Something beginning with 'Ch-'

I'm having an all too familiar Sunday night. These generally follow a lovely, busy weekend, in which I've spent little time at home and less time alone. I tend to get an increasingly sinking feeling of doom as I realise that I have done none of the 'homework' I set myself to complete over the weekend. There are things to write, things to wrap, things to stitch, things to design and Pilates to complete. Cassey Ho, my wonderful instructor (via YouTube), is often very disappointed in me on Sunday evenings.

When it hits 7pm I seem to spring into action and realise I must cook something and prepare to face the week, however begrudgingly. Unless I've had a roast (sadly these are few and far between) I'm looking for a hearty, tasty dinner, which can double up as weekday lunch or Monday night dinner. I'm looking for cheap and healthy (tea and cake at Tart may be delicious but two great slabs of cake in two days is perhaps a little excessive). Mostly, I'm looking for simple.

Recently, I've started to believe that all the best foods begin with the letters 'Ch'. My list of Champions (you see?) includes chorizo, cheese and chocolate (obviously) and also chillis, chutneys and chips (admittedly these vary enormously). For simplicity, thrift and sheer versatility, I'd like to nominate the chickpea as my 'Ch' of Choice.

The humble chickpea.

Alone, it may be forgettable, even boring. But add it to almost anything, and it's delicious. How about home-made hummas with home-made, shop bought or improvised (pitta, toasted and torn) breadsticks? Or a curry: a selection vegetables, garam masala, cumin, stock and a mixed curry power, served with yoghurt and mango chutney? Perhaps a cold salad with red onion, cherry tomatoes, chives and chicken?

My 'go-to' chickpea dish of choice is simply known as stewp or stoup. Neither soup, nor stew, I generally turn to this when I have things to do and ten minutes to prepare a delicious dish to throw into the oven. It's great for last minute guests and fantastic when I arrive home cold and wet from an impromptu pub trip / long, long walk / late night at work.

Stewp requires neither a recipe nor a method; just a little sense and some storecupboard ingredients. Tonight, I've chopped some shallots, chilli, courgette, pepper, chorizo and thrown them into an ovenproof dish, with the all-important chickpeas. A drizzle of oil, one tin of tomatoes, sprinkles of paprika and cayenne and good glugs of wine and balsamic, and it's prepared. I'm so distracted, I almost failed to add garlic.

I tend to cook this at around 180°C for anything from 20 minutes to 50, depending on how proactive I become. I'll try to stir it once or twice, but that's not essential.

This can be served with almost anything. Rice is great, cous cous is quicker, and fresh bread is delightful. If I'm feeling particularly in need, I'll just team it with green veg (pak choi, spinach, or beans from Dad's garden in a few months' time).

Sunday night's a slow surrender (thank you, Frank Turner). Chickpeas and their friends make it a little easier.

On Fakery

A few years ago, I arrived home exhausted after a week's work in Birmingham. My housemate was watching something (probably on Channel Five), which was frequently interrupted by adverts for a programme 'for real men'. I rolled my eyes, opened my laptop and started typing. The result was this, which was published, pretty much in this form, in UWE's student paper, Western Eye, in 2011.

The battle between the 'real' and the 'fake' rages on within the media. Adverts for 'real' men and programmes about such men are shown alongside products that rely on the claim that they -and only they- use 'real' women in their advertising (an excellent marketing tactic). These adverts come up against the 'science' of skincare (have you ever listened, really listened, to an advert for moisturiser?) and the ever increasing cosmetic surgery promotions at the back of magazines and, more recently, on television.

It's only when you start questioning such campaigns that their serious flaws become apparent. What is a 'real' man? Must he like sport? Then, is rugby a sport 'for real men', when compared to football? Are 'real men' truly not afraid to show their emotions, even -dare I say it? - cry? Or do these honoured men never act like such 'girls'? What about crying at a football match (clearly rugby fans would never cry at a match): is this somehow allowed? Weekend magazines discuss the Alpha male; the metrosexual; the man 'in touch with his emotions'; and the (often heavily stereotyped) gay man. All 'types' of men range in description and are often contrasted. But all are men. So which are 'real'?

For women it is, arguably, more complex. The Dove campaign shows 'real' women… of all shapes, ages and sizes, moving away from the waif-like (one of the industry's favourite phrases) models often used in fashion promotion. High Fashion is, of course, dominated by the aptly nicknamed 'coat hangers'. Despite protests, slimmer models will, I think, always be used to display the seasons' latest and greatest. Again: which women are ‘real'? Many of these writers would say those that 'don't starve themselves' are true women and, having studied the female form a great deal, (read 25,000 Years Of Erotic Freedom), I would agree to an extent. It's only in the last 30 years that much slimmer women have dominated photography and advertising. Years ago, larger, convex stomachs were considered features of the 'real' woman, as well as the -perhaps more expected- wide hips and full, round breasts.

Nudity aside (I'm sorry to say), the products that clothe us in various ways are perhaps all 'fakeries'. Tattoos, hair dye and style, vajazzling (my new favourite word) and make up are all ways of portraying personality and of disguising ourselves: faking it, if you like. It's not uncommon to find bras that claim to 'enhance' assets by 'TWO WHOLE cups': something I can perhaps understand in smaller sizes, but personally cannot fathom as a DD+. Yet there are still gel-filled and inflatable F cups, which, frankly, I find scary. Similarly, lip-glosses can no longer simply 'gloss' lips: they must now offer hours of plumping or 'collagen' effect, whilst moisturisers produce a 'sun kissed' look. The advertising that really fascinates me, however, is mascara promotion. I'm not quite sure how an eyelash colour can be sexualised but somehow, marketing experts have managed to attempt it. The 'real' woman aims to achieve the 'false lash' effect because, clearly, having longer, fuller, thicker, curled lashes means you're sexier and more powerful. Yet all these adverts use 'lash inserts', which are surely simply false, or fake, lashes. It seems a woman should be 'real' and 'natural', yet, in order to better herself, she must fake it.

Which brings me on to orgasms. Just kidding.

Avocado Leg & Squid Fanny

I love reading through my day-to-day diary occasionally. I tend to update some things in hindsight, and reading back reminds me of some of the good things that have happened each week. So, for example, we have:

8th January: Long, shameful lunch (Cat)

17th March: Charlie > Bristol - RWA; Build-a-bed; Gig at Mother's Ruin

14th July: To Dorset to meet my niece :)

12th August: Gin + Tonics + Arrogant Man

...none of which I'd be able to tell anyone else about in detail without those notes. Some of the best days this year were in April and May in Valencia; my first holiday abroad for three years and, reading back, it was lovely.

Saturday 28th April
One of the most difficult journeys I've had, both London-side and on the plane. Then, as soon as we managed to leave the plane, everything was fine.

'Twas raining as we left Xàtiva Metro and, as we walked up the stairs, Alice (to the right) noticed the magnificent Bull Ring: 'oh, wow!', whilst I (to the left) noticed McDonald's: 'oh, no...'. Due to the various travel related delays, we were later than we'd hoped we'd be, but had a burst of excited energy as we passed various exciting attractions: The Bull Ring, Gotham - a cute comic book store, a costume shop with beautiful bespoke gowns on display, and a lovely little church.

This one's been posted before: Our View.

The hostel was as we expected it: clean, bright and comfortable, with various rules posted in the communal rooms (no using the kitchen between certain hours, no hanging anything from the windows... etc.). We were asked to be quiet on Sunday evening at around 10:30 (which, yes, is the time a lot of the Spanish go out for dinner) when we were just talking with our door open. The rules didn't affect us too much, though. We mainly spent our time in the hostel sleeping (or having a siesta in the early evening), reading or getting ready to go out.

On Saturday evening we found local shops and Mercado Ruzafa, which was minutes from the hostel and sold delicious fresh food, and the small coffee house next to the hostel that would provide us with morning (well, noon - Spanish morning!) tea/juice and tostas and some broken English chats with the beautiful camareros (possible owners).

€4.20 bought us two glasses of wine and some tapas before we walked what felt like miles through the city to a slightly Italian meal. One small allergic reaction later, we had a lovely dinner, enhanced by a beautiful little girl - possibly a Somalian adoptee - who was having dinner with her impeccably behaved older brothers and lovely family. You'd not often get children in a British restaurant that late, but then not many would behave quite so well.

Sunday 29th April

Despite some slightly broken nights, I slept reasonably well considering the sometimes noisy room.  My diary tells me that on Monday night the bank holiday (1st May) partying kept us up a little and that we were woken by the church bells at 8:50 (they never quite struck on time), but that I was sitting on my bed looking at the blue sky behind the 'tin can tiles', so I was clearly content.

On Sunday, meanwhile, we spent some hours sitting in the sunshine overlooking a church in a busy but calm square. We then meandered through the city to the Jardín Botánico, which was tranquil, hot and full of KITTENS. Somehow none of the photographs either of us took of the kittens came out -one of a number of bizarre incidents across the week- but they were certainly real.

Turia Fountain, beside 'Lazy Square'

Sunday continued with a stroll for some tapas (5pm lunch, anyone? It's rather like being with the Benthams), a long and lazy siesta and an 11pm wander through the pouring rain (our main rain during the week) in search of a drink. It was very quiet, but we followed the sound of singing to the only place that was open: The Bull Ring. We paid €10 and were given a litre of beer (tankard ladies), which I followed with a bratwurst with trimmings. 

That's how we ended up celebrating Oktoberfest in a beautiful historic building (in which so much blood has been shed) in Valencia on a wet April evening. Songs were sung in Spanish and English and frequently interrupted by the Italian football anthem. We danced with some incredibly drunk couples, and admired two beautiful men from afar.

And then we ran 'home' in the pouring rain; our bellies round with beer and our heads heavy.

Irretrievable Glumpiness

That wonderful Mr. Lear termed his melancholy thus, and it’s often his A Book of Nonsense that joins me when mine hits. I don’t own an e-reader and find the weight of books reassuring. I love new books; they're crisp, creaky and secretive. However, old books have so many more stories to tell. Those musty, age-stained pages have seen and shared a lot, and often all sorts of people have read them in all sorts of circumstances. Like old houses, we’re really just borrowing them for a while. We don’t truly own them.

I don’t think I’ll ever tire of books, and Lear’s is one of several I won’t part from easily. Whenever I had a bad dream as a child, I’d turn to The House at Pooh Corner, and just a few pages would relax me.

There are two books my mother gave me between the ages of 12 and 14, both about truly heroic girls but with stark contrasts. Adeline Yen Mah tells the story of her upbringing as the Chinese Cinderella. I admired the hardworking, stoic little girl and loved reading about her culture, yet could not comprehend the cruelty and neglect she suffered. Her home is not recognisable from the wonderfully romanticised world in which Maria Merryweather blossomed in The Little White Horse. Two of my heroines growing up show, in their independence, endurance and optimism, some of what I’d like and some of what I’ve since found.

I won’t give up these books, and a few others, easily. As Jeanette Winterson says: 

'Books, for me, are a home. Books don't make a home - they are one, in the sense that just as you do with a door, you open a book, and you go inside. Inside there is a different kind of time and space.'

There is warmth there too - a hearth. I sit down with a book and I am warm. When you’re there, you know everything’s going to be all right. That may be more relevant to children, but the wonderful evocative escapism works for many adults, too.

I may never be as strong as Adeline, as fierce as Lyra Silvertongue, as sensible as Elinor Dashwood, or as determined as Jane Eyre; however I’m learning to recognise my glumpiness and what causes it, and I will continue to learn how best to manage it.

It may be irretrievable for a while, but the storm always passes. And I blink for a while and realise what and who, fictional and living, have helped me through.

Two beautiful, too beautiful.

Risk

And then the day came,

When the risk

To remain tight

In a bud

Was more painful

Than the risk

It took

to Blossom.

              - Anais Nin

*

The words in this song are sampled from an interview from Children Talking, a 1961 BBC radio show, in which Harold Wilson travelled around the UK talking to children (with a variety of accents - rare in those days, I'd imagine) about their lives. I love the song and the album it comes from.

May

May has been a fairly busy month so far. When the month began, I was in Valencia - my first holiday abroad for three years. I think that will be covered in another post but a very brief overview would read: 'I loved it'. I have some pictures coming, but I'll share this one (borrowed from APB, with thanks). This was the view from our bedroom:

We arrived back in the UK to 8°C - a slight shock to the system from 25°C! Post holiday blues hit nearly as soon as I got back to Bristol but didn't last too long. The sunshine this week has helped (although the only time I've had in it were the hours yesterday - work's been manic).

Last Saturday I went to Foyles. Bookshops, like the library, are places that make me feel both very safe and excited. I felt passionate - I'm really missing passion. I'm not really getting it from (m)any area(s) of my life and, as Frank Turner sings, 'life is too short to live without poetry'. It's find poesy or die, I guess. I bought a book by Anais Nin, who I've discovered recently thanks to an a former Royal Mail van in Montpelier, which has one of the most inspiring poems I've read recently graffiti'd on the back. I also bought a rather amusing mug. I struggle to believe that The Chatterley Trial took place in 1960. That's in my Mummy's lifetime! The mug features an image of a poster from Foyles soon after the trial: 'Lady C out of stock. Back in tomorrow', and the quotation below, from a member of the prosecution:

Can you imagine? WOMEN reading literature that contains not only 'C's and 'F's but SEX. Full on sex. That the female ENJOYS. It's incredible.

*

The Harsh Yellows hit last Sunday evening and lasted through some of Monday into Tuesday. I can't explain them. I'm trying to clarify what it is, so that I can understand it at least. I fully realise how incredibly self-centred it sounds but, quite frankly, I have no partner or children to think of, and I'm not wholly selfish, so I think I can justify a little when it's something that's with me constantly. Sometimes it feels like a part of me is a bit broken. I'm definitely feeling aware of an id/super-ego/ego balance. It's one part of me that's a little broken; the others are fine and very strong.


This year, I've tried to be very honest with myself. If I think 'I'm not enjoying myself' or 'I'm not that... it's not the kind of person I am', I'll just leave, or make a sensible decision. If, say, I'm out and not enjoying it, and thinking 'I could be at home with some tea and toast now'... that's what I'll do. 


What am I? An introvert - that's actually a very suitable word. I love my time alone, I love to sit and read (or watch Boardwalk Empire again...), I love spending time with the right people. I'm not a fan of big groups or of small talk or bullshit. But that doesn't necessarily mean I'm shy. I can handle a work meeting with executives, I can give a presentation (preparation required) and can talk to strangers, without much of a struggle. But I don't need company to thrive, I don't need constant conversation.

So, in that respect, I think it's perfectly acceptable to spend, say, Friday and Saturday nights alone. But then there's another side: slight loneliness. It's not because I'm an introvert. I could go out with people that aren't really 'my kind of people' - who I'm not entirely comfortable with or whose interests differ significantly from mine. However, why should I? I don't need something that, for me, isn't 'real'. Sometimes, I think I'd either have to go out on my own, if I fancy it, or stay in and hide a little - maybe there is a slightly anxious side but it's not at all dominant.

People seem to think it strange that I don't excel in larger groups. I know that some people think I'm rude or aloof or boring. Not entirely true. I prefer smaller groups and one-to-one situations and I invest in my friendships. This is the crux. When I get close to someone or let them in, it's because I feel a connection with them. And I've really really learnt over the last six months or so that some of those people obviously don't. The friendship was important to me but not to them. I suppose I have to accept that that's what they're like - and, in one or two cases, I guess that they got what they wanted from the 'friendship'. Job done. They've not really done anything wrong, either. It's my fault I invested more in it than they did and didn't recognise I'd be a bit burnt if and when they disappeared completely. And I'm very aware that I don't communicate well sometimes - I don't come across as I should, and so they, inevitably, see me in more of a negative light.

Anyway, it's too hot to carry on with these muddled thoughts. I can think of one or two people who would say: 'chill the fuck out. stop over-thinking things'. And to them, I say: 'I'm sorry. But I have to live with myself every single minute of every day, and if there are some aspects of me I need to reflect on, or think through, then I will do that'.  If I struggle with myself I'm not going to be able to do or achieve things I want to. I don't want to fill gaps with meaningless activities or people. I don't want someone else to complete me. Another person (say, a partner) should be an extension of myself - not some way of trying to fill a hole ('teehe, sex pun').

If there's something missing or something that isn't quite right, I need to work through it on my own. Identify it, recognise and understand it, embrace it, fix it (if needs be). A large part of that is understanding.

'Delicate like a flower, strong like diamond'

My best friend once sent me a text describing me with those words. I miss her a lot.