SIGN WITH AN E

I dreamt of great irritation because someone had stepped on and broken my sunglasses. As I was picking up the pieces I realised my actual glasses were lying there broken too. The ones I need to see with. I started getting desperate because I don’t have a second pair and how would I drive home? How would I pay for new ones?
Then it occurred to me that I could actually see. I don’t wear contact lenses anymore but someone must have slipped a pair on – or in – without my noticing. Or maybe I didn’t need the glasses anymore? Perhaps, indeed, the god of eyes had been kind to me and restored perfect sight.

OK, the part about the god didn’t really occur to me in the dream, but the rest did and it was all pretty confusing and comforting at the same time. Been thinking about the Romans and their gods though (as one would, after watching 8 hours of Rome in one day…). I remember being fascinated by how mundane Greek and Roman “religion” seemed when I was studying Classics as an an undergraduate. Gods for doorways, gods for hearths.

Mundane in a good way. In a functional way, and of course the gods then had the function that shrinks and happy-pills have these days: somewhere to turn when things go pearshaped. And who knows, they may have been more effective. When Caesar dumps his mistress Servilia she invokes some deities (I only recognised Nemesis, goddess of divine retribution; the others are presumably equally useful) and curses her lover:

“By the spirits of my ancestors, I curse Gaius Julius Caesar. Let his penis wither; let his bones crack; let him see his legions drown in their own blood. Gods of the inferno I offer to you his limbs, his head, his mouth, his breath, his speech, his hands, his liver, his heart, his stomach. Gods of the inferno, let me see him suffer deeply, and I will rejoice and sacrifice to you.”

It’s a brilliant scene, full of hate and spite as she spits the words out while stabbing and scraping a thin sheet of lead. The curse is now carved into the lead, which is rolled up and, in the dark of night, deposited in a crack in the wall of Caesar’s palace.

After that, things are in the hands of the gods, and Servilia can get on with her life. Forget about three years of psychotherapy.

It turns out that there are plenty of eye gods: in China, Ming Shang, Chu Ying and Yanguang Pusa (healing and eyes); the Greek Ophthamitis; the Roman Oculata (good name, also healing and eyes) and Lucina (light and eyesight). The latter is closer to home than I would have thought. Apparently she was converted to St. Lucy, the candle-bearer, by the Catholics and is to this day celebrated in the Swedish Lucia festival (13 December) where girls dress in white and wear crowns of candles.

Confession: I have been a Lucia girl.

there lived a little pig. She did not have a very long or eventful life, but many things happened after she died. Some of her became bacon, chops, and ribs which were enjoyed by people who could afford them. Those who could afford less ate her trotters and tail, and a lucky dog got to chew on her dried ears. Her belly was slow cooked by a gourmet chef and served with hasselback potatoes and a cranberry jus. When what was left of her bones had been put aside for gelatine, the rest went into a huge vat, got churned up and became, variously, boerewors, polony and salami.

Some of the salami from that little pig ended up in my refrigerator and I was happy to find it there yesterday after a glass or three of cold white wine in the middle of the city. Here’s what I did: chopped it up into little pieces (faux lardons, I suppose), into a hot pan with chopped onion and a good handful of fresh sage. When things started hotting up and smelling good I threw in a couple of halved yellow cherry tomatoes, a decent glug of vermouth and when that was bubbling and boiling I seasoned with salt and pepper, gave it a stir and turned the heat way down.

In the meantime I was cooking spaghetti and by the time that was done (9 minutes), the sauce was ready and I turned it off (adding a little blob of butter for glaze), drained the pasta, put the two together, added a bit more sage and let that rest while I loaded a dvd. Final step: into a bowl, onto a tray, sprinkle of parmesan (the packet stuff), and pasta presta. Including chopping time, I estimate that took under fifteen minutes. As they say at elBulli, fast good. Thanks to the pig.

I finished that off with a chocolate I had bought for a friend and then I fell promptly asleep.

The End.

So, in response to my previous post, Mr. 302 said the “best [he] could come up with was Buck Fizz: champagne and orange juice”. Well I don’t know about your fridge but any day that that’s the best mine can offer is a good one.

Speaking of champagne, and dinner with friends, I had the privilege of being invited round to partake in a special kind of bubbly: it was a Nitida Shiraz champagne. Yup. Red bubbly. It was actually lovely.

The problem with red wine in the summer is the heat, so you end up drinking reds that work well chilled, like Sangiovese or Carignan. Being light reds, they like the fridge, but they still have that “red” edge, slight tannic bitterness that in the end make whites preferable.

The bubble element takes that away and makes this the perfect wine to share with friends on a Sunday evening. The dinner that followed complimented the occasion beautifully: gnocchi with home-made pesto and a salad of rocket, basil, feta, olives and tomato. All the herbs had been picked from the garden during the first glass of bubbly. Talk about organic. And clean, homemade food with company to match.

It has been an unexpectedly lovely conclusion to a dire few days where friends have been good to have.

Gnarls Barkley:
I remember when, I remember when I lost my mind
there was something so pleasant about that place
Even your emotions have an echo
and so much space

…

hahaha bless your soul
you really think you’re in control

Gnarls is great to funk up any time. But it is not great to lose your mind. It just happened to a friend and it has been the most twisting experience to see someone you know disappear, even if for a few hours. We must guard our saneness.

Look, so I made the duck confit that’s been sitting in my cupboard for almost a year now. (And someone asked me, when I told her, “do you mean the one that’s been in your cupboard for 10 years or so?” “No”, I answered, truthfully, “only a year. But it is in a can; that stuff lasts forever.”) Well I don’t know if forever is the entire truth, but it was certainly a fine thing when it hit the table this Saturday evening.

I admit I botched up the appearance somewhat (and dissenters of my cooking methods will argue that I didn’t use enough fat for the frying), but I think you can see that the result – however “messy” – was a mass of meat that was falling off the bone and tenderised by its long sleep in its own fat. It was quite splendid, and moreover kept up its act for sandwiches the next day.

Since then and now I have experienced something of a nostalgia. When things are not as they seem or how you would want them to be, I suppose it is natural to visit other pastures (and how the cliches flow at the slightest hint of morbidity!). And so it occurred to me that some three years ago I was living in Southeast Asia (Tainan City, Taiwan) for six months, and I had a view from a 10th storey apartment that looked like this:

It was an odd and solitary six months. But it was time well spent, and I forget, too often, to marvel at how I coped in such a foreign place.

The “nostalgia” bit should perhaps be a reminder that I need not marvel at “coping”. But the truth is that we get so locked into whatever life we’re leading at the moment that anything else seems inconceivable. So I think it is good to stop, now and then, and see yourself as the different person that you were. And remember that life goes on, no matter how different. And, quite frankly, often completely regardless of you and your “crises” of the day.

Obesity? Poverty? HIV? I think not. The biggest disservice that faces us now is self-indulgence.

comes greatness.

Take:
1 part Augusto Herb Liqueur
1/2 part Dry Vermouth
squeeze of lemon
dash of Angostura bitters
a couple of ice cubes
fill up with sparkling water (soda water could do)

and you have a surprisingly delicious and refreshing end to a long summer Wednesday (especially when the kitchen offers no better alternatives).

I think I’ll call it Debored’s Vice.