BBQ photos . . . finally

Like I said, our Mac is dying. Unfortunately, it's also our network router, so it's inhibiting both my celebrity gossip forum access and my ability to upload photos to the site, or, indeed, blog when I haven't got my work laptop at home. Anyhow, here we go.

Grillmaster Alan, lighting the Weber BBQ for the first time. Note PJ's weary expression in the background: he'd had just 3 hours sleep in the previous 36 hours and no alcohol. He was considerably perkier 6 hours later after several beers, glasses of wine, and vodka-based cocktails.



Fish kebabs. Yum! The slightly waxy fish held together much better than expected.



Giant prawns. Don't they have beady little eyes? I'm glad they were dead when we put them on -- I just don't understand how people can throw lobsters into boiling water.



In other news, it's considerably cooler here now -- and wetter. In fact, I actually slept under the duvet on Sunday night for the first time in weeks. Bliss! Long may this continue. Although, if the rain could just stop for a few hours, that would be great.

Noooooooo!!!!

After yet more rain today, the temperature has dipped to 22.5 -- the lowest it's been for several weeks. I, however, am steaming mad. Why? Because at the end of my favourite TV show on BBC2, Jeremy Clarkson announced that this was the last in the current series of Top Gear. What? They did about 4 shows, disappeared while the World Cup was on, did 2 more shows, and that's it? The end of the series? Where am I going to get my fix of mad challenges involving loading white vans with illegal immigrants? When will I be able to sigh (discreetly, of course) over the utterly cute n' adorable Richard Hammond?* How will I be able to talk vaguely knowledgeably about obscure European supercar manufacturers? Why do I even bother paying my licence fee?!

Oh wait, I don't. OK then, BBC: you're off the hook this time. Just make sure you bring it back early in the autumn or there'll be trouble!

*Er, I'll just watch Brainiac on Veronica, actually.

Getting up in your grill

One of Amsterdam's more charming features is the relish with which the inhabitants seize every opportunity to eat outside. As soon as there's a hint of good weather, they pull small tables and chairs out onto their stoop or the pavement, light the candles, and open a chilled bottle of rose. You'll see -- and hear -- them out there until late at night, enjoying what counts for outdoor space here; few apartments have a roof terrace or garden. The frat boys along the street go one step further, pulling an old sofa out to the edge of the canal and occasionally setting up any awning across the street so that they can make beer runs to the kegs in their cellar without getting wet when it (inevitably) rains. We have rarely indulged in this particular Amsterdam activity; we have no stoop, and the patch of pavement outside our building is a favorite toilet area for dogs and junkies, making it less than appealing. While the parking spaces across the road tend to attract desperate tourists with their sandwiches, I'm always a little concerned that a car driver, delighted at spotting a rare space, will pull in at high speed and without looking. Low-level paranoia about imminent injury does not make for a good outdoor dining experience in my book.

However, last night we were invited to a pavement BBQ in the Jordaan -- and very pleasant it was, too. Sitting out on Palmstraat, we ate excellent fish kebabs and marinated giant prawns while watching cyclists, dog walkers, and the drunks from the local bar head (or stagger) by as the evening drew on. Nobody complained about our smoky dinner or the fact that we were taking up the pavement; in fact, our hosts Alan and Jo remarked that they had exchanged more pleasantries with their neighbours in that one evening than they had in the previous three years. Clearly, an outdoor dinner had marked them out as echte Jordaanse mensen. As night fell, the candles came out -- as did Alan's wickedly strong vodka-based caiparinas. We finally headed inside at around midnight as it turned blissfully and briefly cooler than it had been; when we finally sauntered home at around 1.30, the streets and bars were still filled with people having a late drink outside. All in all, a rather jolly Amsterdam evening.

Photos to follow. Apple is currently killing our network performance, so can't upload them. God, I HATE Apple.

Mission: Unaccomplished

It's a quiet day at work, so I thought I'd take advantage of the fine, dry weather we've been having -- I'm trying very hard to look at it positively, for once -- and headed out to the shops. My mission? Fizzy vitamin tablets and a hang-upable multi-pocketed shoe storage system/cosmetics bag. No, not for my Immelda Marcos-style shoe collection or even my vast array of unused make-up, but for cable storage. You see, we have multiple chargers, power blocks, power adapters, connectivity leads etc for our many, many mobile phones, iPods, DSes, PSPs etc; they currently coexist in a tangled mess on the floor of the living room and it can take up to 10 minutes to find the right one. My new fave site Lifehacker recommended the shoe bag as a great solution. So, off I headed to Blokker, crap purveyor of cleaning products, kitchen equipment, plastic boxes, glass tat, and ... storage items.

What did I come back with? Let me see!

1 red plastic chopping board.
1 yellow scrubbing brush.
1 plastic measuring jug with lid, perfect for my sourdough starter solution.
1 box ziploc bags.

From Kruidvat, I got my fizzy vitamins -- 2 tubes of "50+ multi". Now, I thought that this meant they contained more than 50 different vitamins, minerals, herbal extracts etc. But no. They're for those aged 50+. Although, given how I'm feeling at the moment, they're probably highly appropriate. Unless, of course, they're the Dutch answer to an aging population and contain something to kill those over 50 quickly. I mean, euthanasia is legal here.

But I did manage to spill diet coke on my -- wait for it! -- white t-shirt. Perfect!

Film criticism 101

Oestrogen TV continued last night -- after Wednesday's rather more violent, less-chick-friendly Internal Affairs (despite the presence of lovely Andy Garcia and smug Richard Gere) -- with Possession, the adaptation of A.S. Byatt's novel. I'd attempted to read this a few months ago, but had given up after finding that the poetry was tedious (as is all poetry if it doesn't rhyme and isn't funny) and that I didn't care about any of the characters. However, the film starred Jeremy Northam -- mmm, Jeremy Northam! -- and I had nothing better to do with my time, so I tuned in.

OK. On reflection, there were three major problems with this film:

1. The usual English cliches. Look! He's on a red London bus! Look! He's been dropped off right next to a red telephone box! Look! An impoverished academic is living in a gorgeous Kensington basement flat belonging to a lovable, wealthy solicitor (although not played by Hugh Grant)!

2. They got academia wrong. All the academics spent their time actually doing research in libraries, rather than filling in government assessment forms and grant applications and trying to teach the rudiments of English to ill-educated, uncaring undergraduates. Professor Blackadder was a lovably eccentric Irishman, instead of a bitter old sod; research assistant Paola was stunningly attractive, instead of mousy. And Gwyneth Paltrow's house and greige clothing were simply unimaginable on an academic salary.

In addition, their research was sloppy. "This is a picture of Christabel's niece." Niece? Surely the film-makers wouldn't introduce a McGuffin in a film like this. Perhaps this "niece" is more important than would first appear. "Christabel disappeared for a year in 1860" -- a year? Hmm, sounds suspiciously like NINE MONTHS! "Nobody knows where she went. There are no clues!" Except for a journal, conveniently written in English by a French companion (uncovered by the pantomime villain of the piece, a rival academic) that detailed all of the events of Christabel's sojourn in France in 1860. Including -- ta-dah! -- the baby! Which was indeed the "niece"! And thus GP's great-great-grandmother! Because it's ALL ABOUT GWYNETH!!! Which leads me nicely to my next point.

3. Gwyneth Paltrow. A long time ago, on our first date, PJ and I bonded over our mutual belief that the only good GP film is one in which she dies. Seven: great film, could have been better if they'd shown her head in the box at the end -- and no, I'm not going to "spoiler" that! Shakespeare in Love: I like to switch it off at the point at which she's drowning in the water, so that I can pretend she stays there, rather than emerging to stride damply across Holkham Beach. Sliding Doors: half-good; gets it right in one story, badly wrong in the other. Possession would have been much better if Aaron Eckhardt had started channeling the spirit of Jack the Ripper and had offed Gwyneth the first time she started with the faux English accent and neck-elongating poses.

On the plus side, Jeremy Northam -- mmmm! -- and Jennifer Ehle were top-class as usual, the English scenery was pretty, and I no longer feel marginally guilty for not finishing the book. Plus, it was so predictable that I had time to make flapjack without missing out on any important plot points.

Phew, glad I got that off my chest!

Edward Scissorhands wasn't bad either, I suppose

PJ's in Chicago and Minneapolis this week, buying me cookbooks from upmarket restaurants and the Mall of America and picking up mammoth shipments from Amazon.com. I, on the other hand, continue to bake in this city on the IJ, praying desperately for some more rain to break this interminable heat. While doing so, I'm also indulging in vast amounts of oestrogen TV: Strong Medicine, Gilmore Girls, and, best of all, How To Make An American Quilt -- the 1995 Winona Ryder "classic". Perhaps it's a sign of my age, but I found Winona's "struggle" to decide on whether she should marry Dermot Mulroney -- mmm, Dermot Mulroney -- profoundly irritating. While the scriptwriter, director, and actress presumably saw this as the attempt by a mildly "kooky" free spirit to figure out what love means, while drawing on the wisdom of her quilt-making elders (and betters), it just came across as the self-indulgent whining of a spoilt adolescent. I just wanted to slap her -- and the equally annoying Gilmore Girls -- hard, tell her to grow up, and spend a little more time thinking about people with real problems. Guess I'd better not watch Reality Bites -- or just about any Winona Ryder movie other than Beetle Juice and Heathers -- again.

And yes, I realize the hypocrisy of complaining about someone's self-indulgent whining in a blog that is all about me and my bitter outbursts, but I don't care.

What do small children and pigeons have in common?

They keep being hit by bikes. Well, I saw the aftermath of various child/pigeon-bike interface scenarios yesterday on my ride home from work. The pigeon incidents -- yes, plural -- were more visceral but less noisy than the child one. Although, the little girl's father was complaining loudly to the cyclist who'd "hit" her, stating that he shouldn't have been cycling so fast. The cyclist was trying to make the point that the girl actually clipped his rear wheel as she shot across the cycle lane, and therefore it wasn't his fault, but the father was having none of it. He was clearly trying to transfer his sense of guilt at having failed to keep an eye on his daughter, resulting in her injury, to the cyclist. The moral of the story: don't let your kids play near busy cycle paths. Or if you do, don't be surprised if they get hurt.

I guess another answer to the question posed in the blog title could have been that they're both annoying pests. But that would seem a little harsh. On the pigeons.

Happy FORTIETH birthday, Simon!

Was it really only 40 years ago that England beat Portugal in the semi-finals of the World Cup AND my older brother was born? Yes, yes it was. Forty years. My, how time flies. Simon: have a wonderful day celebrating your 40th birthday. And remember, you're only as young as the women you feel! Oh, wait ...

I know, I know: a little cruel to keep harping on about the fact that Simon's 40 today; after all, I will also be 40 one day. However, I will also always be five years younger than him -- and isn't that what sibling relationships are really about?

The old ones are the best

A couple of years ago, I received a great little book called Trade Secrets, based on the BBC programme of the same name. It outlined hundreds of really useful and highly effective cleaning tips, perfect for fueling my mild cleaning obsession. Best of all, the advice doesn't involve the use of proprietary and thus expensive cleaning products, perfect for fueling my mild obsession about saving money. While PJ mocked my book, he soon started turning to it for recommendations on the best way to descale a kettle or remove wine stains from the carpet. And last weekend, we soaked our shower heads in ordinary white vinegar -- which at 40 cents a litre is considerably cheaper than Viacal. Admittedly, the smell in the bathroom was a little tangy, but all the limescale that had been blocking the holes and preventing me from enjoying my early-morning shower disappeared. Vanished! I was left merely with the mild scent of vinegar in my hair this morning, giving me a certain fish n chip shop air. Mmmm, fish and chips.

Now, where can I buy some borax?

Once more into the pool, dear friends

I think I'm going to have to find another day for my pre-work swim; the pool has been far too crowded on the past two Mondays. I don't like my zen calm being disturbed by people swimming faster and more flashily than me. Not that I'm competitive, of course.

However, it's good to see that people are still using their swim trips to carry out scientific experiments. We've had: "How much weight will I lose if I swim two lengths and then head into the sauna?"; "How much weight will I lose if I don't actually swim but parade up and down the side of the pool while wearing tiny blue trunks?"; and "How much weight will I lose if I don't actually swim but lie in the jacuzzi watching the man parading up and down the side of the pool while wearing tiny blue trunks?" This morning's piece of research was attempting to answer the following complex question: "How much weight will I lose if I attempt to swim a length without actually using any of my limbs?" Not much, but you will gain several bruises as the people who are trying to exericse bash into you. Twit.

There are times when I really really hate other people. And I think those times are increasing in frequency and duration.

Top Gear? Top notch!

"I'm going to use a hammer."
"No, please don'"t."
"Why not?"
"Because ... it's a pikey tool."

Hurrah! Hate cars but love this show!

Now that's more like it

If you listen very carefully, you might be able to hear the thunder and lightning that's rolling around in the background -- along with torrential rain! Hurrah!

ETA: the rain is now so heavy that we can't see the houses across the canal. The temperature has dropped by 4 degrees. And PJ's put the kettle on for the first cup of tea in days. Lovely, lovely rain! (Just make sure you stop before 8 on Monday).

If this is the result of climate change, kill me now

It's almost too hot to blog. The sun's disappeared, it's overcast, and the air is horribly still. I'm hoping this merely presages an almighty thunderstorm, but I don't think we're going to be that lucky. For the first time ever, I wore shirts and a tiny top to yoga -- not as tiny as the halterneck top and hotpants that one girl wore (ill-advisedly without a bra) -- and still sweated buckets. AND I got to view all my hidden-until-now cellulite and worry about whether my knickers were on display. Not really relaxing. It was a punishingly active session, one that made me realize that I must never attempt Bikram yoga. After 30 minutes, I wanted to lay down and die; 60 minutes in, and I thought I was going to pass out during downward dog. I crawled home afterwards and dozed on the sofa for about 40 minutes, something I never normally do during the day.

The ironing can wait till tomorrow. Dinner is hoummus and raw veggies (no cooking required). I'm off to look at pictures of igloos.

Why must they taunt me so?

Somebody at Albert, our supermarket delivery service, obviously read my blog about my kitty biological clock -- and has an extremely cruel sense of humour. Yesterday's free gift with our essential water-beer-coke order was a packet of cat food. Yes, the perfect gift for the couple who have never ordered pet supplies from their service and so clearly don't have a cat. Sniff. Bastards. Now, I don't know much about marketing -- I only correct the spelling on research about marketing -- but one of the key points is about targeting the right audience with the right message at the right time. Giving sample packs of cat food to people without cats wouldn't seem to fulfill that mission.

In addition, what do they hope to achieve even with cat owners? What's the best you can say about cat food to your friends? That Patches didn't hate it or vomit profusely after eating it? In my experience, that applies to virtually every foodstuff going: birds, squirrels, spider plants -- Aristotle even ate malt loaf and porridge! And cats are curiously reluctant to participate in viral marketing campaigns; their lack of opposable thumbs makes it difficult for them to email comedy videos on YouTube to their friends.

So Albert, wrong audience, wrong message, wrong time.

Muppets.

I think I'm in love!

The heat wave has continued, but the airco at the office was working today -- a real relief after yesterday's oven-like temperatures. We decided to take advantage of the fine weather and headed out for dinner, hoping that one of the many fine restaurants around us would have a table outdoors that wasn't reserved. We were in luck. Restaurants here don't seem to need a license to drag all their tables out on to the pavements, forcing pedestrians into the road. Of course, the general lack of cars makes this easier, although it's still entertaining watching groups of tourists getting nearly mown down by the bikes. The tinkle of bike bells is less a warning, and more of a threat in these parts.

Tonight's venue was Seasons on the Herenstraat; we'd been there once before during the winter but had sat indoors and the airco was clearly broken. I baked, and needed to head outside to cool down in the icy rain. However, tonight was perfect. A long, light, warm evening; a street protected from direct sunlight (I have vampiric tendencies); great food; and an utterly gorgeous black spaniel to watch. He/she belonged to the restaurant's chef and spent the evening wandering up and down the pavement, soliciting scraps from the tables here and at Top Thai next door as shamelessly as the ladies in the red light windows across the canal. Unfortunately, he'd clearly been trained not to cross the street and so I was reduced to gazing longingly at him from my table. Not that I was minded to share my shrimp broil -- piles of shrimp, roseval potatoes, and corn-on-the cob, drenched in hot, oily butter and herbs -- nor my creme brulee. My puppy love only extends so far.

One of the advantages of the cramped nature of pavement dining is eavesdropping on your neighbours. We were witness to an amazing coincidencental meeting. The table behind us contained two Americans, who -- as Americans will often do -- said good evening to the young lady parking her car alongside our tables. It turned out that not only was she American, but that she was from the same town as the visitors -- and had attended the high school at which the husband taught, although a little before his time. They promptly called for an extra chair and glass and immersed themselves in recollections of teachers and places that all were familiar with. All in all, a charming little vignette for a perfect evening in Amsterdam.

I'm still hoping that it rains tomorrow, though. Eating out is one thing, but sleeping well is far more important.

From Spain to Japan -- and back again

Tonight's dinner:



Last night it was Spain; tonight it was Japan. Again, we wanted something cold that didn't require much cooking, but then I started reading my bento box recipe book and got carried away. Our dinner consisted of braised tofu and mushrooms, rice balls (heh, balls!), soy sauce egg, the usual cucumber and broccoli pickles, and miso-marinated spring onions. The latter dish was something of a Sino-Hispanic experiment: I scored and marinated spring onions in a mixture of miso paste, sake, and sugar, then wiped it off and grilled them on our griddle pan -- rather like the spring onions I had in 1997 at a restaurant in Barcelona (amusingly named El Glop) although those came with a romesco dip. My version was rather good, even if I say so myself, but I think PJ would back me up on this. The onions had softened slightly while taking on a salty-sweet-smoky flavor. While most of the dishes started out hot, they were all cold by the time we ate, as we were waiting for our Albert delivery to turn up, but were none the worse for that.

I wonder where I shall turn to tomorrow for culinary inspiration. Suggestions?

No! Don't jump!

A couple of weeks ago, a waiter told us that the pigeons in Amsterdam were getting stupider, and he's right. You see far more of them merrily pecking away at a piece of detritus in the middle of the bike lanes and refusing to give way to the cyclists. I saw one get run over last year by an extremely fast Dutchman, who just shrugged and laughed; most disturbing (both the "hit" and the reaction). But I don't think this one is as suicidal as some of his chums.



Oh well, even if he was, there are plenty more.

Things to do in Amsterdam when you're hot

1. Buy a fan.
Summer is most definitely here now, after a protracted and somewhat chilly spring. The past few weeks have seen the temperature rise and fall like a whore's drawers, but it's the humidity here that's the killer. The daily routine is as follows: wake up, shower, dress, towel down as already sweaty, cycle to work, change, pray that the airco works, slowly dissolve into a pool of sweat, cycle home, shower, dress in a single item of clothing that doesn't actually touch the skin, sit in front of the window with a large glass of iced water, towel down as still too sweaty, go to bed. Rinse and repeat. After several weeks of putting off the inevitable, I finally purchased a small table fan yesterday -- €17.50 and worth every euro cent. I can now lie in bed and having cooling breezes play across my ... ahem, let's not go there. However, I'm still reluctant to have it on overnight in case it overheats and the apartment catches fire -- making it far too hot to sleep properly. Good job I'm not overly paranoid about these things.




2. Make gazpacho
I've long since foresworn the Spanish food items I loved most: chorizo, jamon serrano, natillas. But gazpacho is still my go-to summer recipe, which is odd given how much I dislike raw tomatoes and tomato juice. I think it's something to do with the combination of tomatoes and vinegar and cucumber. My talented Bulgarian but Madrid-based semi-sister-in-law Milena sent me this recipe: I highly recommend it.

Skin 6 large ripe tomatoes (score, pour boiling water over, leave for a few minutes, rinse under cold water, and peel). Chop and place in a blender along with 1/2 a cucumber (chopped), 1 red pepper (chopped), 1/2 a large onion (yes, chopped), a clove of garlic, a hefty glug of olive oil, and a good splash of vinegar. Blend for a couple of minutes until pink and slightly frothy. Taste, add salt and pepper as necessary, and more oil/vinegar/garlic to your liking. You can also add more tomato if it needs beefing up, so to speak. Blend again, briefly, and then pour into a bowl, add half a dozen ice cubes, and place in the fridge to get really cold. (I usually sieve it but then I hate vegetable gloopy sludge and getting tomato seeds stuck in my teeth; you may not be so fussy.) Top with more finally diced cucumber/pepper/onion, an ice cube, and perhaps some hard-boiled egg and croutons. It can start to go a bit fizzy after about 12 hours, so you want to eat it the same day.

From this:


To this:


This is quite a thin soup, but infinitely preferable to the thick stodgy ones with bread in.

3. Work from home
It may not be much cooler than in the office, but at least I can shower every hour and not bother with restricting undergarments.

Speaking of work, time to get back to the grindstone.

It won't be all white on the night

Given that I'm pretty cack-handed when it comes to applying make-up, I adore skincare products -- if my skin looks great, I don't need to bother with anything else. The latest range to meet my approval? Liz Earle's products, particularly the Cleanse and Polish Hot Cloth cleanser. It smells yummy, works like a dream, comes beautifully packaged, and isn't hugely expensive, particularly compared to the Eve Lom range that it (allegedly) mimics. However. I do have one problem with it. It requires you to use a muslin cloth to remove the cream, and then suggests that this cloth should go into the dirty washing pile after just TWO uses! I'm not sure what most of the customers are using this cleanser to remove -- coal dust? Pancake foundation? -- but this is insane. I'd need to have 7 cloths just to get through a week and even that would rely on me doing a white wash every week, which simply isn't the case.

Why? Because I hate white clothing. For starters, white looks pretty dreadful against the pallid yet blotchy skin that I possess, and I don't tan. Ever. Next, white clothes only look good the first time you wear them. Even if you manage to avoid the inevitable tomato sauce incident, the first wash will transform crisp white clothing into grey limp rags, regardless of the washing instructions provided on the label. I discovered that this is because of all those lovely modern fibers that they now use to give your clothing stretchiness; if you wash anything vaguely elasticky at above 40 degrees, it will instantly turn grey. Bleach doesn't do much for them, either, and seems hideously toxic, to boot. On top of that, I am incapable of avoiding the inevitable tomato sauce incident. Every white t-shirt I've ever bought has acquired a Coca-Cola stain shortly after purchase; I am apparently incapable of drinking from a can without getting it all over me. I now change out of any light-colored clothing before eating, regardless of food color. Eating naked or swaddled in a giant towel would be the easiest way to go, but rather impractical with company and chilly during the winter.

As a result, I possess very little white clothing, which means it's usually 2 weeks between white washes, which means I'd need 14 muslin cloths -- and why do I keep typing "muslim"? -- and I don't have time to iron 14 muslin cloths every 2 weeks, and yes, I'd have to iron them! Aarggh! Too hot, must lie down!

Great product, though. Highly recommended.

Like peas in a pod

A recent article in The Observer claimed that women were happiest when engaged in high-flow activities: those tasks that are sufficiently challenging to be completely absorbing but that aren't beyond our capabilities. (I'm not quite sure if or why it might be different for men, and the article didn't enlighten me, annoyingly.) For me, sudoku fits that bill, as does cooking. PJ is still astounded that I can happily spend time making bread, watching it rise, punching it down, watching it rise again, shaping it into loaves, watching it rise, baking it and misting it several times with water (think The Exorcist) and still claim that it's a no-fuss recipe. In total, though, it's just 10 minutes of my time, albeit spread out over several hours (or, in the case of sourdough, several days) and with a usually tasty end result. I, on the other hand, find it dfficult to understand his willingness to spend several consecutive hours trying to install a piece of networking equipment -- which often involves testing various wall/device interface scenarios, and then filling and repainting the resulting holes. Each to their own.

The results of yesterday's high-flow endeavours:

Lemon polenta cookies. The dough was easy; the absorbing part was piping it into s shapes. I finally got to break in my new piping kit. Fun!



Homemade pasta: Easy once you know how, and incredibly satisfying to produce. And it tastes fantastic. We had this with a chilled creme anglais and 3 varieties of legume, courtesy of this recipe. The sauce did little for me on its own, but poured over the warm pasta and beans? Bliss!



Fresh beans. I like to think of myself as a well-rounded cook, but I've never cooked with either broad beans or these capuciners before. Broad beans taste nicer, but these purple pods were gorgeous to look at. And shelling and peeling the beans was an enjoyably Zen task. Om!