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.

Brel and Billow

Today has been a lovely day, like a halting slightly boozy waltz. The clouds pile high in the sky. The roses are thrown about like largesse.

A friend came by for lunch: a friend I never introduce to others. He is a guilty secret, like very dark chocolate fondant. Of course there are the looks: the tall dark and handsome and strong enough to move the heavy stonefooted parasole for me. And there is the way he enters any room as if heralded by his very own marching band. But even more than that, he tempts me with his very traditional view of what is woman.

When he is around I wallow in being the weaker sex, never having to even pretend to make a decision. He has the gift of making me feel like a girl, of teasing me into smiling through the crinkles. And of listening sporadically to my ponderings, taking the decisions away from me and presenting me with simple, clear cut solutions, all according to his very own brand of chrystal clear, is slightly dented, morals. 

In honour of his arriving I changed from my downtime uniform of frayed mini and painstained top and threw on a billowy, willowy layered skirt, the kind that catches in thorns and dripped some perfume on my neck. Anything else and he’d look at me closely and notice the pallor ‘neath the smile. As it was I offered him the strawberries and the cheese and the cured sausage, and poured him another drink. And he quoted some Latin American saying and showed his teeth, meant for tearing raw steak.

We sat in the shade of the blackberry brambles and he closed his eyes against the momentary strong sun and I sat swatting at the tiny shimmering flies, and, as always, I told him all my troubles and he shook them like crumpled linnen and folded them neatly back, for me, ironed out. Then he kissed both my cheeks and told me I still have the same eyes and should try to keep them that way.

And I went on with one thing and another, hanging the washing, let it drench in rain and feeling the very earth squelch beneath my feet.

Smell My Wrath

This is my last week in work before vacations. And after my four weeks off I have one more month to go, and then (I) am the hell out of here, switching to new and exciting and wonderful and glorious job (for real). All of this is very good.

Less good, however, is the sudden realisation this morning that I have a shitload of important stuff to get through before leaving. The projects that have been slowly drifting in backwater have suddenly turned into a veritable tsunami of deadlines. So I will have to unplug myself from any social events, or even sleeping, and instead chain myself to my laptop for the next few days.

And this will present a cooking challenge. How do you vary your menu and keep it healthy while having three meals a day in the office? It sports a fridge and a two ring cooker, but no fan, and only half a skillet…

I started of this morning with cottage cheese on home baked hazelnut loaf: all you need is a knife. This was good, and I only wish, in hindsight, that I would have stuck to cucumbers and other non-pungent comrades for the entire week. But instead, for lunch, I had brought some cold boiled potatoes and…and here is the humdinger… five smoked herrings.

Now, in case you have never encountered a smoked herring, let me save you the suspense. They smell. They smell like fish. Like dead fish. Stuck in a smokehouse. For a long time. But still dead. Since I had wrapped them in ten layers of plastic for the trip from the seaside to town, I had sort of forgotten about this little detail. But was brutally reminded when they were unleashed.

The smell spread. Firstly through the kitchen, then through the rest of our quite cramped and warm office. It spread to my hands and from there to my computer. It spread to my bosses pants and to the kettle. It stunk up the fridge, of course, and my colleague said even his very spicy curry tasted of them.

Of course, you can’t be a lover of food and have a hard time coping with the smells. I am more or less imune to the stenches of the cheeses and the bloody, the pickled and yeasty. I have tackled the inside of a pigs stomach, the slow and tender cooking of cabbage, and the preparations of pea soup. But it is one thing to battle these enemies in the fair and level playing-field of the kitchen. When they invade the conference room, it is a whole other ballgame.

My original and deluded plan was to leave the herrings in the fridge and eat one for lunch every day this week. But even this first airing gave rise to a perfect mutiny amongst my co-workers, and threats of “throwing out” or “down the toilet” were issued. As it wasn’t perfectly clear whom it referred to – me or the scaly ones, I realised I’d better make myself, or my smokey friends, scarce. It was me or them. And since I haven’t the time to defect right now, the fish had to go.

The simple solution: feed them to the office. This afternoon, while I have been slaving away at this god-awful memorandum on something I’d much rather forget – I have had to content myself with listening to a slurpy sloppy finger sucking orgy of fish devouring in the kitchen. They sit around the table, the boss and the rest of them, and feast upon the carcasses of my poor dears. They even have beer.

And all I’ve got for company is the smell.