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…

Sup(pe)rise

We’re going south.

I am extremely pleased about this – the man slightly less so, even if he doesn’t let on, bless his heart. He has to drive us there, all six (or nine, depending on traffic) hours. He doesn’t have a lifetime of memories from where we’re going. It is not his bawling, puking niece and nephew who’ll be hopped up on candy…and so forth.

So, after work today, as I went to the (nice, fancy) market to pick up the (single biggest) lamb steak money could buy, I decided to get a few rewards as well. Things he might like on arrival. Things to add some charm to rustic country life. Things, in short, to be et.

Things I plan to whip out, surprise like, after lighting a fire in the living room, making the bed with sheets dried in the wind, and leaving him to enjoy his paper in peace. Things I plan to serve with a big smile, a kindly disposition, and the implicit promise of…well, let’s call it dessert.

Great plan, no? Only one problem. Wandering the aisles, I felt inspired by the poultry, interested in the cheeses, and enthusiastic about the produce. I bought a little bit of the XXX, a thin wedge of the YYY, some assorted ZZZ and a mini bottle of CCC. It was only at the end of my spree that I realised I sort of spent all of my money on stuff to serve at the END of the road – leaving no buffer for petrol to get us there.

Guess will have first opportunity to surprise him at the gas-station.

Patience Rewarded

Have been weeks and weeks and weeks in the threnches: in jeans, knee-deep in microwave food, bombarded by constantly buzzing phones, erratic mid-night post-it writing, second and third guessing, strategizing, coffee, more coffee, and printers on the fritz.

And then. Glanced over Huffington Post and the New York Times. Noted they had picked up press-release. Closed computer down, slung bag over shoulder, and buggered off.

Went straight to NK, the oldest and stuffiest of Stockholm departement stores. Picked my way through their eclectic mix of wrinkled ladies eating shrimp, narrow jeaned girls ogling Choos, and haphazardly displayed McQueens to their shoe department.

Sinking onto a pink silk couch, was brought selection of their highest heeled and most uncomfortable shoes. Out of these, chose a small black blunt nosed pair, looking rather like startled Pug dogs on stilts. Completed these with the narrowest of pencil skirts, with dull brass buttons, and a nice edition Fanny Hill. 

Shopping complete, marched over to the old mink infested bar in the cavernous depths of the Opera House. Had myself a nice big glass of nice wine, in solitude. Closed eyes, sniffing ever so often – discreetly - at the million dollar perfumes of leather and pearls about the necks of the florid patrons.

For dinner, I walked across the park to the Stockholm Grand Hotel and the Mattias Dahlgren Matbaren. Crisp bread excellent. Squid sublime. Chocolate dessert: crisp, cold, creamy, hot and slightly bitter.

The view of the quay was a deepening blue, the hulls of the white steamers coming out in relief, and when I wrapped my old faithful black wool coat around me it was with a feeling of certainty – winter won’t go on for ever.

Birdfeed

of late, winds of change have been blowing in my life. it is my pleasure to report that this cosmic shitstorm has in no way abated. i am still ripped and torn by said wind on daily basis, ending up with messy hair and a scrambled over-all apperance.

the latest little nugget that life has blown my way? the office restaurant has issued some sort of eat-for-less pass to two local institutions: the drama institue and the institute of radio production. which means that my lunches have been infested with a melé of identikit darkhaired, glossy eyed, anemic chicks.

clad in black and flapping arms and eyebrows like disturbed sparrows, these girls, for all their tinyness, take up a whole lotta space. in two completely different manners, they are mannered to the max.

the stagey people seem to be in character at all times, and have all been cast as that nemisis of serious womanhood – amelie of montemartre. they are flip. they are insouicant. they are moody. they are coy. and all this before we have even reached the sallad buffet, after which  they somehow manage to pirouette their way to table, laden with bowls of soup.  

the radio girls, while of the same physical description, seem to collectively have forgotten to take their uppers with their morning fag. they stare incriminatingly around them from under their lank fringes, on the lookout for some possibly anti-feminst gesture in the serving of the today’s thai-soup, and edit my co-worker’s and mine Gossip Girl related converstion with AUDIBLE huffs.

scattered amongst them are a few annoracked, bearded, canvas-bag toting males – keeping quiet. I do understand them: it seems the best policy if your goal is to stay clear of the bickering of the radio-girl you are shagging, and leaving you all the more time to watch the twirly-toe performance of the starlets.

me? faced with the incessant parallell dramatics and censorship, while internally trying to combat the effects of extra strenght penecillin, no sleep, and an appetite gone missing – there is no wonder I have nothing but gall left to spew.

Feast, Famine and Weber

Every morning I set my alarm for a Calvinist seven, planning to get up in time to wash my face and eat breakfast. But every morning I loll in the decidedly heathen arms of the Better Man so long that just plain finding the least dirty skirt takes precedence over food.

Having no time for even the most modest of toasts I arrive at work hungry, where the (enforced) office policy of no eating at desk leaves me no option but to endure this state of things till lunchtime.

Come 12.30, I start considering my option, in the singular – working on the dark side of the moon leaves me to the mercies of the one restaurant available within a fifteen minute walk.

It is a place run on blatantly puritanical principles. Disinterested Alaska Pollok in egg slush, curry-coloured sauces devoid of personality and limpid lasagnes’ turn lunch from much needed break to penitence. Flagellating over watery noodles and grated carrots is a common occurrence, if by flagellation I mean something unpleasant that believers do to curb the flesh.

Or such was the case till Monday, where lo and behold, the horns sounded and the heresies of cauliflower mush were banned. The Stockholm Modern Museum has taken over the joint, introducing the true faith, more Roman, complete with golden chalices of Tom Yum, velvet virgin oils and basil.

And I rejoice not only over the beautifully plated, steaming hot dishes of imagination, flair and flavour. I also give most fervent and specific thanks at the shrine of the Very Reasonably Prized Set Breakfast – I believe it might be St. Scone. Now newly baked bread, scrambled eggs, and blueberry smoothies mark the beginning of my day, instead of a lukewarm glass of watered down water.

Drawback ? But of course, or the composition of this piece would be lacking.

A full stomach is more conducive to long naps than stern labour. As we speak, some lovely Gnocci have taken the place in my heart originally reserved for writing a press release about whatsit. Letting go of the stark eating habits of the Protestant – I also wave goodbye to Spirit of Capitalism.

Which bugs me in so far as it may limit my spending at the Altar that is their varied salad buffet.

Best in Show

Friday: Oysters at Chez Pontus.

My new favourite is a Spanish type, comes in a shell deep as a old-timey tub, and the taste is just the perfect mix of salty sea, the sweet of new sweat, and the bitter of lemon rind.

Saturday: Mini-sausages at Allmäna Galleriet.

Three miniature grilled sausages, gamey, in three equally dinky brioche, hot still, with ketchup made from sun dried tomatoes and a mustard full of big, beautiful seeds. Slivers of deep-fried onion, and a Perrier.

Sunday: Turkey sandwich at Nero.

Turkey, and eggplant dipped in egg, and mozarella, and harsh peppers. Coffee, and raspberry juice.

Saving Friday

Do you also feel the tug of bed early Friday night? Do you also feel washed out, beached, bone-tired, and frazzled. Look no further: I have the cure.

Leaving work, what you want to do, is take a detour into the fanciest perfume store you can find on way from work, and buy a lipstick in the deepest shade of red you can pull off. Trust me – it is probably a lot redder than you thought.

Then, you want to totter a few blocks more and land on a bar stool in a tiled and steeled room. The stool should ideally overlook a bed of ice and a man in an apron. On the bed of ice you wish to find a top of line selection of Oysters, and at hand you want a glass of champagne.

Spend a few hours gossiping to your friend, watching the harried and be-tied order rushes of take-away shells, sipping a second glass, and comparing the beauties of Utah Beach, Spain, the North Sea, and the different French Regions.

By now you should be feeling relaxed enough to apply a second coat of lipstick and mosey on over to the nearest bar, where you will be having a few drinks. They need not be very strong, but the bar needs to be cozy, warm, busy, mahoganied and with an open kitchen that lets you watch the chefs sprinkle and brown.

When the sprinkle and brown, and the mahogany and the chatter, starts to blend at the edges, make for home, and into the arms of a loving man and a huge plate of spaghetti and garlic. You’ll be feeling divine.

Got Meat in Pocket

Perfection in the flesh lay spread in the hall on coming home from a Perrier and Ceasar dinner with Cuz H.

It wasn’t Vouge, or Harpers, nor any food for thought such as NYRB, but instead the glorious publication Meatpaper – Your Journal of Meat Culture.

Truffled with insightful pieces on topics such as offal, a DIY story on making lava-lamps out of Prosciutto, and richly illustrated with Bacon-on-Webster -type close-ups it has me feeling quite the lecherous old man.

Oh, and just noticed the finance section killer headline: meat-onomics.

I must pursue immediately and in solitude.

Thank you, H.

Darling Buds

At our favorite, bourbon colored bar, the shellfish dinner turned, spur of the moment, into a steak tartare – pure raw meat, ground till of a softness with the inside of your mouth. I will happily eat the stuff without the condiments, just sneaking a few of the fries that went with the Better Mans Moules gives perfection.

It started to snow, and since it started to snow, as we passed a stand of tulips, I had to buy them, because they were finely tipped, French, and burnt red striped into the white. Which got me thinking about some other flowers, and why I settle for buying them for myself, instead.

One I got from a RAF soldier in Italy. I remember it was pink rose and just in the bud, but my brother tore it up, leaf by leaf, in the back seat of our old cream Citroen.

One was given me by a random old man in a café.

A bunch of long stemmed red roses where bought hastily, I could tell, at the airport, and in my dorm room I did not have a vase, so I put them in a tall glass I borrowed from the other guy I was seeing at the time, it was a green huge plastic cup with a football player on.

A potted sunflower was given to me the night before I left for a two week stint in Paris, and was dead when I got home. So were a lot of other things. But I’d had fun.

New Bedfellows

For reasons that shall not be named (pneumonia and burst eardrums from an ear-infection) am living a life very much reclined at the moment.  Which may sound like fun, but since the pus and blood oozing from all orifices is keep bed-buddies very much away, am having to find alternative ways of taking my pleasure lying down.

It spells Half Baked, and is administered by Ben and Jerry.