Chaos theory

A few weeks ago, a friend of mine (who adamantly opposed my leaving New York/moving to England) left a poignant message on my Facebook page:

"Don't forget, lovie: wherever you go, there you are. Watch and listen closely for any repetitive speech or behaviour or situation to make sure that all the frustrations you left behind (and behind and behind) are truly location-specific detritus and not stuff you're carrying around with you."

On days like today, I wonder if he’s right. I am just shy of the “2 months in” point, and I have fallen into chaos. I've mentioned the broken tooth – while eating popcorn of all things! – and “the cold,” and the resulting desire for Tylenol. Well, now, all hell has broken loose! 

The cold, turned into a cough, and last night the cough triggered what felt like the onset of an asthma attack – I've had one of these before, not something I’d like to repeat – the D.E.B. dutifully rushed me to Warwick Hospital, where I was seen—within half an hour I might add—by the “Out of Hours G.P. (General Practitioner)” at the Extended Hours Service Centre. No camping out in a messy, noisy, germ-riddled Emergency Room here, thank you very much.  The doctor was very helpful, patient, and cute. But I digress.

It turns out that:

a.) my allergies have gone hay-wire, triggering my asthma, which has been relatively dormant while I was living in New York; 

b.) the “ringing in my ears” is the result of a ruptured ear drum (!?!), caused by an ear infection I didn’t realize I'd had,

and,

c.) I have a cold. 

Dare I ask the heavens, “What else?”

So, here I lie, on a beautiful, Thursday morning, in bed. When I could/should be up and out in my new world: morning prayer at St. Peter’s, walking Lucy across the Barford playing field, taking my body for my 5K loop to Sherbourne and back, &etc.

And of course, our bodies pick the worse possible timing when it comes to being ill. I have a long week ahead. Tonight, the D.E.B. and I have tickets to see David Tennant (the current Dr. Who) in Love’s Labours Lost at the RSC. These tickets are GOLD DUST! We have fabulous seats—thanks to my connections at the Shakespeare Trust—and there I shall be, hacking away, trying not to bring up a lung in the front row. Brilliant.

Today is also the day when I should be making an appearance at The Shakespeare Institute, at the weekly “Thursday Seminar,” a.k.a. weekly “Shakespeare Schmooze Fest.” Tomorrow night, the D.E.B. and I are carousing with friends at a culinary event, “Claridge’s Night,” at Stratford College. What a joy my fellow diners will have with me sputtering over their foie gras.

Festivities continue through the weekend. Sunday, D.E.B. is performing at a charity event in Warwick (He is a darling, truly.) and in the evening we are going to see American folk diva, Diane Ponzio in concert in Stratford.

I am grateful to have such an active and full social life. And I am even more grateful that the D.E.B. has friends that are actually, really wonderful, and whom I actually, really, honestly like and enjoy!

My stress and angst are down to my own poor planning. I am scheduled to give two, separate, Shakespeare lectures in Stratford next week on Tuesday and Thursday. I have known about both of them for quite some time. Am I prepared? Am I ready?       

I think the word Gordon Ramsay uses is “shambolic.” If “procrastination” were a country, I would be its Queen. My upcoming lecture at The Shakespeare Institute next week is only the most significant lecture of my academic career. Why not wait until the week before to flip out, and panic about it? Oh, yeah. And then, get sick.

Perhaps, some things don’t change, no matter where you are.

 

 

In the Kitchen

There is something about having a man cook for you.

I don't mean when a man does the "Come-over-next-Thursday-I'll-make-dinner" sort of cooking. I mean, the spur of the moment, extemporaneous, "I'll-do-a-little-something-for-us-shall-I?"  sort of cooking. 

Believe me, I have far better people to quote than Paris Hilton, but, as she is wont to say, "That's hot!" 

The D.E.B. took over the kitchen today, and I found myself feeling territorial and turned on, all at the same time. Unfortunately, territorial had the edge, and I had to resist the urge to correct or advise ("That flame's up awful high, don't cha think?" or "Are you really going to out those two ingredients together...in the same dish?") But, all I had to do was remind myself that this was meant to be a TREAT and that I am meant to enjoy it, and not use this occasion as a Gordon Ramsay "teachable moment." 

Watching the D.E.B. cook is incredibly sexy, and makes me want to have his child. Right now. 

In the Land of Nigella...

I was never a "Domestic Diva" but always wanted, secretly or not so secretly, to be one. This was an impossible feat to pull off in my shoe-box Manhattan apartment. My kitchen in New York was so small that two people could not stand together in it comfortably, nor was it possible to open the stove door and the refrigerator door at the same time. While my new English kitchen does present its own unique challenges, I have been granted to the gift of space: room in which to actually cook, move and navigate; and surfaces, surfaces, surfaces, at last. So now, with the time and space within which to channel my "inner Martha," I could not wait, as the locals say, to get "stuck in."

British food. A comedian once made the joke that a "British cookbook" should be merely "a pamphlet, that says 'See other countries'." Funny. But true? I don't think so. I have always enjoyed British food -- beyond my favorite Fish'n'chips. British food is the ultimate comfort food. In every British kitchen, something is undoubtedly being roasted to perfection in the "cooker," and thankfully for me there is sure to be a potato involved in one way or another.

What I noticed from watching and reading a small cross-section of Nigella Lawson, Gordon Ramsay, Jamie Oliver and the like, is that key factors in British cooking are: freshness and flavo(u)r. Gordon stresses simplicity, which works for me. Keep it simple. Quality, fresh food, cooked simply. What a way to seduce the senses.

Speaking of culinary seductions ... I recall one of my many, recent, transatlantic jaunts in the past year to visit my Darling English Boy, wherein I was treated to an exquisite culinary evening at Stratford-upon-Avon College. The Darling English Boy has a dear friend who is an exceptional chef who heads the culinary program at Stratford College, and every year they provide the students with the ultimate challenge of presenting a seven course meal to invited guests and local glitterati. Staff members from the Ritz Hotel in London are brought in and added to the mix. The evening was so divine that I wrote a short sketch about it three months later for an in-class Creative Writing assignment:

Dinner at Stratford College. Final Exam dinner for culinary students. Late May 2008. Wore my favorite "19th C-esque, travel suit". Champagne and canapes to start. Seven course meal, a different wine with each course. Favorite course: Lobster tail with a green pea puree, dressed in caviar. Delicate, cold, white and pinkish meat lounging in a pool of green, wearing tiny, glistening, black pearls. Green pea puree base. Soooo lovely. Fresh, spring peas pureed. They actually taste like Spring. Earthy. Fresh. New. I want to learn to make pea soup just to capture this taste forever.

I recently discovered the BBC's wonderful Foodie website: www.bbcgoodfood.com 

In addition to recipes and cooking tips, the site also has an excellent features section dedicated to "Seasonal and Local Food". Who knew that tomatoes, blackberries, lobster, plums, cauliflowers, aubergines, goose, garlic are all considered at their peak in Britain in September? The website also provides information, based on postcode, of nearby suppliers of fresh, organic food. It seems that the "Slow Food" movement has truly taken root quite firmly in England. I noticed an example of this when my friend Karen had me round for lunch last week. Karen -- who I have known for ages, from when I was living here before as a student -- is an excellent and fastidious cook. She prepared the most gorgeous lunch, which she said she had started cooking at 9 AM. We sat down for lunch at nearly 2 PM...Since moving here, I am learning the importance of slow downing, generally, not just food-wise. But food is a good place to start. 

So far I have tried my hand at such traditional English favorites as Fish Pie and Rhubarb Crumble, and think I've done pretty well. Last night, after what I thought was a failed, and over-cooked attempt at "Glazed Baked Gammon," D.E.B. gave me his mum's favo(u)rite cookbook. I wanted to cry. The book is Marguerite Patten's Perfect Cooking (1972), and throughout its well-worn and much-loved pages, D.E.B.'s mother, Elsie, has made copious notes, and added her own comments, critiques and thoughts to the pages. As I read and touched the pages Elsie had, I felt a connection with her. A tangible link to the beautiful woman I sincerely regret I will never know. 

Food. So much more than just the stuff that keeps our bodies going.
Facing my biggest cooking challenge this weekend: Sunday Lunch. The quintessential British meal: Roast Beef, Yorkshire puddings, roasted potatoes & veg and gravy.
Thankfully, I've got Nigella and Elsie in my corner.