We have a bit of a carrot glut at the moment, so I went looking for carrot recipes while M watched The Simpsons. I did this via old skool cookbooks... you get a feel for the author whose recipes you are in the mood for, and I was feeling a bit Prue Leith. I can't find her carrot fritters recipe online, but there is an Anthony Worrall Thompson one that is remarkably similar.
We got to work. I don't get on with the wok (partly because it lives on top of the cupboard and I can't reach it without standing on a chair, and partly because it has a complicated aftercare ritual), so M was doing the honours. He was grating away, and I was whizzing yoghurt with herbs and shredding lettuce. I only have one thing to ask of you, he said. Please don't Twitter about your fritter*.
As soon as the carrot hit the hot oil I had an urge to hear Neutral Milk Hotel's King of Carrot Flowers Part 1 - a song I just can't get enough of, but I worry that I play too much. Saturation means I might go off it, though come to think of it that's never worked for gherkins, The Wire, sleeping or any of the other things I indulge in too much of. Patience, joella, I thought to myself, and instead I lined up all 58 of the songs that come up on Spotify (today) if you search on 'carrot'.
There are worse ways to choose the soundtrack for dinner, though there was rather too much Beefheart (=any Beefheart) for my liking.
joella
*and I'm not, see?
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Thursday, March 26, 2009
Can I just say...
Three things, having just watched Newsnight.
1. The opposite of anti-abortion is NOT pro-abortion. Nobody is pro-abortion, at least nobody I've ever met. The opposite of anti-abortion is pro-choice.
2. Relatedly, young people do not get pregnant. Young women get pregnant. Can we please at least MENTION gender when we talk about teenage pregnancy?
3. Like Stephen Fry once said about Noel Edmonds: a short word about Michael Winner - No. A long word about Michael Winner - Unconscionable.
Calm down dear, I know.
joella
1. The opposite of anti-abortion is NOT pro-abortion. Nobody is pro-abortion, at least nobody I've ever met. The opposite of anti-abortion is pro-choice.
2. Relatedly, young people do not get pregnant. Young women get pregnant. Can we please at least MENTION gender when we talk about teenage pregnancy?
3. Like Stephen Fry once said about Noel Edmonds: a short word about Michael Winner - No. A long word about Michael Winner - Unconscionable.
Calm down dear, I know.
joella
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
If I don't make it back...
... said M, as he set off bravely into the drizzle in search of a bottle of white, you've been a very understanding girlfriend.
Glad you see it that way, I said. I worry that I have termagant tendencies.
But it takes all sorts to make a world.
joella
Glad you see it that way, I said. I worry that I have termagant tendencies.
But it takes all sorts to make a world.
joella
Sunday, March 22, 2009
Reflections on power, cheese, and deserts
Last week at work, a decision I have been pushing for for nearly a year finally got made, and got made in the direction I'd been pushing for. I was momentarily jubilant, then I went for a wee and when I came back the person who had been pushing just as hard in the other direction was a bit tearful. And I know, if it had gone the other way, which it so easily could have, so very nearly did, then the tears would have been mine. I had shed some only the night before. Yes, I thought it was that important. And so did she.
I wonder if my currency is higher, or things are moving faster, because of what happened in the Hot Place. Crises make careers, everyone knows that, even if you happened to be there by accident. For years I have had nothing but carrots, now, briefly, there is a small stick, and I get to wave it. My report about learning points has been read by high-ups and pissed a couple of them off, and I'm not used to that either. I am used to toiling in the detail round the edges of the main story, taken seriously by a few people (and I love you all) and reassured that my stuff is of course *important* but not, you know, important enough to do anything *about*. So I don't bother pulling my punches, because I'm not usually hitting anyone who's noticing.
It might be an interesting week.
Meanwhile, my personal equilibrium swings like a pendulum do. Well, maybe more like Newton's cradle do, as I think it's slowly coming back to rest somewhere manageable. Sunday evenings are warm times chez joella, as M and I both love to listen to Freakzone, which seems to occupy the interesting part of the intersection of our respective musical tastes. Freakzone listening happens in the kitchen, where one of us will tidy up while the other cooks dinner.
But tonight we both wanted to cook. I made lentil soup, which I have been making for ten years, can make with my eyes closed, and relies on a failsafe combination of good olive oil, cheap red wine and bay leaves. We didn't have any bread, so M baked cheese scones to go with it. I have never had a home made cheese scone before. What have I been doing with my life?
Towards the end of the programme, Freakzone played us Water is Life. Immediately, over wine, cheese and lentils, we hatched a plan to visit next year's Festival Au Desert. And this just two weeks after I swore never to leave the country again.
So I guess hope springs eternal. And amen to that.
joella
I wonder if my currency is higher, or things are moving faster, because of what happened in the Hot Place. Crises make careers, everyone knows that, even if you happened to be there by accident. For years I have had nothing but carrots, now, briefly, there is a small stick, and I get to wave it. My report about learning points has been read by high-ups and pissed a couple of them off, and I'm not used to that either. I am used to toiling in the detail round the edges of the main story, taken seriously by a few people (and I love you all) and reassured that my stuff is of course *important* but not, you know, important enough to do anything *about*. So I don't bother pulling my punches, because I'm not usually hitting anyone who's noticing.
It might be an interesting week.
Meanwhile, my personal equilibrium swings like a pendulum do. Well, maybe more like Newton's cradle do, as I think it's slowly coming back to rest somewhere manageable. Sunday evenings are warm times chez joella, as M and I both love to listen to Freakzone, which seems to occupy the interesting part of the intersection of our respective musical tastes. Freakzone listening happens in the kitchen, where one of us will tidy up while the other cooks dinner.
But tonight we both wanted to cook. I made lentil soup, which I have been making for ten years, can make with my eyes closed, and relies on a failsafe combination of good olive oil, cheap red wine and bay leaves. We didn't have any bread, so M baked cheese scones to go with it. I have never had a home made cheese scone before. What have I been doing with my life?
Towards the end of the programme, Freakzone played us Water is Life. Immediately, over wine, cheese and lentils, we hatched a plan to visit next year's Festival Au Desert. And this just two weeks after I swore never to leave the country again.
So I guess hope springs eternal. And amen to that.
joella
Sunday, March 15, 2009
Rearrange me till I'm sane
I've been back from the Hot Place for a week now. It feels like a lot longer, even though the calendar and the laundry basket both tell me otherwise.
Monday: went into work for a bit. Talked to a lot of people. Hugged some of them. Cried a bit. Came home. Dreamt about deleting things.
Tuesday: stayed at home. Thought I would go to the allotment. I got there eventually but I just sat on a plastic chair, staring at wet clay and hugging my knees. Have you got some time off? said J, from the plot over the way. I've been away, I said. I've just got back. Where have you been? he said. The Hot Place, I said. I work for NGO X. I don't really know what to do with myself. Just potter around for a while, he said, you'll feel better. And I did, for a bit.
Wednesday: went into work but in a drifty sort of way. Rearranged a few meetings, not wanting to be rude, and went to a few others. There is no money for anything at all this year, but we can't do free things because they are not in line with our expensive strategy. I'd taken a break from trying to square this circle, but it is not making any more sense than it did last month. Started to bleed, a week late. A little pressure valve in my head let off some steam. It condensed into tears during the lying down part at the end of yoga. Broke into emergency Temazepam stash.
Thursday: woke up into a softer world, then stayed in bed all day, alternately reading Ruth Rendell, tending to Sultana in Pet Society, surfing Hot Place blogs, and writing my 'learning points'. There are a lot of them. It was a good thing to do. There is a lot of blood as well. I tried to listen to my body, like they say you should. It seemed to be saying 'please drink red wine'. So I did.
Friday: Went into work, and got angry about something that on Wednesday had been down the end of a long tunnel. It's my job to get angry about these things, in a way -- and certainly if I don't, nobody else will, so it felt like a little trip back into the world I am actually supposed to be living in, rather than the one I stepped into briefly, where it is volatile and remote and normal rules do not apply. Here, there might be a point getting angry. But later, I had my first ever argument with housemate P, who is scathing about many things that I believe in, and believes in many things about which I am scathing. M intervened before it got too heated, which was sensible. We shook hands and left it for another day.
Saturday: Friendly allotment working party: lots of digging and we got the early potatoes in. Later, crumpets and a nap. Later still, pasta and vino at Fratelli's, where the lovely Ms Y reinvested the voucher she won in the animal sanctuary raffle. I can't remember what we talked about, which is exactly how I wanted it.
Today: I don't know. I'm still not feeling quite right, but I can see that at some point soon I will be. We've sorted out the shed, which is part of the official welcoming of spring chez joella, and M is cooking the pancakes that I missed out on the week before last. I don't want to *not* think about the Hot Place but I have to separate it out. It's not my story. It fits *into* my story somewhere, my story wanders around water, and women, and the indicators of civilisation, and a lack of faith in a benign universe, but the Hot Place belongs to other people.
This mild, damp, temperate place is my place, and while it can be hard to get your clothes dry, even harder to pay your gas bill and I'm SO BORED of parsnips, I'm mighty glad that my mix and match forbears set me down here.
joella
Monday: went into work for a bit. Talked to a lot of people. Hugged some of them. Cried a bit. Came home. Dreamt about deleting things.
Tuesday: stayed at home. Thought I would go to the allotment. I got there eventually but I just sat on a plastic chair, staring at wet clay and hugging my knees. Have you got some time off? said J, from the plot over the way. I've been away, I said. I've just got back. Where have you been? he said. The Hot Place, I said. I work for NGO X. I don't really know what to do with myself. Just potter around for a while, he said, you'll feel better. And I did, for a bit.
Wednesday: went into work but in a drifty sort of way. Rearranged a few meetings, not wanting to be rude, and went to a few others. There is no money for anything at all this year, but we can't do free things because they are not in line with our expensive strategy. I'd taken a break from trying to square this circle, but it is not making any more sense than it did last month. Started to bleed, a week late. A little pressure valve in my head let off some steam. It condensed into tears during the lying down part at the end of yoga. Broke into emergency Temazepam stash.
Thursday: woke up into a softer world, then stayed in bed all day, alternately reading Ruth Rendell, tending to Sultana in Pet Society, surfing Hot Place blogs, and writing my 'learning points'. There are a lot of them. It was a good thing to do. There is a lot of blood as well. I tried to listen to my body, like they say you should. It seemed to be saying 'please drink red wine'. So I did.
Friday: Went into work, and got angry about something that on Wednesday had been down the end of a long tunnel. It's my job to get angry about these things, in a way -- and certainly if I don't, nobody else will, so it felt like a little trip back into the world I am actually supposed to be living in, rather than the one I stepped into briefly, where it is volatile and remote and normal rules do not apply. Here, there might be a point getting angry. But later, I had my first ever argument with housemate P, who is scathing about many things that I believe in, and believes in many things about which I am scathing. M intervened before it got too heated, which was sensible. We shook hands and left it for another day.
Saturday: Friendly allotment working party: lots of digging and we got the early potatoes in. Later, crumpets and a nap. Later still, pasta and vino at Fratelli's, where the lovely Ms Y reinvested the voucher she won in the animal sanctuary raffle. I can't remember what we talked about, which is exactly how I wanted it.
Today: I don't know. I'm still not feeling quite right, but I can see that at some point soon I will be. We've sorted out the shed, which is part of the official welcoming of spring chez joella, and M is cooking the pancakes that I missed out on the week before last. I don't want to *not* think about the Hot Place but I have to separate it out. It's not my story. It fits *into* my story somewhere, my story wanders around water, and women, and the indicators of civilisation, and a lack of faith in a benign universe, but the Hot Place belongs to other people.
This mild, damp, temperate place is my place, and while it can be hard to get your clothes dry, even harder to pay your gas bill and I'm SO BORED of parsnips, I'm mighty glad that my mix and match forbears set me down here.
joella
Monday, March 09, 2009
Here's one I prepared earlier
[STARTS]
The international staff who work in the NGO X Field Office live together in a ramshackle guest house. It is truly international -- at the moment there are people there from Malaysia, Chile, Kenya, Iraq, Sweden, New Zealand, the US and the UK. It is also truly ramshackle, though necessity is the mother of invention and people produce the most surprising things -- nutritional yeast for vegetarian pasta sauce, data projectors for outdoor film screenings, shisha pipes, ipod speakers, taco shells... the plumbing may leave a lot to be desired but you can have a surprisingly relaxing time on a Thursday night, considering.
I believe that diversity is good, and I love being in the middle of it, but you're never quite sure of yourself and there are occasional misunderstandings. My UNHAS flight back to the Capital City was one of them. It was made entirely clear to me (for reasons that may now be obvious) that I should return no later than Monday, but it remained entirely unclear to me who was booking it, and whether or not I needed to chase it up. It turned out that it was entirely unclear to everyone who was booking it, and that in fact it wasn't booked, but it could just as easily been entirely in hand.
So on Saturday, a rush booking was made for Tuesday. (There is a three day lead time because bookings need to be approved via official channels, and official channels take three days. You know if you have cleared the channels when your name appears on the flight manifest.) On Sunday, Monday's manifest arrived. My name was on it. And on Tuesday's. I had two flights out.
But two is a lot better than none. I condensed everything into faster typing, shorter conversations, detailed emails, and ran around looking for a pair of trousers that had mysteriously disappeared. All schedules are out the window at the moment anyway, and the only thing you can expect is the unexpected, so it actually seemed fairly unremarkable that I had my last couple of meetings at top speed while I was eating my lunch, while the car waiting to take me to the airport waited outside the gate.
'You'll see we have saved the bum beans for your last day', said one of my colleagues. She has quite a strong English accent, I wasn't sure if I'd heard her right. Sorry? I said. 'The bum beans,' she said. 'I hate the bum beans'. I looked down at my plate. I was indeed the only person in the room eating the ful -- cooked fava beans, raw onion, undersalted, not great, and with flatulence guaranteed. But if you want to be a vegetarian in the Hot Place, you take your protein where you find it.
I rolled my eyes, and said yeah, but what can you do?
The room fell quiet as we ate, and there were more of the dull, reverberating thudding noises that I'd heard first thing in the morning. I'd been ignoring it, as I'd been ignoring the late night gunfire ("usually a wedding, don't worry about it"), and the fighter jets screaming overhead, because everybody else did. The jets are so loud that you can't hear anything else over them, and they reminded me, in a weird sort of way, of the weekly fire alarm tests in the New Building, where everyone stops mid sentence for five seconds, then picks up exactly where they left off.
But this noise was different. And then I realised that it wasn't an everyday noise, and that it was getting to people. And *then* I realised that D hadn't been talking about bum beans, she'd been talking about bombings. And then I felt like an idiot. And then I left.
However, safely back in Capital City, I had to run back from dinner, slithering around on the sand in an undignified fashion as my stomach made ominous noises. I reached the guest house just in time, and as the world fell out of my bottom it occurred to me that she might have meant bum beans after all.
[ENDS]
I am back now. There's another post, but I think it may need vetting, so maybe I won't. I don't really know at the moment, and I'm not really ok, but I have Talked To Someone, and apparently if I'm still crying randomly and dreaming about deleting files in five days time, then I might have a problem, but until then, it's all to be expected. In the meantime I am drinking red wine, lying under a blanket, listening to 80s tag last.fm and trying not to think about anything very much.
joella
The international staff who work in the NGO X Field Office live together in a ramshackle guest house. It is truly international -- at the moment there are people there from Malaysia, Chile, Kenya, Iraq, Sweden, New Zealand, the US and the UK. It is also truly ramshackle, though necessity is the mother of invention and people produce the most surprising things -- nutritional yeast for vegetarian pasta sauce, data projectors for outdoor film screenings, shisha pipes, ipod speakers, taco shells... the plumbing may leave a lot to be desired but you can have a surprisingly relaxing time on a Thursday night, considering.
I believe that diversity is good, and I love being in the middle of it, but you're never quite sure of yourself and there are occasional misunderstandings. My UNHAS flight back to the Capital City was one of them. It was made entirely clear to me (for reasons that may now be obvious) that I should return no later than Monday, but it remained entirely unclear to me who was booking it, and whether or not I needed to chase it up. It turned out that it was entirely unclear to everyone who was booking it, and that in fact it wasn't booked, but it could just as easily been entirely in hand.
So on Saturday, a rush booking was made for Tuesday. (There is a three day lead time because bookings need to be approved via official channels, and official channels take three days. You know if you have cleared the channels when your name appears on the flight manifest.) On Sunday, Monday's manifest arrived. My name was on it. And on Tuesday's. I had two flights out.
But two is a lot better than none. I condensed everything into faster typing, shorter conversations, detailed emails, and ran around looking for a pair of trousers that had mysteriously disappeared. All schedules are out the window at the moment anyway, and the only thing you can expect is the unexpected, so it actually seemed fairly unremarkable that I had my last couple of meetings at top speed while I was eating my lunch, while the car waiting to take me to the airport waited outside the gate.
'You'll see we have saved the bum beans for your last day', said one of my colleagues. She has quite a strong English accent, I wasn't sure if I'd heard her right. Sorry? I said. 'The bum beans,' she said. 'I hate the bum beans'. I looked down at my plate. I was indeed the only person in the room eating the ful -- cooked fava beans, raw onion, undersalted, not great, and with flatulence guaranteed. But if you want to be a vegetarian in the Hot Place, you take your protein where you find it.
I rolled my eyes, and said yeah, but what can you do?
The room fell quiet as we ate, and there were more of the dull, reverberating thudding noises that I'd heard first thing in the morning. I'd been ignoring it, as I'd been ignoring the late night gunfire ("usually a wedding, don't worry about it"), and the fighter jets screaming overhead, because everybody else did. The jets are so loud that you can't hear anything else over them, and they reminded me, in a weird sort of way, of the weekly fire alarm tests in the New Building, where everyone stops mid sentence for five seconds, then picks up exactly where they left off.
But this noise was different. And then I realised that it wasn't an everyday noise, and that it was getting to people. And *then* I realised that D hadn't been talking about bum beans, she'd been talking about bombings. And then I felt like an idiot. And then I left.
However, safely back in Capital City, I had to run back from dinner, slithering around on the sand in an undignified fashion as my stomach made ominous noises. I reached the guest house just in time, and as the world fell out of my bottom it occurred to me that she might have meant bum beans after all.
[ENDS]
I am back now. There's another post, but I think it may need vetting, so maybe I won't. I don't really know at the moment, and I'm not really ok, but I have Talked To Someone, and apparently if I'm still crying randomly and dreaming about deleting files in five days time, then I might have a problem, but until then, it's all to be expected. In the meantime I am drinking red wine, lying under a blanket, listening to 80s tag last.fm and trying not to think about anything very much.
joella
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