Keeping it light, here are some of the things I did this year:
1. Ate medjool dates for the first time in my life.
2. Went on an accidentally long bicycle tour of 30ish or more kilometres in the early morning in May. Let's finish retracing the former course of the Berlin Wall! my mother told me, inclined as she is to heroic feats of endurance upon the two-wheeled vehicle. (In past years she had followed the Berlin Wall almost all the way from Spandau to the east and back to Potsdam; we were doing the last stretch through Babelsberg, Sacrow, Kladow, etc.) As it turns out, the distance and time duration had been grossly underestimated.
3. Saw the Vienna New Year's Concert.
4. Began reading a Hungarian book via translating machine and picked up the vocabulary és, ház, and száz.
5. Did an admittedly lousy presentation for a Byzantinian literature class in January, where I felt so tired that I was practically 'floating' up the stairs in the Fehrbelliner Platz subway station on the way there.
6. Picked out the violin concert repertoire (Paganini, Wieniawski, Kreisler etc.) on the piano with one hand, whilst housesitting for uncle and aunt in the country in October.
7. Ordered tons of books from family shop over the year, e.g. Principles of Classical Ballet by Agrippina Vaganova, Erste russische Lesestücke, Long Walk to Freedom, Greek textbook, autobiography of Morrissey etc.
8. Listened to all of the National Public Radio's list of 'Heavy Rotation' and '100 Favorite Songs' music in 2013, on YouTube.
9. On January 19th, had holes and ladders in all of my tights but wanted to wear Scottish skirt to university anyway, and thus decided to wear a pair of tights which required clear tape in three places, and employ book bag and coat as shields. Most awkward and silliest day ever.
10. Watched Oxford vs. Cambridge boat race for the first time in my life, on television in March; and went to Potsdam for a solitary walk as snow still lay on the ground even though it was already Good Friday.
11. Kicked myself out of university in July.
12. In April, went nuts with a cleaning schedule and overhauled the entire household with daily dishwashing and garbage-emptying, weekly window-cleaning and vacuuming and toilet-scrubbing, heroic cleaning of the refrigerator, etc. Since it was in the spirit of journalistic inquiry I only kept it up diligently one week, but for that week I timed it and everything.
13. In May, concocted chicken broth for the first time in my life. If I recall it correctly, it was destined for a chicken pot pie after a Pioneer Woman recipe. Later in the year, I made fattoush and a raspberry cranachan and a vegetable stock with white cabbage.
14. These past weeks, began reading Japanese manga in a sweeping degree: all of Skip Beat! released so far, Fruits Basket, Natsume Yuujinchou, etc.
15. Eggnog. It was a little overpowering in its freight of Scotch whisky and rum; very well received by the family.
16. Was assembling Ikea shelf. Floppy backboard of shelf had slid out of place after first nail had been affixed. Gouged scissors into hand whilst prying nail out of the Ikea bookshelf. Went pale as a sheet. Slathered injury in iodine salve, imbibed sugary tea and lay down to mitigate shock. Have a lovely scar there now. Also, perforce, tickled the ivories with the right hand only for a time.
17. Began watching Africa's Next Top Model. Liked Australia's again, too, but feelings of shame and dismay interfere with watching America's any more.
18. Read The Portuguese Revolution: 31st of January (Oporto 1891) in Portuguese.
19. Bought a year's worth of Guardian Weekly issues in paper. Answered perhaps one King William's College Quiz question correctly in the latest issue, but have left a sudoku game entirely unfinished in an old issue . . .
[N.B. Dec. 28th: It turns out that I had numbered these things incorrectly, so there are only 19 curiosities after all!]
Friday, December 27, 2013
Monday, December 23, 2013
Lofoten Stockfish, M' Antoinette and Microfibres
Yesterday I devoted a few hours to documentaries on television, and greatly enjoyed it.
FIRST there was an itinerant culinary series that, having explored the cassoulet, the Breton mussel from its spiralling ropes, etc., in the past, had landed in the icy, northerly islands of Norway. When we strayed onto the channel, dark phalanxes of fish writhed in the wind as they were hung in bunches above snowladen earth looking over the seaboard. Everything looked lovely — brightly painted weatherboard homes, ink-dark ocean, floes and snowfall and rock at the water's edge — and so bright that it couldn't imaginably be filmed in winter months. As for the fish, I don't think that they were alive despite appearances, because the stockfish might be unflavourful if it is strung up with its innards remaining in situ.
AFTERWARDS a German-dubbed French film explored the premise that one could, through a three-course repast, answer the question, 'What did Marie Antoinette like to eat?'. In an unnaturally serene and rustically shadowy kitchen, a proper French chef de cuisine prepared oysters on the half shell bedded on spinach and pine nuts and gratinated with a hint of cheese, followed by the main course of pink-cooked duck that had been fried in a pan and then given into the oven and then rested so that the meat was as tender as possible.
(There was an orange sauce and segments of the fruit to provide the counterpoint of sweetness to the savoury duck that was apparently much prized before the triumph of home cooking in the 19th century, or something of the sort; but I think an argument was also that the duck itself has its sweet aspects in its flavour and, of course, that the orange itself is sour, too.)
In company with the duck there were served little metal dishes with napkins or kitchen towel of some sort, in which pale golden balloons of pomme soufflé were nested. Achieving this form of potato, 3 mm rounds which are deep fried twice and launched with care on swelling, bubbling oil so that the air pocket in them can form and then tucked beneath the surface, is (it seems) a tour de force of talent or of luck.
For dessert, the chef served glasses of mousse au chocolat, poached pears in their whole shape, crème de Chantilly (or so I think; the German dubbing announced as one heard the French soundtrack which seemed to include these words, that it was 'Schlagsahne' i.e. a common or garden variety whipping cream), pouring cocoa; the entire dessert was subtly spiced with cardamom.
APART from that I considered yesterday a good time to clean the apartment. Since in winter the orangey coal ash settles everywhere, and there have been hordes of dust bunnies lately, I went on the town with the microfibre cloth, dishwasher, brooms, vacuum, a towel, etc.
OUR Christmas tree is ready, too. Altogether Christmas has been more fulfilling this year than in past years, or so I think because I haven't been in university as much and therefore have had more time for non-secular thoughts and activities. Besides it feels nice to be able to buy what we like, though of course it's nicer to think that this is peripheral. So we had bowls of Spekulatius and gingerbread and so on to entertain us while we did our usual things, and even Omama's Advent calendar has been filled and emptied this time around. In Ge.'s and J.'s room, which has a tile stove that is highly agreeable at this time of year, we listened to Christmas CDs; on the piano and cembalo I've tried out versions of Nutcracker Suite extracts, Tchaikovsky's Seasons, Christmas carols, Händel's Messiah, and Bach's Christmas Oratorio; and Mama has been playing songs on the French horn.
FIRST there was an itinerant culinary series that, having explored the cassoulet, the Breton mussel from its spiralling ropes, etc., in the past, had landed in the icy, northerly islands of Norway. When we strayed onto the channel, dark phalanxes of fish writhed in the wind as they were hung in bunches above snowladen earth looking over the seaboard. Everything looked lovely — brightly painted weatherboard homes, ink-dark ocean, floes and snowfall and rock at the water's edge — and so bright that it couldn't imaginably be filmed in winter months. As for the fish, I don't think that they were alive despite appearances, because the stockfish might be unflavourful if it is strung up with its innards remaining in situ.
AFTERWARDS a German-dubbed French film explored the premise that one could, through a three-course repast, answer the question, 'What did Marie Antoinette like to eat?'. In an unnaturally serene and rustically shadowy kitchen, a proper French chef de cuisine prepared oysters on the half shell bedded on spinach and pine nuts and gratinated with a hint of cheese, followed by the main course of pink-cooked duck that had been fried in a pan and then given into the oven and then rested so that the meat was as tender as possible.
(There was an orange sauce and segments of the fruit to provide the counterpoint of sweetness to the savoury duck that was apparently much prized before the triumph of home cooking in the 19th century, or something of the sort; but I think an argument was also that the duck itself has its sweet aspects in its flavour and, of course, that the orange itself is sour, too.)
In company with the duck there were served little metal dishes with napkins or kitchen towel of some sort, in which pale golden balloons of pomme soufflé were nested. Achieving this form of potato, 3 mm rounds which are deep fried twice and launched with care on swelling, bubbling oil so that the air pocket in them can form and then tucked beneath the surface, is (it seems) a tour de force of talent or of luck.
For dessert, the chef served glasses of mousse au chocolat, poached pears in their whole shape, crème de Chantilly (or so I think; the German dubbing announced as one heard the French soundtrack which seemed to include these words, that it was 'Schlagsahne' i.e. a common or garden variety whipping cream), pouring cocoa; the entire dessert was subtly spiced with cardamom.
APART from that I considered yesterday a good time to clean the apartment. Since in winter the orangey coal ash settles everywhere, and there have been hordes of dust bunnies lately, I went on the town with the microfibre cloth, dishwasher, brooms, vacuum, a towel, etc.
OUR Christmas tree is ready, too. Altogether Christmas has been more fulfilling this year than in past years, or so I think because I haven't been in university as much and therefore have had more time for non-secular thoughts and activities. Besides it feels nice to be able to buy what we like, though of course it's nicer to think that this is peripheral. So we had bowls of Spekulatius and gingerbread and so on to entertain us while we did our usual things, and even Omama's Advent calendar has been filled and emptied this time around. In Ge.'s and J.'s room, which has a tile stove that is highly agreeable at this time of year, we listened to Christmas CDs; on the piano and cembalo I've tried out versions of Nutcracker Suite extracts, Tchaikovsky's Seasons, Christmas carols, Händel's Messiah, and Bach's Christmas Oratorio; and Mama has been playing songs on the French horn.
Sunday, December 22, 2013
Hobbitish Peregrinations
Last afternoon six of us went to see The Desolation of Smaug, without the high frame rate or anything, but still satisfying. The theatre was not too full, so the audience was sprinkled over the room and the first three rows were empty.
*Full of spoilers*
First came the trailers and commercials, of course, from a household electricity provider, through anecdotes of the powers of the internet that were intended to humanize a certain search engine company, to all sorts of cars. As for the films advertised, they were Pompeii, Noah's Ark, and The Secret Life of Walter Mitty amongst others.
(— Noah's Ark, where I hadn't quite realized that the point of the story was that people were killed as-well-they-should-be. But its graphics were so strikingly Lord of the Rings that they introduced the Hobbit decently well.)
*
Everything was delivered in superlative decibels, which were an assault on the ears, but I thought that maybe the fact that I rarely go to see films has oversensitized me to this.
*
Then, at last, the film itself unfurled. We were privy to a meeting between the wizard Gandalf and Thorin Oakenshield, king of Tolkien's dwarves, at the Prancing Pony on a drizzling night, under the mistrustful eyes of two emissaries sent to remove Oakenshield from the seat of power by assassination. Gandalf, less of a pacifist than one should think he would be from the book, urges Thorin to march on Erebor in order to seize his power and take over as king, which he had not previously known that he was, and to defeat a foe which I imagine is the Orcs. Or something of that ilk.
But by some transition which I fail to understand, the action then leapt to a forest where the dwarves and Bilbo Baggins are fleeing the pursuit of steroidal animated wolves bearing Orcs upon their backs, taking refuge in the hall of Beorn.
They enter Mirkwood on the next morning. Gandalf has been aware of the stirrings of a Necromancer, which are distantly also the stirrings of the Orcs — so at the forest's very entrance, he must part ways with the forlorn dwarves, setting off himself to meet the wizard Radagast.
Mirkwood is a consistent tangle of cyclopean tree trunks twined by clawed creepers, leafed in reddish splendour by crowns of oak, and pervaded by an atmosphere of confusion that leads the dwarves and the hobbit into a Dalian species of absurdity. It is when they are met by the inhabitants of the forest, just as Bilbo had managed to espy the Lonely Mountain and the Lake from the pinnacle of one of the oaks, and engage in a combat, that their muddled miasma in mind is cut finally.
Wood Elves reluctantly rescue the dwarves. Then, at their arrow tips, the elves escort their tinier visitors forcibly to the halls of the Wood-Elves. The king of these elves — himself an arrogant and selfish patrician — argy-bargies with Thorin Oakenshield, who having climbed onto his high horse repudiates compromise. In the meantime the lowlier dwarves hobnob with Legolas and Tauriel, the friendlier elves, through their prison bars.
The dwarves flee their prison, however, as Bilbo Baggins releases them. They are set upon by Orcs at once, and elves die in the slaughter, too, but at last they spiral and bob and rush along the river toward the Lake.
After interrogating one of the Orcs, the elves figure out that the dwarf Kili has been poisoned by an arrow and so Tauriel trots away after him and Legolas duly after her. As a prince and as a captain of the guard, it seems strange that they are eager to relinquish their posts and duties at the turning of a pin, but never mind.
These dwarves arrive at the Lake and persuade the Bard, a man who despite his Pirates-of-the-Caribbean-like goatee is reminiscent of Heath Ledger, to row them through the ice floes in his drab barge. The barge is not coloured brightly, that is, but crude and impractical-looking. Ensconced in fishes they ignominiously arrive at the gates of Laketown, where they are nearly impounded by the confidant of the Mayor. (Threatened with social upheaval if the half-starving denizens of Laketown are deprived of the food, the official agrees to let them pass.)
The roofs of the tall grey buildings in Laketown are covered in slates or tiles, the tower's prows are borrowed faithfully from the stave churches, walkways and floating wooden docks edge the stilt houses, fisherboats throng in the canals between the boardwalks, and en masse in their old-timey garb the people of Laketown had a Bruegelish air about them.
But in the overhanging upper storey of one of the Nordic slat houses, the Mayor (who has been metaphorically "wallowing in his crapulence") and noted British actor Stephen Fry hears about this incident, and from their conversation it becomes clear that they fear that the Bard is a conspiring leader of the townsmen. The mayor's confidant likely invents or heightens the threat of insurrection is for his own ends, and their jealousy of his nobility might engender the Mayor's paranoia and their common antipathy; but it is true that the inhabitants of Laketown are not being treated kindly and that there are grounds for insurrection. Here I wish that the film had not tried to be 'relevant.' ('"Elections?" What fresh hell is this!')
*Full of spoilers*
First came the trailers and commercials, of course, from a household electricity provider, through anecdotes of the powers of the internet that were intended to humanize a certain search engine company, to all sorts of cars. As for the films advertised, they were Pompeii, Noah's Ark, and The Secret Life of Walter Mitty amongst others.
(— Noah's Ark, where I hadn't quite realized that the point of the story was that people were killed as-well-they-should-be. But its graphics were so strikingly Lord of the Rings that they introduced the Hobbit decently well.)
*
Everything was delivered in superlative decibels, which were an assault on the ears, but I thought that maybe the fact that I rarely go to see films has oversensitized me to this.
*
Then, at last, the film itself unfurled. We were privy to a meeting between the wizard Gandalf and Thorin Oakenshield, king of Tolkien's dwarves, at the Prancing Pony on a drizzling night, under the mistrustful eyes of two emissaries sent to remove Oakenshield from the seat of power by assassination. Gandalf, less of a pacifist than one should think he would be from the book, urges Thorin to march on Erebor in order to seize his power and take over as king, which he had not previously known that he was, and to defeat a foe which I imagine is the Orcs. Or something of that ilk.
But by some transition which I fail to understand, the action then leapt to a forest where the dwarves and Bilbo Baggins are fleeing the pursuit of steroidal animated wolves bearing Orcs upon their backs, taking refuge in the hall of Beorn.
They enter Mirkwood on the next morning. Gandalf has been aware of the stirrings of a Necromancer, which are distantly also the stirrings of the Orcs — so at the forest's very entrance, he must part ways with the forlorn dwarves, setting off himself to meet the wizard Radagast.
Mirkwood is a consistent tangle of cyclopean tree trunks twined by clawed creepers, leafed in reddish splendour by crowns of oak, and pervaded by an atmosphere of confusion that leads the dwarves and the hobbit into a Dalian species of absurdity. It is when they are met by the inhabitants of the forest, just as Bilbo had managed to espy the Lonely Mountain and the Lake from the pinnacle of one of the oaks, and engage in a combat, that their muddled miasma in mind is cut finally.
Wood Elves reluctantly rescue the dwarves. Then, at their arrow tips, the elves escort their tinier visitors forcibly to the halls of the Wood-Elves. The king of these elves — himself an arrogant and selfish patrician — argy-bargies with Thorin Oakenshield, who having climbed onto his high horse repudiates compromise. In the meantime the lowlier dwarves hobnob with Legolas and Tauriel, the friendlier elves, through their prison bars.
The dwarves flee their prison, however, as Bilbo Baggins releases them. They are set upon by Orcs at once, and elves die in the slaughter, too, but at last they spiral and bob and rush along the river toward the Lake.
After interrogating one of the Orcs, the elves figure out that the dwarf Kili has been poisoned by an arrow and so Tauriel trots away after him and Legolas duly after her. As a prince and as a captain of the guard, it seems strange that they are eager to relinquish their posts and duties at the turning of a pin, but never mind.
These dwarves arrive at the Lake and persuade the Bard, a man who despite his Pirates-of-the-Caribbean-like goatee is reminiscent of Heath Ledger, to row them through the ice floes in his drab barge. The barge is not coloured brightly, that is, but crude and impractical-looking. Ensconced in fishes they ignominiously arrive at the gates of Laketown, where they are nearly impounded by the confidant of the Mayor. (Threatened with social upheaval if the half-starving denizens of Laketown are deprived of the food, the official agrees to let them pass.)
The roofs of the tall grey buildings in Laketown are covered in slates or tiles, the tower's prows are borrowed faithfully from the stave churches, walkways and floating wooden docks edge the stilt houses, fisherboats throng in the canals between the boardwalks, and en masse in their old-timey garb the people of Laketown had a Bruegelish air about them.
But in the overhanging upper storey of one of the Nordic slat houses, the Mayor (who has been metaphorically "wallowing in his crapulence") and noted British actor Stephen Fry hears about this incident, and from their conversation it becomes clear that they fear that the Bard is a conspiring leader of the townsmen. The mayor's confidant likely invents or heightens the threat of insurrection is for his own ends, and their jealousy of his nobility might engender the Mayor's paranoia and their common antipathy; but it is true that the inhabitants of Laketown are not being treated kindly and that there are grounds for insurrection. Here I wish that the film had not tried to be 'relevant.' ('"Elections?" What fresh hell is this!')
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