grasped. 

Paying ridiculous amounts of money for show offy food is a less common crime, though, than viewing food as simply instrumential. Someone famous said a cynic is he who knows the price of everything and the value of nothing. I’d like to paraphrase it by adding: a poor eater is he who knows the nutritional value of everything and the flavour of nothing. Like take this girl in my office – really, take any one of them – they all share the same misconstruction.

Instead of walking to work and buttering a sandwich – they take the tube and eat some can’t believe it isn’t styrofoam substitute. Instead of having a salad of heartcoloured coldcut slivers and parsely-ed potatoes for lunch, they have nutrasweet and cornflakes. Instead of using the blunt knifes at work and cutting up plums, physalis and yellow pears for a late afternoon snack, they have their fourth cups of (again nutrasweeted) pissthin coffee. I bet they could give me the calorific content of any choosen ingredient, but they cannot tell what an onion should smell like when its fried right.

All of which is just sad and has kept me rambling away from the point of this post to the point where I have lost the point. I think it was to be something educational about not putting to many things on your plate, and also, appreciating the fun that happens in ones mouth upon sober eating.