Black Tucker boots

I bought these boots from Freeman, Hardy and Willis in Billingham town center. Tucker boots, as we called them. They were on the sale rack; cost me £5. It was 1985.



They have been to London, Luxembourg and Leeds (not necessarily in that order).

They went to a Depeche Mode concert at Whitley Bay Ice Rink in 1988, where the audience stood on temporary plywood flooring atop the ice, and dancing was pivotal to preventing frostbite.

They once became completely covered in thick mud during an ill-advised shortcut through a construction site, and recovered only after many, many hours of careful work with a soft brush.

Amazingly, they're still wearable. Sure, they're a little worn and scuffed, and the suede is pulling away from the heel in a couple of places. But the soles are still sturdy and even, despite many hours of pavement pounding, dancing, sightseeing and lounging.

I've disposed of less-perfect shoes. I've given many pairs to the Salvation Army with hardly a scratch. But these I keep, in part because they remind of being 16 years old, wandering around Billingham with just enough pocket money for a new pair of boots.

"The next piece is dedicated to cabbage ..."

This video about the Vienna Vegetable Orchestra puts me in an uncomfortable position.

I want to ridicule them. I really do.

But they actually produce some very cool sounds (check out the eggplant during soundcheck). So even though they all dress--and sound--like Dieter, they make me want to start carving carrot flutes and fashioning leek guitars.

Their website has all the deets.

Oh man--I was just about to make some comment about their phat beets.

Damn them.

Welcome! (Are you in the right place?)

Blogging is a little like throwing a house party: you encounter a lot of people you know, but it's interesting to find out who else has wandered in on a whim.

That's one reason I like checking my StatCounter traffic, especially the map, which provides a visual snapshot of locations of recent visitors:



It makes me want to do shoutouts: Wie geht's, Wien? ¿Que tal, Madrid? Hvordan har du det, Oslo?

But my favorite statistic is Recent Visitor Activity, which lists, among other things, the keyword phrases that led people to my door.

Often, I understand how they found the blog.

coney island sideshow donny vomit
mohujos restaurant billingham mexican
batter blaster
parmo championship

Sometimes, I suspect I wasn't what they were looking for.

brickwork look on buttercream
cuisinart smooth operator blender viewers comments
moroccan christmas
old law said to ban U f o from Chateauneuf-du-Pape
how long shall i leave a beshan turmeric curd and lemon juice face mask on for

And occasionally ... well, frankly, I don't know what they wanted or how on earth they found me.

pigalle street paris nightclub party photo
unreal omen melons

I just hope they found their answers somewhere.

Bad citizen! Part Two

Last night, while celebrating the end of Turkey Day with friends over homemade butternut squash pie and spiced apple cocktails, someone pointed out that this was my first Thanksgiving as an American citizen.

And how had I commemorated the event?

I watched ten minutes of the Macy's parade and made snarky comments throughout--apart from the part where I immediately recognized that the giant silver bunny balloon was designed by Jeff Koons.

I walked (walked!) to Thanksgiving lunch.

Which was in a French (French!) restaurant.

And then I walked home.

I did not watch football.

I did not spend time with relatives.

I did not make plans to rise at 4 o'clock this morning so I could start my Christmas shopping.

I am such a bad citizen.

Happy happy Turkey Day ...

A question I'm often asked at this time of year: "Do you celebrate Thanksgiving?"

Well, duh.

I understand the assumption that because I'm not from around these here parts, and didn't grow up with the tradition, I may not embrace the full meaning of the holiday.

But come on--it's all about food. How could I not celebrate?

In the past, our Thanksgiving has involved getting together with friends and turkey and a multitude of side dishes and eating until coma sets in. Last year was a prime example.

But this time, as we hadn't made plans to get together with others, and as I had to be back at work on Friday, we decided to take the easy way out and made reservations at Sandrine's in Harvard Square.



I was slightly reticent, because even though I love the food at Sandrine's (Alsatian, so lots of pork and sauerkraut and incredible Flammkueche), the clientele skews toward hard-of-hearing Harvard alums and their entitled families, meaning there's a good chance of being wedged between parties of yelling yahoos.

Today, however, we were in luck. The place was busy but not heaving, and apart from the family behind us (whose black-turtle-necked patriarch, when not conversing with his disinterested offspring in clumsy French, felt it necessary to explain his 12-year-old daughter's vegetarian stance to the waiter), we had a peaceful meal.

Ah, yes, the meal. The Boy began with a half-dozen escargots in garlic butter. I went for the butternut squash veloutée with wildflower honey.



It was creamy (of course) with a slightly spicy edge, the sweet intensity of the honey coming through as a final note.

And then we did something we hardly ever do in restaurants: we both had the same entree. Well, you have to have turkey at Thanksgiving, dontcha?



With haricots verts and jaunes, golden beets, obscenely buttery mashed potato and a cake of chestnut stuffing.

As often happens, I only ate half my main. But while this is usually because I'm too full, this time I had an ulterior motive. If Thanksgiving is about eating huge piles of nosh, the day after is about reheating the leftovers for breakfast. And I was damned if I was going to miss out on that tradition.

Plus I was, um, too full.

Though apparently not too full for dessert: pernod creme brulée with a perfectly carmelized, crackable crust of brown sugar.



The Boy decided to end the meal with a glass of Pierre Ferrand cognac. It was of exceptional quality, and deliciously smooth, the reason for which became clear when we got the check: despite The Boy's best efforts to point at the 12-year-old vintage, the waiter had delivered the 25-year, with associated markup. Still, it was fabulous. And very pretty.



A delicious meal, capped off by the joy of not having to wash dishes. We'd definitely do Thanksgiving out again.

But that said, we both missed the fun of cooking--of prepping the turkey, and roasting veggies, and finding new ways to add extra sin to gravy and mashed potatoes. This morning I came across my favorite cranberry chutney recipe (from Julia Child via Robin) and felt a twinge of regret that I had no need to make it this year.

On the other hand, Christmas is only a month away. And we'll need to eat something.

Hunting haggis

Haggis isn't a hearty Scottish dish; it's a punchline. It joins a long list of foods non-Brits point to when they laugh at British cooking. Others include jellied eels, black pudding, steak and kidney pie, spotted dick. Okay, at least the last one sounds funny.

The whole "British food sucks" thing has always bugged me, not only because I grew up on the stuff, and know that it's largely fabulous--apart from in tourist-trap restaurants in London, and frankly, if that's your experience of British cuisine, you get what you deserve--but also because of the implied insult: the food is bad, so the people who eat it must be unsophisticated morons.

And yes, I know this is rich, coming from someone who's giddy about the World Parmo Cooking Championships. (Did you vote parmo yet?)

The prevalence of Brit-chef TV shows has helped reduce knee-jerk reactions about the food of My People, but even the best efforts of Gordon Ramsey, Nigella Lawson and the man once referred to in Viz as a "fat-tongued mockney herbert," Jamie Oliver, have not totally squashed the assumption that the cuisine of the British Isles is boiled, bland, fatty and flavorless.

Which brings us back to haggis.

I'd wanted to feed some to The Boy for ages, but stupid goverment rules forbidding the sale of food containing animal lungs make it hard to find the real stuff. So instead I broke down and bought Stahly's canned haggis from Cardullo's.



Looks tasty. huh? For $8 a can, it damn well better be. The label notes that it's "skinless," which I guess is their way of skirting those crazy "unfit for human consumption" laws.

The traditional accompaniment is neeps and tatties (translation: turnips and spuds. Translation: rutabagas and potatoes).
.


Yeah, okay, the veggies were boiled. But our mashed potato kicks butt, thank you. And any turnippy blandness was quickly overcome with garlic and fresh black pepper and lavish buttering.



Haggis is supposed to be served with a good Scotch, but--gasp!--we were all out of Jura. We had to slum it with Jim Bean, sassenachs that we are.

So what does haggis taste like? Think corned beef hash made with liverwurst, rounded out with barley. Okay, maybe that still sounds disgusting. But in the realm of comfort food, it's wonderful: a deep, earthy flavor, dark and meaty, with a creamy, rich mouthfeel, the grains adding a satisfying chewiness. Perfect for a chilly November night. Especially when rounded out with piles of creamy, buttery veggies and good hooch.



If you have a hankering to make your own haggis--and you can get your hands on a sheep's stomach bag (I think Coach has one in their fall line)--you could try one of these recipes.

Otherwise, try a can. Maybe a selection box. Go on. You'll like it. Promise.

Parmo campaign ad

The only slightly fictionalized tale of how I encountered parmo and vowed to bring it to America. I give you Parmo: A Love Story, the campaign ad for Carolyn Grantham LimeyG Parmo in the quest to participate in the World Parmo Cooking Championships.



For reasons I can't figure out, the very end is cut off. I suspect this is what comes of using free downloadables.

Vote parmo anyway.

Thursday night views

Duck with pineapple at venerable Cambridge Chinese restaurant Royal East. If there was a sudden brownout, that sauce could power everything within Rte 128. In the blurry background are the remains of beef in coconut-curry sauce and scallion pancakes (scallyunpancakes!).

This is the restaurant we invaded with our entire familial horde the weekend of our wedding; they seem to have forgiven us, but hey, that was ten years ago.

It's also the place where fortune cookies are a little more honest than is absolutely necessary.

Driving home after dinner, we had the rare experience of stopping for a train at the crossing between Beacon Street and Somerville Ave. Everything was wet an' shiny.

I shall bring parmo pride to the USA!

[Updated 17 November]

In May, on a trip back to my hometown, I discovered a wondrous thing: parmo.



Essentially the Italian classic veal parmigiana (substituting pork for veal, cheddar for parmesan and big fat french fries for hand-made, butter-tossed fettucine), it's de rigueur among the Saturday-night drinkers of Teesside (i.e. the population of Teesside).

(In case you missed it, here's my virgin parmo experience).

In the US, of course, no-one knows what parmo is; in fairness, it's pretty much unheard-of outside the North-East of England. So when The Boy and I feel the need for a parmoment, we have to create our own.

Well, all that may be about to change.

Next month sees the inaugural World Parmo Cooking Championships in Stockton, a brave attempt to increase parmo awareness beyond the A19. And why not? It could do for parmo what the Golden Spurtle has done for porridge (that is, give food writers an eccentric festival to cover once a year, and then ... um ...)

The Guardian has a nice piece about the Championship, which includes two quotes that, I think, sum up My People in all their glory.

Championship organizer and "parmo crusader" Paddy Bowen on parmo: " ... It's just a good thing to have, beautiful and very filling. You eat it because that's what you do round here."

You eat it because that's what you do round here.

So true. So, so true.

And this, from parmo inventor Charlie Constantine, on the birth of his creation: "Parmesan goes hard when you grill it so we replaced it with cheddar, but we forgot to change the name on the menu."

We forgot to change the name. Beautiful. Anyway, what would the alternative have been? Cheddo? Chedsies? Cheddles?

Here's the deal: the top three most popular parmofacturers get to face off on December 16. Popularity is measured by write-in ballot. I guess it's meant for local restaurants, but nowhere is that stipulated--in fact, the very presence of the word "World" in the title suggests it must be opened up to an international field, like the World Cup and the World Series (uh, maybe not the latter).

So I want to you vote for me. It's very simple: just go to the questionnaire on Stockton Borough Council's parmo voting page (your tax pounds at work) and where it says "Name of restaurant/takeaway that makes the best parmo ever," write in "Carolyn Grantham limeyg parmo." The deadline for entries is December 7.

Oh, and when I'm selected, I'll need sponsorship. So if someone could arrange flights, that would be great. I'll happily sport your organization's t-shirt as I hold the Golden Parmo aloft on December 16.

[Update: the voting form requires a valid 7-digit UK postcode, e.g. CT17 9DR, PO12 2AW, CF10 4PZ, which further invalidates the whole "world" concept. It would be improper of me to suggest anyone commit fraud, so I won't.]

Sunrise this morning

Getting out of bed: not something I do eagerly. Especially at this cooler time of year, when the bed seems so much warmer and the comforter so pleasantly heavy.

At 5:45, the radio alarm comes on at a gentle volume, a whisper, and gradually increases to a room-filling-sound level, and The Boy and I curl up together and try to untangle dream-reality from NPR-news-reality. Some days, that's harder than others.

We wait for the weather forecast before we start to stir, so we can start the day with some kind of contextual relevance. This morning, the announcer mentioned the sunrise twice. It really is quite spectacular, he said. You really should take a look, he said.

I was intrigued enough to get up.



I'm guessing the announcer's view of the sky was broader than mine. But still (and it's not often I say this): worth getting out of bed for.

Bad citizen!

You may remember that when I became a citizen, almost a whole year ago, I was particularly motivated by my desire to be able to vote. I even had dreams about it.

Well, this week I performed the act that truly cemented my new role as an American: there was an election, and I didn't go.

I know, I know. Stop yelling. Ow. Stoppit.

Let me lay out my weak excuses:

Ignorance
I didn't even know there was an election on Tuesday until the Friday before, when an oversized postcard from Michael Marks came in the mail. That was the only communication we had from any of the 19 candidates, though when I was checking through the junk mail for the unoccupied upstairs apartment, I found flyers for two others. So, you know, nice job of getting the word out, guys.

Irrelevance
Of the three candidates, two were running for School Committee; not something that will affect me unless we decide the cat needs an education. The flyer for Marks highlighted his work on the "senior swim" program and his interest in public parking. Still being a good 20 years from swim time, and having no reason to park in downtown Medford, I was in no rush to vote for the guy. (On top of which, his frame-tastic website was apparently designed in 1995 and contains a big ol' malapostrophe. Next!)

Detatchment
We live in Medford, but we don't live in Medford. We have no particular ties to the city, have no friends there, don't read the local newspaper, and rarely shop, play or eat there (apart from occasional acts of piggery, Brazilian style, at the Oasis). Our house is divorced from the rest of Medford by railroad track, Tufts buildings and warehouses, in the borderlands known as "Medford-but-really-almost-Somerville." So if something interesting happens in the city, we have no means (and little motivation) for learning about it.

Apathy
Darn. This was going to be my killer excuse: that the polling station was too far from my house. But according to Google Maps, it's only slightly further than my daily walk to and from the subway. Still, I wasn't particularly in the mood to trek a couple of miles through the back streets of Medford, over by the highway and the car dealerships, in the dark drizzle of a November night, to make an uninformed choice for a mystery candidate.

As it turns out, I wasn't the only one.

But never fear, dear fellow Americans; this won't happen again. In the course of researching this post, I found a lovely site called VoteMedford.org, which has detailed info about all candidates (with video, no less!) as well as their answers to resident-submitted questions.

So next time there's an election--and I heard a rumor that something important is happening this time next year--I'll be good 'n' ready to do my citizenly duty.

But meanwhile, I wants to know: do you think we should become more loyal Medfordites? Can anyone recommend a Medfordian activity that would help us feel more Medfordly?

Eating Mexico

Call us consistent. Call us creatures of habit. Last night we went to Tu y Yo for their annual Three-Nation Celebration of Mexican Gastronomy, as we did last year and the year before.

Maybe we're getting in a rut.

This year's seven-course prix-fixe meal included dishes from Mexico City, Veracruz and Oaxaca and went something ... like ... this:



First up, a glass of agua de hierbas frescas, a crisp, subtly sweet blend of celery, parsley and cucumber over ice that was so refreshing, I eschewed the alternative of Dos Equis and stuck with it all night. Yes, that's right: I, Carolyn Grantham, opted for a non-alcoholic beverage.



Next, the first of two appetizers: moist duck breast in a red pipian mole, warm and nutty, with a salad of nopales and queso fresco.



App #2 was ensalada de chicharrón: fist-sized chunks of salty, crispy fried pork skin topped with pico de gallo.



The soup course was cazuela de mariscos a la veracruzana, and was a nice attempt at deconstructing seafood stew:



Both mussel and clam were fresh and meaty, comparable to chicken thigh (the former) and breast (the latter) but with a briny undertone, and the accompanying shot of seafood broth held flavors of fish and shrimp.

The Boy, being allergic to things that wear their skellingtons on the outside, had a lovely, earthy squash-blossom soup, served in a bowl apparently fashioned from the hull of some enormous seed:



And then to the entrees. First, beef in a yellow mole (which I neglected to capture for posterity). The meat itself, while tender and moist, had little flavor--doubtless boiled in water, as for ropa vieja. Combined with the sauce, however, it was fab--not too spicy, but warm enough to get the endorphins going. On the side, a mixed-veggie combo of steamed green beans, zucchini and diced chayote.

Next up, the dish we both liked best: pescado a la talla, a foil-baked fillet of tilapia with onions and ancho peppers and a hint of orange juice:



And then the last main--chicken in a green mole.



This was the only dish that could have been better executed. The roasted, shredded chicken was cold and dry, and the mini corn fritters turned out tough and chewy. Nice sauce, though. And the blackened pepper skins provided a smoky and unusual tone.

And finally, dessert: three sweet corn tamales with a schmear of intense berry sauce and a crème anglaise.



The choco version tasted a lot like chocolate pudding, which was cool. The raisin was somewhere between bread pudding and fruit cake, sweet and rich. But my fave was the pineapple, which was exactly like pineapple upside-down cake, which I haven't had in a decade.

And now to wait for next year's gastronomic celebration ...

Breakfast: pancakes are a blast

I learned to make pancakes from my parents, who are both skilled in the art. Their pancakes are thin, delicate, golden, rimmed with a crispy, lacy edge, served rolled up and filled with something sweet and simple: lemon juice and sugar, treacle or jam. No need for anything more elaborate.

That, for me, was the pancake pinnacle. And then I moved to the US and discovered that pancake meant something different: thick, spongy, toast-colored Frisbees, served with a scoop of butter and a bucket of maple syrup. Sometimes they're studded with fruit. Sometimes they're stacked three inches high. Sometimes they're--gasp!--served with bacon and sausage.

Apparently, what I'd grown up calling pancakes were, according to US criteria, actually crêpes. See these here? Served at Gaslight in the South End. Just like what I grew up on.



I taught The Boy to make crêpes and he showed me the secret of the pancake (baking powder). He does both better than me because he shows no fear when it comes to frying stuff in butter.

We often have them for breakfast, because the batter is quick to make: a cup of flour, one egg, then the gradual addition of milk until the result has the consistency of heavy cream. And then we'll throw in nutmeg or orange zest or ginger. How easy is that?

But wait--it just! Got! Even! Easier!

Enter the Batter Blaster, which takes all the tedium and mess out of mixing three ingredients by blending them with cultured dextrose and xanthan gum (s'okay, it's organic) and presenting them in an easy-squeezy can--just point the nozzle at the griddle and you're ready to go!

Two things I love about the website: the video that shows the "old-fashioned" method of pancake creation, in which a fake-Fifties housewife throws up her hands in frustration at the tiresome, filthy ordeal (try cutting back on the pre-breakfast Rob Roys, dahling); and the painful grammatical error in the homepage blurb.

Sorry, Batter Blaster marketing team, I'm not telling you where it is. You have to find it yourselves.