FENNEL!

Well, I found fennel, finally. I also found chestnut paste.

I decided to make this chestnut mousse cake thing that I saw being made on television. Why, oh why didn't it occur to me that this was a *British* television program?

Anyway, the recipe called for chestnut paste, and a base that was kind of fruitcakey. Obviously, I wasn't going to just accept a recipe that called for fruitcake, so I bought chestnuts, roasted them, made sort of florentine cookies out of them, crushed those, drizzled chocolate over them, and this was my crust.

I guess I should take a step back and admit that I had never actually eaten a chestnut before, nor had I roasted them. This seems like a fairly straightforward process. You cut a slit in the chestnuts, put them in the oven, and then eventually you peel them.

I don't understand the appeal. It takes forever to peel these things, and then they're just basically rubbery and have very little flavor. More like a bean than a nut, really. It was an awful lot of effort for something that was just kind of bland.

So I opened the can of chestnut paste and discovered that chestnut paste smells and looks a bit like refried beans. I then tasted it. It turns out that it tastes surprisingly similar to refried beans as well. I had just purchased all of the ingredients to make a mousse that included a half can of refried beans.

I figure, heck, mixing this with mascarpone and whipped cream, well, you could mix just about anything with those two things and come up with something fantastic, right?

This was perhaps the most boring mousse I had ever tasted. No, it was by far the most boring mousse I had ever tasted. I realized while typing that sentence that previously I didn't think that something called "mousse" *could* be described as boring, er, unless you're talking about a hairstyling product.

Anyway, it was bland.

So I developed this strategy, or maybe even a life philosophy. I'm not sure. But I decided that if something is that bland, adding rum surely must help. Which is what I did. And I am pleased to report that it does, in fact, work. However, I do not see a need to make this chestnut stuff again. If I were to melt a bit of chocolate and use that instead of the half-can of refried beans, I wouldn't have needed to add the rum to make it entertaining. All in all, I see no compelling reason to avoid the use of chocolate.

Ooo, that's two life philosophies. To wit: 1. If it's bland, add rum. 2. There is no compelling reason to avoid the use of chocolate.

I have so much to thank the British for.

All right, so tonight I'm meeting up with Laurence, and we're going to dinner with some friends. This will be quite a good deal of fun, I am sure! These are the friends I met the night I met Laurence. I don't know how many people are going to be there, but there's just something nice about my first dinner party with friends I met after moving here.

Oh, dear. She's British. And cooking.

By the way, everyone who has tasted things like the cookies I've baked has gone on and on about how I should go into business cooking. Generally, I feel like that sort of thing is said to be polite. But now I know that I am a better cook than at least one of the TV chefs here. This seems impossible.

How much imagination can it take to dip a shortbread cookie into chocolate? Or figure out that a dessert recipe that calls for half a can of refried beans is probably worth adjusting?

Are these actually intelligent, educated people?

All right, I'll stop ranting now. It's about time to meet up with Laurence anyway.

VISUALISE FENNEL

By the way, Laurence and I are thinking about throwing a party.

The problem is that I live waaaay far out, and the trains stop running at midnight, so it would be kind of difficult to have it at my place. Yes, I know, the housemate would have a fit, but I don't care. He's kept me up every night this week, in spite of interviews. He can deal. I pay rent, I can have a party. And Laurence's place is really tiny. So we're not sure. But we might throw one, mainly so that I can have a good excuse to bake cookies and he can have a good excuse to drink too much and make passes at my friends.

It's very weird living in a city where nobody cooks. I watch television, so I know that people like Jamie Oliver can actually make palatable food, but where do they buy their ingredients? Do you know, in addition to my previous "I CANNOT FIND VANILLA" tragedy, I have found it nearly impossible to come by basic spices. For example, this week, fennel has become the Holy Grail of the pantry.

I did realize why it is that I cannot stand to cook or eat with Peter in the house. It's because he's so invasive when I do it. He stands over me and watches what I cook, asks what I'm making, and clearly wants me to share. It feels sort of like having a garage sale in San Francisco and having all of the homeless people keep coming over and picking through everything and asking if you're going to leave everything that doesn't sell. You feel like there are vultures or something.

And most of the time, I'm just making something to be not hungry, as opposed to making some fantastic meal. I wouldn't make a fantastic meal in front of him anyway, because then he would covet. But if I'm just making rice and putting a tablespoon of curry paste on it for my dinner, I don't want him watching me. It's a very bizarre feeling.

The Office Christmas Party phenomenon over here is really weird. I mean, it's this kind of universal thing, where all of these uptight Brits get madly drunk every year at the Christmas party, and snog in the filing cabinets. I mean, it's this really serious thing--everyone talks about it. Peter was telling me that in his office, the women scope out ahead of time who they're planning on attacking.

He was saying that he's the guy in the office--and every office has one, although I don't think Peter knows this--that always complains about the party, and says that he wishes they would give him the £30 bonus or whatever instead of spending it on this party. And he boycotts it.

So as I was talking to him, he started complaining about the fact that nobody in his office fancies him. It soon became clear that the *real* reason he doesn't go to the party is that he has this vision of everyone pairing off and snogging and him not getting any.

Again, hilarious!

There is some kind of a fire at one of the train stations, which is affecting my commute. Just incidentally. I guess the train station itself isn't on fire, but there's so much smoke that they are worried about people's health.

There's also this really disturbing news story today about this little girl who was tortured to death by her parents. The social services people didn't save her, because they quit going to her house because they were afraid of her parents. I find this appalling. I mean, geez, if you're afraid of her parents, do you think, oh, I don't know, just maybe, their daughter might be in danger from them as well?

Granted, social work is a difficult field, I think. There are instances of people getting involved with parents who aren't actually bad to their kids. I mean, whether or not I agree with spanking, I think there's a definite difference between spanking a child and beating them, and I think it's sad that someone who spanks a child has to worry about maybe having the kid taken away from them. But, geez. That poor little girl.

Well, I'm off to go frolic in the acres and acres of loo rolls in my bathroom. Don't get into any trouble while I'm gone.

THE WAR OF THE LOO ROLLS

So anyway, I've actually been the one to purchase toilet tissue, at least last time, if not the time before as well. Not a really huge deal. But we were getting low in the bathroom, and not that this matters too terribly much, but Peter had a houseguest for a while. So I just figured it was his turn to buy.

It soon became evident that he was actively not buying the toilet paper. That is to say, there was one roll left, and he was going shopping every day, and coming home without toilet paper. I was wondering how long he would do this.

Finally yesterday we walked to the tube station at the same time, and he said, "Oh, would you mind doing me a favor today? I'll be busy all day, and I was wondering if you would buy loo rolls."

I find this hilarious.

Anyway.

You know, I know that my last post was full of me saying I wanted things, but I guess...I don't know, I feel like I don't really want anything. I mean, I look at sort of normal life in the way I look at winning the lottery. There were times when I was younger when I would sit back and think of all of the things I'd do if I ever suddenly won a few million dollars. I know a lot of poor people--and to be honest, this includes myself--who at some point had almost desperate wishes for that sort of thing. Oh, to only be out of this poverty, and can you imagine? I'd be able to go anywhere and do anything, and I'd be able to help other people, and I'd have a nice car and I'd open a charity. Sort of half wanting nice things for yourself, but also thinking that if you had all of those things, you'd have enough to make at least one other person's dreams come true as well.

It's probably hard for someone who has never been poor to really understand what life has been like for someone who has. I'm not really complaining about this, because I don't feel particularly sad or persecuted over it at the moment. There are just some realities that people who have never been in the position I'm the most used to don't really know about.

Some of it is...well, the first time you get a job, for example. If you come from a poor background, you don't have an outfit to interview in. You manage to scrape something together, and then if you get the job, you try to figure out how you're going to fake it in the clothing department until you earn enough to buy a couple of outfits. You don't have this basic wardrobe that your parents provided for you growing up. You adapt to the fact that people think you have bad taste in clothing. It doesn't matter if it's ugly, as long as it's appropriate. So you think I have bad taste. Hey, I'm wearing work-type trousers even if they're ugly, unfashionable, and saggy. You just have to accept that kind of...lack of pride, or whatever you'd call it.

Matthew once told me that one of the reasons he goes on living is that there's always something wonderful around the corner. Small things, like the new Prince album coming out, or going to see David Bowie. When you're accustomed to poverty, you can't allow yourself to listen to music too often, because if you do, you might want something. You might start dreaming about getting that new album. There are little, kind of silly things, that never really happen. I really wanted to see About a Boy. I really wanted to see Brian Wilson.

But I've kind of adjusted again, remembered that this is the kind of life I'm used to.

A year ago, it seemed inconceivable to me that someone with the experience I have on my resume would be unable to find work, especially since I have good references and am actually quite talented and tend to be liked by interviewers. But I know that staying in London, getting a job here, getting my own apartment, well, it's all starting to sound like that lottery dream. In a way I really want a new pair of shoes, and I really want to see the new Lord of the Rings movie, but in another way they just seem like they're things I want like I wanted to be a doctor and I wanted to travel all over the world and I wanted to open a homeless shelter and I wanted someday to own a Jaguar.

But I'm warm and I'm safe, and I'm relatively healthy, although admittedly this flu/cold/bubonic plague is getting old. And all right, I was eating rice for a while, but Michael sent me some money, and the silly thing is that what I really want to do with it is get Christmas presents for other people and keep eating rice myself, and that's probably what I'm going to do. Because it turns out that shoes and movies don't really make me happy.

THE WHEELS OF INDUSTRY TURN SLOWLY

I suppose that's normal this time of year. It's kind of funny, since I had figured that I'd probably not find work during this season anyway, but I've gotten so much positive feedback that now all of a sudden I want a job and I want it now, please. I want my own flat. I want my own paycheck.

I want shoes.

All right, sort of amusing story. Maybe not amusing. I found it entertaining, though.

I've been conscious of the fact that Matthew is very British, and so I haven't been wearing my normal clothes around him, but generally go with "subdued." So yesterday, I talked to him on the phone about picking up something from him a few hours later, and midway through the conversation realized that I was wearing this zebra-striped coat that he's never seen because I thought it would send him into shock. So I said something about, "Uh, I wasn't really planning on this, so please be prepared for the fact that I'm wearing weird clothes."

Anyway, so we met up, and the first thing he said was, "That's a great jacket! Where did you get it? Have you had it for long? Is it new? That's a great jacket!" or something along those lines. Then I was stuck trying to explain why it is that I wear this jacket all the time, just not around him. I think there's a lesson to be learned in here somewhere.

So I was telling him about how amusing I find it that one can buy "free range eggs" here in the stores. Not "eggs from free-range chickens," but "free range eggs." And when I see this, I have visions of eggs frolicking in green fields under sunny skies.

So he brought up the interesting point that perhaps the chickens were *not* free-range, and just the eggs were. That perhaps there was a little chute in the chicken cages, and when one laid an egg, it would go rolling out to the green pastures while the chicken stayed inside with nowhere to sit. This led to a discussion about whether or not the eggs were considered "free range" if, say, the door to the chicken coop was open and the eggs *could* come and go as they pleased, but just chose not to.

All right, so maybe these things are not funny.

So anyway, I went in this morning to discuss project specs with this company who is *considering* hiring me for contract work. It's very annoying at this point, that everyone I talk to about work "will get back to me" on and on and on. I really do think it's the time of year. It's Christmas-y, and people are just not focused on things like hiring, which is completely understandable. Personally, I'd rather be running around making cookies and shopping and stuff. But still, the idea that I went in to discuss project specs, and they're going to interview someone else for this contract work as well, and they're going to get back to me this afternoon...it's just annoying.

Grr.

Peter was especially annoying. I mean, when I told him that I needed to get up to go to this meeting, he started grumbling about trying to arrange bathroom times in the morning. Finally I said, "Look, Peter, I just need fifteen minutes in the bathroom prior to 8:00. Tell me when would be convenient for you, and I'll do it then." He said, "Well, how about I make sure it's free by quarter to eight, then?" I said all right.

So then he stayed up until 1:00, watching television so loudly that I could actually make out all of the words in my room with the door closed.

This morning, he got up at 6:45 and filled the bathtub. Then he went downstairs and started banging around. At 7:30, I finally wandered downstairs to try to figure out if he was actually going to, you know, get *in* the bathtub at some point, since an empty yet unusable bathroom seems kind of pointless to me.

Around 7:45, he looked at me and said, "I'll just go up and get into the bathroom now, is that what you wanted?" I really, really wanted to say, "No, I was actually hoping that you'd just leave the bathtub full for another three hours or so," but I didn't. So he went upstairs, and I assumed he went into the bathroom, but then I finally heard him actually get in there at about 7:55. I swear, next time I will follow him upstairs and make sure he gets in there.

All right, this sort of story is becoming tiresome.

There's a typo on these ads for Virgin Megastores DVD sales that advertises a sale price on "The Outlaw Josey Walesa." Something about the Solidarity movement at the end of the Civil War, if I'm not mistaken.

I'm so pathetic when it comes to this sort of Jewish Mother instinct. I mean, I don't want kids, although I'm not quite as violent about that since I met Corbin who is, I believe I have mentioned, possibly the Cutest Baby Ever. The only reason I say "possibly" is that, well, Charity was kind of the Cutest Baby Ever, but she's in her twenties now, but I still kind of feel that way. So I guess what I'm saying here is that there's some kind of tie for the Cutest Baby Ever title.

Mind you, not that it is all that difficult to win the contest, since most babies are not, in fact, cute. They're more like little shriveled raisin things with poor motor control and an almost complete lack of social skills.

But I digress.

But it's about this cooking thing. Matthew has to work on Christmas Eve, Christmas, and Boxing Day nights. And he was talking about the fact that you can't actually do any shopping on those days or eat out anywhere (the entire country shuts down, which is actually a good thing I think, since I think everyone should get to have a proper Christmas), and MTV does actually provide Christmas dinner then, but they sort of forget that there's a night shift, so by the time they arrive for work, all of the food is gone.

So all I can think about is how I really want to make some kind of Christmas dinner for him and his coworkers, but then, see, one of the things that shuts down is public transport, so there's no way I could actually deliver this stuff to them on Christmas Night, but then at the same time, it wouldn't be quite the same if I gave it to him, say, two days early and told him to just reheat it or whatever.

But he was saying that he always sort of wishes that he could just sit around and eat and watch rubbish television on Christmas, and so since he does work at MTV and watching rubbish television is exactly what he'd be doing, I just wish I could figure out a way to get him the food part, because, well, cooking is one of the few things that I do quite well, and there is the Jewish Mother instinct to see a problem and want to shove a sandwich at it.

It's sick, really, the things I've been coming up with. I mean, a taxi to and from Gipsy Hill would be difficult to get, and would probably end up costing a good $175 round trip. For that price, I could probably just rent a hotel room up around where he works, but then, would they actually have a kitchen? Or would I have to bring something cold? I mean, I suppose I could just make things cold, but it's not the same as having a nice, hot turkey or roast or whatever. You see? This is the sort of thinking I've been doing FOR DAYS. Maybe even weeks. Totally out of control.

So anyway, last night I made some lemon frosting because, well, I was thinking that shortbread cookies would probably taste yummy with some lemony frosting on them, so I made the frosting last night and figured I'd make some shortbread cookies today and test out the theory. Peter was, of course, intrigued by what I was cooking, and has requested a cookie or two. Sort of weird because I'm used to testing things out myself before subjecting too many others to them. Michael is good for guinea piggery when it comes to this sort of thing, because if something turns out a little strange, he realizes that you're just testing things out. It's very rare that something I make turns out to be a complete waste--usually it's just that they aren't phenomenally exciting. There was this one time when a recipe I was trying to invent for a raspberry cheesecake went awry and I ended up with something that resembled a vat of very hot raspberry yogurt, but we just don't need to talk about that right now.

I don't know why, but for some reason I don't want Peter to know that I can cook.

Anyway, I think I'm going to bag job hunting for today, and go make shortbread cookies because that's what I want to do. And it's Christmas, so I'm allowed.