The Absurdity of Tiny Horses
TUESDAY: I've got something a bit different today: an onion bagel with haloumi, basil pesto, sun-dried tomatoes, and chopped red pepper. It's slightly reminiscent of a place I used to love in Seattle for sandwiches, the now defunct Bruegger's Bagel Bakery. Although a classic lox, cream cheese, capers, tomato, and red onion sandwich on an onion bagel never went amiss, I also liked one of their vegetarian sandwiches which involved Havarti cheese and roasted red pepper on a sun-dried tomato bagel. There were several bagel bakeries in my neighbourhood until I went away on holiday for a couple of weeks. When I returned they had all closed down. This was not as traumatic as my previous flights which caused major earthquakes and riots, but it was still a bit disturbing.
In memory I'll christen this sandwich the Lower Queen Anne.
THURSDAY: Lunch is a restorative houmus and cream cheese with the usual crunchy bits and plenty of black and cayenne pepper. It's Election Day in the UK, and all of my British friends are battling with the decision of whom to vote for. I think it's obvious myself, yellowishly obvious, but I won't be voting because I'm not a UK citizen. Perhaps that's why I'm so fascinated by the election.
There has, however, been something else on my mind. Recently I've been reading about Einstein, the horse whose owners claim is the smallest horse in the world. Considering he's 14 inches high and weighs 6 pounds, we are indeed talking about a tiny horse. Apparently the Tiz Miniature Horse Farm in Barnstead, New Hampshire breed these tiny horses. In contrast Shetland ponies range from a lofty height of 42 inches down to a minimum 28 inches, towering over poor Einstein. So it sounds like he has broken the record.
But what's the point? Why create a tiny horse? Isn't there a reason why horses, when left to Mother Nature's genetic devices, are the size that they are?
For one thing, although a child can ride a Shetland pony, nobody can ride a horse the size of Einstein -- not that a horse who never carried a human on its back would miss that experience. But if you kept a tiny horse as a pet, although it would be the same size as a medium-sized cat or small dog, it would make a lousy lap pet because of those sharp hooves. And it would look absolutely ridiculous peeking out of a woman's handbag or sprawled between the sheets with its owners. Imagine the insult to its proud equine nature if you dared carry it to the vet or on a train packed safely away in a pet carrier. A horse needs to feel the grass and dirt under its heels, not blankets or bits of carpeting or overstuffed furniture.
And what about the dangers of being so small? Imagine a tiny horse grazing in a pasture near the sea, quivering with fear every time a seagull flies over and eyes it as if it's some tasty morsel of human snack detritus. A tiny horse is not even safe from large dogs. Not that a large dog would necessarily want to hurt a tiny horse; but a particularly horny dog might find the horse attractive and, well, one can't be blamed for trying.
I suppose the advantage of owning a tiny horse would be that it wouldn't cost much to feed or demand much room. A small garden would probably be sufficient, and if you had a lawn you could probably retire your lawn mower.
FRIDAY: Lunch is a one-off: a potted scallop sandwich. The "potted scallops" are leftover bay scallops from the other night, originally sauteed in butter with vegetables, and the leftovers were chilled in the fridge. The sandwich also includes lettuce. It's like...leftovers in a breadcake.
THE FOLLOWING WEDNESDAY: Lunch is cheddar and wasabi mustard with a selection of chopped Greek olives, spring onion, and red pepper on a granary breadcake. As the breadcake is quite large I decided to go easy on the cheese and let the olives and wasabi do the talking. It's a mixture of Japanese and Greek, perhaps the Japanese language written in Greek characters or vice-versa. Wasacheddakkis!
I'd much rather say "Wasacheddakis" then talk about the new coalition government. I'm sorry, but there's not much I can say at this point except that I'm a bit concerned; but we shall see what happens in the next couple of weeks. In the meantime I'll click my heels together ten times and say "Wasacheddakkis!"
Oh, the hemidemisemiquaver's connected to the demisemiquaver...
TUESDAY: Lunch is a touch of updated nostalgia: a tuna sandwich flavoured with cumin. It's also got capers and caper vinegar, dried mixed herbs, spring onion, chopped pointy red pepper, and a spoonful of yogurt on a granary breadcake with cream cheese and sun-dried tomatoes, so it's definitely one of my 21st century sandwiches. But way back when I was a university student in California I flavoured my tuna sandwiches with cumin. I also used mayonnaise, sunflower seeds, and cheddar cheese, and the bread was something sliced, possibly Oroweat Wheatberry or Roman Meal, because I had yet to discover the wide-open universe of sandwich-making possibilities. Back then baguettes were meant to be eaten with a meal, not filled, and little did I know the vast catalogue of sandwich bread choices far beyond sliced wheat and rye bread and bagels. And it would be years before I encountered my first bap.
Because our old one had been reduced by heavy use to a chaotic mass of torn and ragged paper fragments, I recently invested in a new dictionary. Although nowhere near as massive and weighty as my Random House Unabridged Dictionary of the English Language -- which I don't use very often these days not only because it's American but because it requires a forklift to move off the bookshelf -- the new Chambers dictionary is satisfyingly complete for a comfortably lap-sized book, and it's got a hard cover which should make it last much longer than the old paperback one.
As I was browsing through the dictionary the other day, I happened to look up a word I used to love as a child, hemidemisemiquaver. As a classically trained musician I had learned that a hemidemisemiquaver is what us Americans call a 64th note; so I was a bit disappointed to find the Chambers definition is "a note equal to half of a demisemiquaver". So I looked up demisemiquaver which was defined as "a note equal to half of a semiquaver". So I looked up semiquaver, and it said "a note equal to half of a quaver".
Intrigued by this lack of further definition for the poor music-ignorant browser, I pushed on. Quaver was defined as "a note equal to half of a crotchet". Crotchet was explained as being "a note equal to half of a minim". Finally I was getting close to the gist. Or so I thought: minim was defined as "a note equal to two crotchets".
So I felt as if I'd been spun around in an endless circle of fifths. At least I learned something new: that a note equal to half of a hemidemisemiquaver is a semihemidemisemiquaver.
This reminds me of another interesting dictionary experience. Years ago when I lived in California I invested in the aforementioned Random House Unabridged Dictionary of the English Language. This tome was so weighty that it wouldn't fit on any of my bookshelves, so on the suggestion of a friend I went to a Christian bookshop and purchased a "bible stand", sort of a small wooden pulpit that I could stand in the corner. On this I could prop my new dictionary in an open position, ready to consult whenever I wanted to, and especially handy when reading anything by Will Self.
But before I could get out to buy the bible stand I placed my dictionary in the only location I could think of: on the floor next to a nice comfy bit of carpet. On that first night of proud ownership I poured myself a glass of wine and settled down in front of my treasure, looking up all of the words I could think of that wouldn't be included in any of my shorter abridged dictionaries. Besides words like antidisestablishmentarianism and cyclopentanoperhydrophenanthrene I also looked up words such as fuck, twat, cunt, and so on, delighted to find them fully defined with examples and conjugations.
And then I looked up dick. It wasn't there. I decided to see if diddlysquat was there, but it was missing as well. I paged ahead to doodlysquat, but it was equally absent. The reason for this is because a section of pages from somewhere in the words beginning "de" to somewhere in the words beginning "do" were missing. Over 120 pages in my copy of the dictionary had been omitted.
The next day I took my dictionary back to the bookshop, plopped it on the counter, and told the sales clerk, "This dictionary doesn't have diddlysquat!" When he looked at me suspiciously as if I was some sort of nutter I added, "and it doesn't have doodlysquat, either. In fact, it doesn't have dick!" When I showed him why he grabbed a piece of paper and a pen, wrote down the missing pages range to report to the publisher, and went in the back to fetch me a new copy of the dictionary. We skimmed through it together and the pages all seemed to be in order.
Later I thought about how lucky I had been. Imagine if years had passed before I looked up a word beginning "de", "di", or "do", by which time it would have been too late to do anything about it. How sad would that be?
THE FOLLOWING MONDAY: Lunch is avocado and cheddar with cumin, cayenne, sun-dried tomatoes, and red chard and red batavia leaves in a fresh brown breadcake. It's un buen comienzo a la semana. The sun is shining, it's comfortably warm, and I wish I were still at home listening to the rockin' blackbird I mentioned in my last blog. It seems that my mobile tone he's nicked has evolved into a new blues lick reminiscent of Willie Dixon. When I popped down the road to the bakery this morning, I couldn't help laughing out loud with delight as I craned my neck upwards, scanning the treetops for my little bluesbird. I'm sure I looked out of my mind, but I couldn't believe everybody else could so easily resist the temptation to dance down the street. I've named my blackbird BB (Black Bird) King. If he progresses to Little Water, Junior Parker, and Magic Sam, I'll be in absolute bliss.
I'm tempted to buy him a tiny guitar, although I suppose birds would have a tough time fingering.
WEDNESDAY: Lunch is haloumi cheese with basil pesto and sun-dried tomatoes on a white breadcake. Sometimes, like with Wensleydale, one just needs haloumi. I'm very grateful for having it.
THURSDAY: My sandwich today is simply avocado and Wensleydale with sun-dried tomatoes, cayenne, and chipotle chilli powder on a granary breadcake. It's surprisingly nice and different from any of the other avocado or Wensleydale combinations I make. I'm happy, at least during lunch.
FRIDAY: Yesterday when I left work with an unexpected bonus in my pay, I was pleased to find the Continental Market set up in town for the weekend. And I was delighted to find my favourite Greek stall with all the gorgeous olives, antipasto ingredients, and sauces. So I purchased some black olive tapenade (similar to my own recipe but less alcoholic), harissa, and a big tub of mixed olives. So today I've got a sandwich with Wensleydale, chopped pointy pepper, chopped spring onion, and tapenade. When I was constructing my sandwich this morning I looked down at the tapenade spread on the breadcake and sprinkled with the red pepper and green onion bits, and I thought, "Kandinsky!" So that's what I'll name this sandwich, because it really is quite pleasing to look at.
The Perennial Easter Egg Hunt and Rockin' Blackbirds
THE THURSDAY BEFORE EASTER: Today was supposed to be the only day I was working this week, as the library is basically shut down to minimum staff for the 2 weeks around Easter. And with my new Permanent position I finally get paid for university holidays including those 2 weeks. Unfortunately I still have to work extra hours to be able to afford such luxuries as food, bus fare, loo roll, toothpaste, and the now-very-occasional pint or leisurely afternoon espresso (as opposed to the gulped-down ones brewed at home before work).
So when extra work is offered to me I can't justify turning it down, even on mental health grounds. As a result I've also worked yesterday and the day before, and I'm desperately looking forward to having next week completely off, when I can investigate and attempt to rediscover just what it is that makes life worth living. I seem to recall a time when I was paid for thinking logically and creatively, and not for filing, hoisting, and juggling textbooks.
Sorry, I'll stop whingeing for a few seconds. There: time's up.
(And for you speed readers...there. Time's up.)
Speaking of Easter, and all those eggy things that Easter celebrators do, reminds me of the following. At some point next week when I'm off I was thinking of stopping at a local supermarket I haven't had the time to visit for over a year. Fortunately I still remember how it's laid out and where everything is located -- except, of course, for the eggs.
It's probably difficult for your average American to understand what I'm talking about, because in America eggs are always kept in the refrigerated section and therefore would be found somewhere near the milk or cheese or, at the very least, the cold beer. In the UK, however, eggs are not refrigerated in supermarkets for various reasons that include preventing them from amassing condensation and absorbing other food smells and making them last longer.
As eggs can be kept on any shelf anywhere in the supermarket, I find it frustrating that every supermarket and grocery shop seems to keep the eggs in a section unique from any other supermarket or grocery shop. I've found eggs in sensible spots, like next to the jams and Marmite, suggesting breakfast. In the same context I've seen eggs parked next to the bakery section. All fine and good. But what is the reasoning behind keeping eggs next to the "World Foods"? Are eggs that exotic? And it's certainly disconcerting to contemplate why eggs should be kept next to the bin bags.
As a result, whenever I go grocery shopping and I have eggs on my list, I need to allow extra time for this constant non-Easter egg hunt.
MONDAY A WEEK AND A HALF LATER: After a gorgeously drudgery-work-free week of holiday, I'm back at the university library. I'd like to say that it's good to be back, but I don't believe that's possible. But I'll give it a try: Oh, how wonderful it is to see all the jumbled boobytrapped bookshelves! Oh, how I missed the hours spent locating exactly where 326.2834949449 HA goes. Oh, how I longed to hear all those ringtones and text tones clattering away against the background of builders pounding and drilling away. Sure, I spent a couple of days away last week at the seaside. But oh, how I missed that stale dust-filled air marinated with bacon fries, instant lattes, musky shower gels, and sweaty socks.
Sorry. I tried, but it's just not working.
Lunch today is basil marinated tofu and cream cheese on an extremely bakery-fresh granary breadcake with sun-dried tomatoes and spring onion. Fruit is fresh pineapple, red grapes, and orange slices. Actually they're more like orange shards, or rags, because these Spanish oranges are so impossible to peel, and once I've ripped my cuticles to painful shreds getting the peel off, I find it next to impossible to separate the segments. They're like Siamese twins: they just will not separate short of major surgery by experts. No wonder zipper-skin Satsumas are so popular.
TUESDAY: What a delight to open my sandwich container on this intensely busy and therefore physically exhausting day. I expected just a sandwich made with the Normandy brie I bought at Marks & Spencer last night -- 40p for a portion just right for a sandwich -- with cashews, sun-dried tomatoes, spring onion, red pepper, and plenty of fresh ground black pepper, all lying there inanimately waiting to be eaten. I wasn't expecting the brie, purchased only a few hours ago, to be bursting out of the sandwich, arms flailing madly, emitting an ear-splitting "FROMAGE FRANÇAIS!!!" across the room. Can they smell this in the next building? I hope they don't do a repeat of yesterday's evacuation and call in the fire brigade, suspecting a chemical spill.
Lovely! I must buy some more.
I love hearing the blackbirds this time of year. We didn't have melodic blackbirds on the Pacific Coast of America, although I did grow up in California listening to the patchwork medleys of mockingbirds. What is unique about British blackbirds is that they're constantly improvising, never repeating the same song twice. Like mockingbirds they do borrow licks from the catalogues of other birds, but the original borrowed tune is then developed into a symphony of variations. One never gets bored listening to a blackbird.
On recent weekday mornings when I'm awakened by my mobile phone alarm, I've been hearing a blackbird composition that I strongly suspect is borrowed from a new kind of source. As it was the best choice I could find on my current Nokia, my early morning alarm tone is a cheesy tune that sounds like the theme song from a 1960s British "Swingin' London" spy series, a la Austin Powers. When my alarm goes off in the morning, the blackbird that has been greeting the dawn suddenly changes his tune and starts singing the first bar of my ringtone over and over with variations. I'm not joking -- the rhythm and pitch are spot on. How amazing is that? At least the bird has the taste to copy something amusingly "groovy" rather than something like that boring old Nokia theme.
I wonder if I could find a ringtone of "Rockin' Robin" by Bobby Day. Now, that would be just way too cool...
FRIDAY: Yesterday's lunch was mature cheddar, sun-dried-tomato-stuffed olives, spring onion, and spinach leaves with Polish mustard and cayenne. It was sort of a 4/4 march, only on a Somerfield sunflower seed rustic roll. As the day became the official Quietest British Sky In The UK In My Lifetime Thanks To An Icelandic Cloud Of Volcanic Ash Day, I think I'll name my cheddary Polish spinach olive creation the Samloka, simply because that means "sandwich" in Icelandic.
What Happened To Fun Plasters?
TUESDAY: Lunch is quite savoury and garlicky. It's a sandwich with vegetarian garlic sausage slices on a spreading of Societé soft sheep's milk cheese. I've added the usual crunchy bits. The cheese is rich and gorgeous and the slices add the essential garlic kick. My workmates are going to love me this afternoon.
This morning before work I accomplished many small tasks: I roasted a red pepper, made and packed my lunch, washed up, decided the final design for a new pair of earrings, read the Guardian, and performed my ablutions. Unfortunately, due to the fact that I'm breaking in a new pair of shoes, I forgot to allow enough time to put plasters on my heels.
Plasters are not nearly as much fun as they used to be. But more on that later.
THURSDAY: The same vegetarian garlic sausage makes up my sandwich today, but with garlicky Rondelle cheese instead. And I don't care: with a badly needed break from work coming up and the library full of sniffling, coughing, and drooling students and staff, perhaps my Gallic breath will keep them all at arm's length so I can enjoy my holiday in good health for a change.
Now I can get back to the subject of plasters, or the genericized band-aids to my American readers. When I was growing up in California I tended to be very accident prone, which I'm inclined to chalk up to having been a very tall child. For instance, household-sized shipping crates with sharp nails still in place made into clubhouses were always shorter than I expected, and long and high jumping contests were irresistible to me. Aside from the occasional trip to the emergency room I also, like any child, had many smaller mishaps requiring plasters. Band-Aids™ were the standard, with the wrapper opened by pulling on the fine red thread. This changed when as an adult I discovered the joy of Curads™, the "ouchless" band-aid. Ripping open the soft tabs of the wrapper in the darkness of my bathroom one morning, I discovered the wonderful green spark that was produced by the friction. Delighted with my scientific discovery I took an entire box of Curads to work with me. As the only room at my workplace that provided total darkness was the unisex toilet in the entrance lobby, the security guard manning the desk was quite confused and somewhat bemused when I and my fellow programmers Mistah Rick and Vickybob crowded into the tiny room, turned off the light, and proceeded to squeal with delight. We then spent the morning taking small groups of other workmates into the lightless toilet to show them the magic of Curads. By lunchtime I had an entire box of Curads stripped of their wrappers.
It was around this time that plasters became more pleasing to wear as well. Not only did one have a choice of water-resistant plastic or comfortable fabric, but one could also dress their minor wounds with stripes, plaids, Op-art, and cartoon characters if they so desired. Even Barbie™ band-aids were a nice change from dull flesh-coloured plainness.
Nowadays it's difficult to find eye-pleasing plasters that one would want to wear. Plasters with geometric patterns and animal prints do exist, but they're too expensive and specialised to be supplied by local shops and chemists. In the past ten years I've encountered only 2 nonstandard plaster designs in my city. I'd happily cover my paper cuts with SpongeBobSquarePants, but as I've never actually seen the program I'd feel a bit ignorant if anybody started interrogating me about the characters. And if someone made authentic Winnie the Pooh plasters, with the original Ernest Shepard images, I'd wear them proudly. Unfortunately the only "Pooh" plasters available are decked with those hideous travesties that Walt Disney created, featuring a beer-bellied bear wearing clothing and speaking in an American Southern accent. I would rather bleed to death than display such tasteless rubbish.
Blessed with Tarmac
MONDAY: I must remember this: a smoked mackerel is not just a fish. Yes, I've got a lovely sandwich today: a bakery fresh wheat breadcake with just enough Philadelphia for glue, a whole peppered smoked mackerel fillet from Sainsbury, a bit of fresh thyme and chopped red pepper, and just enough lashings of hot grated horseradish. I say just enough because my nose isn't running. The wasabi-hot mustard nose-clearing ecstasy of horseradish, which I normally love, is not really appropriate when I'm dining in such a quiet cramped staff lunchroom.
THURSDAY: Although my sandwich looks like an Italian flag, I would call it the Mexican Flatcap Dance, or perhaps a Lancashire Hot-Cha-Cha. It's Lancashire cheese and avocado with cumin, chipotle chilli powder, and cayenne, adorned with chopped pepper and spring onions on a background of white breadcake. Come to think of it, the Mexican flag resembles Italy's, so it's a Mexican flag. That's what it is! Aye, olé!
THE FOLLOWING MONDAY: I've got a combination of President St Paulin and Lancashire cheese on a very very fresh brown bakery breadcake with freshly reconstituted sun-dried tomatoes. My fruit includes the last of the mango, which always carries a bit of sadness with it, as if the party's over and it's the last hurrah.
I've been neglecting my blog because I've been reading a book during my lunches: The Pub in Literature by Steven Earnshaw, who happens to be a former supervisor. It's quite engaging.
TUESDAY: For the record, today is brie and sun-dried tomatoes with the usual additions. As a result of the severe winter the UK has just experienced, along with the flooding inn recent years, there have been quite a few news reports about potholes. I suspect we'll soon see a documentary mini-series on BBC about this scourge that has created bumpy, lumpy, and sometimes dangerous stretches of roads all across the land, featuring footage of collapsing streets. The series will move on to injuries caused by the bumpy rides, the cost of vehicle repairs and new tyres, and of course on-the-street interviews with a lot of angry citizens who think it's a total disgrace. The government can't do much about the problem at the moment because of the economic crisis and the upcoming election -- and surely the shortage of grit will be blamed.
So my immediate neighbours and I were a bit surprised that a small stretch of road in our neighbourhood was selected to be resurfaced. After several nights of temporary traffic lights -- and the ominously deafening sounds of scraping and smashing that sent the same sort of chills down my spine as the army of medfly helicopters that flew over my house in California back in 1990 -- we found ourselves with a short but beautiful stretch of road, all clean, even-toned, and level with an eye-pleasing texture. On the first day when it was still clean it reminded me of the bouncy walkways on the old Monsanto ride at Disneyland. When I crossed the road and found my feet no higher from the ground than usual, I was a bit disappointed.
What is inexplicable is why they resurfaced this particular stretch of road, stretching only a third of the way down the neighbourhood high street and stopping abruptly at the other end before entering a busy commercial stretch. I suppose the work stopped there because the post code changes. But who benefits from this new short stretch of road? Aside from a few residents like myself the only beneficiaries are a Chinese takeaway, a pizza takeaway, a bakery, a tanning salon, a garage, and the Buddhist Centre. Is it because one of us is very influential and/or wealthy? Is it because we're so complacent and non-complaining about the problems in our neighbourhood that somebody up high decided we deserved a perk like this? Or is it just a lottery? Does somebody somewhere throw darts at a giant A-Z wall map, and the little segments of road that are scored are put on the New Road Surface Agenda?
TUESDAY: Today is my version of egg mayo: hard-boiled egg with a conservative amount of garlic mayonnaise, some English mustard, paprika, and black pepper with chopped walnuts, spring onion, sun-dried tomatoes, and red pepper. Yes. Good. Oh, yes.
THURSDAY: On this long gruelling day I've got some Lancashire cheese glued to a Sainsbury sunflower ciabatta roll with a little Rondelle and sun-dried tomatoes. Yum! It's crumbly and a bit messy, but it's nice and garlicky and the bread is oh so fresh and chewy and lovely.
FRIDAY: After an enjoyable linger at the Robert Mapplethorpe exhibit in the Graves Gallery, I am having my second egg sandwich of the week. It's my favourite, the alternative, with no mayonnaise. It's got a hard boiled egg, a slice of cheddar, chopped, a smattering of capers, a splash of caper vinegar, a teaspoon of yogurt, and chopped spring onion, red pepper, dried dill, black pepper, and a touch of cayenne, with a sprinkling of sesame seeds. This is really good! This is the kind of egg sandwich I like. It would be good with just a few leaves of soft salad, like lamb's lettuce or spinach. I should name this something like the Great Escape, because it's an egg that's broken out of its shell only to become a much more interesting sandwich than the typical egg mayo.
Alliterative cheese, Sat Bull, and Mitchell's Law of Wet Cutlery
MONDAY: Lunches this week will be sandwiches made from the last little leftover lumps of cheese. I wish I could say I had some last little leftover lumps of Leerdammer or Limberger or Lappi or Longhorn or Lyonnais, but I'm afraid the alliteration has to end there. Today's sandwich is the last little leftover lump of Edam (Landsmeer?) and Bavarian Smoked Cheese (Langenzenn Log-fired?)
TUESDAY: Lunch today was launched by a sudden craving for Wensleydale. As they had no Wensleydale at the shop I settled for crumbly Lancashire. (Aha! There's an L for ya!) I have it with chopped red pointy pepper, spring onion, and a good sprinkling of dried dill on a Tesco malted grain bap. It hits the spot and lollops the lapoozi! The huge green grapes in my fruit collection are wonderfully winy and fragrant. I wonder what they're called? Julianne and Hermione and Desmond and Lord Jasmine? Or simply Debbie, Jack, Ned, and Angie? I'd ask if I only knew how to speak Grapese.
THE FOLLOWING TUESDAY: Lunch is basil marinated tofu and Philadelphia cream cheese with the usual etceteras, and fruit is dominated by pineapple. So we've got a tour of Pennsylvania and Hawaii. And the apple slices could be from Massachusetts and the clementines from California. It's like a fruity tour of my home country.
As it's been awhile since I've had a good complain about the destruction and degeneration of the English language, I may as well return to that subject. Because as an American I grew up in a large country where the regional accents and dialects are fewer and more widely spread, I've been both impressed and fascinated by the countless regional variations -- sometimes separated by a mere mile -- that one finds in the UK. When I first moved to Sheffield I quickly adapted to being called "Love" by total strangers, and I got used to calling baps "breadcakes" and understanding what locals meant when they would tell me to "put wood in t'oyle" and say they were working "10 while 4".
So I naturally assumed it was part of the local Sheffield dialect -- working class, I assumed -- of saying "I were sat by t'door" or "They were stood on t'corner". When I realised my friends with educated Sheffield accents used "sat" and "stood" in the same way I figured that it was a general Sheffield or Yorkshire thing. When I started to hear more and more students from all around the UK say "sat" and "stood" in this gramatically incorrect manner, I decided it must be a Northern tendency that had been taken on by the country's youth, as these things do happen.
But now not only do I hear national news reports by commentators of all ages abusing the present continuous and past continuous tenses of sit and stand, but I also have to read it in the national press including the Guardian. Does this mean most of the country has forgotten how to say "I was sitting at the door" and "They were standing on the corner"? Even the Beatles could say it correctly. I mean, would "I Saw Her Standing There" have been such a hit if they'd called it "I Saw Her Stood There"? Are we going to start paying our bills with "stood orders"? Are the youth who study American history going to learn about Sat Bull?
I'm sorry. I'm sitting here fuming, and if this sofa wasn't here I'd probably be standing here fuming instead. Or else lying on the ground kicking my feet ferociously, with bits of foam spewing from my lips.
WEDNESDAY: Lunch is a simple but substantial Stilton sandwich on granary breadcake with hot papaya chutney and the same fruit as yesterday. Well, same selection. The fruit itself is different from yesterday's, as yesterday's fruit no longer exists because I ate it.
Why is it that whenever I do the washing up, which I usually do in the morning before work, no matter how much I scrounge around on the bottom of the washing-up bowl when I think I've washed everything, when I dump the used dishwater out, there is always one piece of cutlery left that I didn't find? It varies between knife, fork, and spoon, but it's always only one. Is this related to the laws of nature that Woody Allen cited as being responsible for lost socks in the laundry? What would Yogi Berra have to say about this? "If you find a fork in the dishwater, take it"?
I think I'll refer to this as Mitchell's Wet Cutlery Law. I've added the "wet" because wet cutlery, as most daily items that are wet, is just a bit more unpleasant to deal with than dry cutlery simply because of the dripping trail of water. After all, one never finds dry cutlery at the bottom of the washing-up bowl.
Too Many Spoonfuls of Sugar, Bananas, and Dogpoop
TUESDAY: Lunch is "Camembert With Blue Cheese" on a Tesco malted grain bap with chopped pointy peppers, chopped spring onions, fresh basil, and plenty of fresh ground black pepper. I feel like calling the cheese Cambozola, but its name is Camembert With Blue Cheese, and I don't want to offend it by addressing it with the wrong name. One certainly doesn't want one's cheese to get in a huff.
I feel like thanking the cleaners at work for installing such a lovely smelling hand cleaner in the ladies' toilet. It smells like violets, one of my favourite scents. I loved my April Violets cologne I used to wear in my teens; and when I lived in Seattle I once bought a vial of African Violet essential oil to propel me into nostalgic olfactory bliss any time I needed to be propelled into nostalgic olfactory bliss. Not that my teenage years were by any means blissful. But that smell -- the smell of violets -- is pure bliss.
Tastes are the same way. Certain flavours send me into a purely olfactory rapture: cardamom; almond extract; malted milk powder; coconut; sauces made with cream and flaming brandy; a wonderfully hoppy pint; a perfect cup of espresso; a Casa Sanchez chile relleno burrito with plenty of salsa. I could go on and on, of course -- as with all things in life, it's impossible for me to name my favourite flavour, or even my top ten flavours.
One thing that rattles a flavour for me is when it's unnecessarily sweet. This is one negative thing I've noticed about the British culture of food and cooking. Why must everything be so goddamn Sweet? Why can't fish cakes and prawns be served with hot chilli sauce and not sweet chilli sauce? Why sweeten a three-bean salad? Why flavour cheese sandwiches and meat sandwiches with sweet chutneys and fruit jams?
Why, for Chrissake, ruin a pizza with pineapple?
I was appalled when I purchased a bottle of Marks & Spencer Vinaigrette Salad Dressing only to discover it was so sweet I should have poured it on ice cream instead of raw vegetables. Why would olive oil, vinegar, garlic, and herbs suggest that anything sweet should be added? It's incomprehensible and disappointing. If I want something sweet I'll have something sweet. If I feel like a sweet drink I'll have a margarita or a piña colada instead of a beer or a glass of wine. If I feel like something sweet to eat I'll have a cookie after my unsweet meal. I mean, I can see a tiny bit of sugar added to tomato-based pizza or pasta sauce to bring out the flavour, and although I'm not too fond of it, I realise honey mustard dressing is popular both in the UK and in America. But why in the world would anybody think that savoury foods taste better with a spoonful of sugar? A baked Brie is a savoury food, not a medicine, so it shouldn't be drowned in sweetened red currant sauce.
What hath Mary Poppins wrought?
WEDNESDAY: Lunch is vegetarian chicken slices, cream cheese, chopped red pepper and spring onion, fresh basil and thyme, and a wildly dangerous heaping of freshly ground black pepper. I say dangerous because my first bite nearly propelled me into an embarrassing choking fit. Don't worry, I'm fine now. I shall proceed slowly.
THURSDAY: Lunch is a sandwich with leftover Cauldron Vegetarian Lincolnshire Sausages and cream cheese with chopped red pepper, fresh parsley, and Dijon mustard. Mmm-mmm, Cauldron Lincolnshire Sausages are my favourite vegetarian sausages, mostly because they're nice and spicy. I find most vegetarian sausages either too bland and mushy or too much like real sausages which I don't like because the reason I don't eat meat is because I don't like it. If I bite into a sausage that is too much like a real sausage I am a bit, how you say? Repulsed. Call me crazy…
FRIDAY: Lunch on this leisurely Friday takes place once again inside the Winter Garden. It's a simple sandwich: the last of the Cheddar With (definitely not sweetened) Red Currants on a Somerfield sunflower seed rustic roll. It's surprisingly attractive with its autumn colours. Looks a bit like a painting of a haywain or sunflowers.
Yesterday morning I was walking along the narrow S-bend that snakes past the Sheffield Buddhist Centre near my home. There is one long bit where the pavement ahead is hidden by the curve, so I'm always hoping I won't be suddenly surprised by a bus climbing onto the kerb (my own private nightmare). As I quickly stepped around the corner, my eyes fortunately glued to the ground ahead of me, I narrowly missed stepping on a banana peel, while just around the next blind part of the curve I avoided at the last moment stepping into a very large pile of dogpoop. Was this some sort of booby trap laid by a practical joker? Was there a hidden camera somewhere? Do modern English Buddhists enjoy a good laugh at others' expense?
Coincidentally, just last week I had a rather disgusting experience when I boarded a sparsely populated bus and headed for the roomier seats in the rear only to discover 2 seats liberally smeared with what appeared remarkably like dogpoop. And this morning on my bus to work I spotted, in the same approximate location on the bus but on the opposite side, a banana peel.
Is it just a result of my recent head injury, or does this mean something?
