tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29902286745964066662024-03-13T13:11:37.961+00:00Around the world in 80 markets, and moreVivacious bazaars, bizarre eateries, and people, with their little anecdotes and big sad stories. From a Russian, snuggled down in the Big Old Smoke.Katrinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04663690784541815542noreply@blogger.comBlogger70125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2990228674596406666.post-39474320402376617912010-11-14T17:23:00.004+00:002010-11-14T17:29:47.941+00:00Moving on..Dear readers,<br /><br />I have long realised that my blog has moved on from being mainly about farmers markets and that visually the site needs a bit of an uplift. Hence I am very pleased to announce that my new blog is now up and running:<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">The Gastronomical Me at <a href="http://www.gastronomicalme.com/">www.gastronomicalme.com </a></span><a href="http://www.blogger.com/www.gastronomicalme.com"><br /></a><br />This means that 'Around the world in 80 markets' is now closed for business, and I hope to see all of you again at the new address.<br /><br />KatrinaKatrinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04663690784541815542noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2990228674596406666.post-39931784811794477972010-10-30T19:14:00.002+01:002010-10-30T19:17:20.495+01:00Grand things are coming...Dear ladies and gentlemen,<br /><br />I am very much around and writing judiciously - albeit in my head mainly. The reason - my new website - bigger, better, sexier, more beautiful - is coming. You will like it, I promise.<br /><br />What do you think the site will be called?;)Katrinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04663690784541815542noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2990228674596406666.post-51493834057432676752010-10-11T18:41:00.007+01:002010-10-11T19:38:43.949+01:00Idleness spread on a perfect peanutbutter sandwichHow do you feel about Sunday nights?<br /><br />They come in different hues, from candy-floss melancholy to damn sticky depression. Oh, you <span style="font-style: italic;">can </span>enjoy them, but only in as much as you are prepared to transgress the sado-masochistic boundary and give in to the fun of endless numbing telly watching, always horizontal, always you'll start afresh, you'll be focused, disciplined and live your life to the full. But for now...for now, you have the full right to be lazy, to be a sloth, to experience that sense of <span style="font-style: italic;">ennui</span>..<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/TLNTqBiFxAI/AAAAAAAADI0/GubzxqcsORA/s1600/Oblomov+NY+times.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 153px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/TLNTqBiFxAI/AAAAAAAADI0/GubzxqcsORA/s400/Oblomov+NY+times.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5526853149144761346" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">The ultimate symbol of laziness - Oblomov: then and now by Boris Kulikov.</span></span><br /><br /></div>Russians have perfected this state of idleness to such an extent that there is even a well-worn term to describe the condition - <span style="font-weight: bold;">oblomovshina</span>. Oblomov was a character of the 19th century novel by Ivan Goncharev, whose symbol of the superfluous man staying in bed, unable to make decisions, has become mythical, quoted and used to explain the wrongness of everything from the Russian October revolution to Russians' weakness for vodka. As Lenin famously said:<br /><br /><blockquote>Russia has made three revolutions, and still the Oblomovs have remained... and he must be washed, cleaned, pulled about, and flogged for a long time before any kind of sense will emerge.<br /></blockquote><br />( I particularly like the reference to flogging by the way)<br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /><br /></span><span style="font-weight: bold;">Food </span>of course is an exception (provided you have a devoted serf or two, or a local take-away)<span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"></span>. </span>If I remember correctly Oblomov spent his days<span><span id="hotword"><span style="cursor: default; background-color: rgb(181, 213, 255);" id="hotword" name="hotword"></span></span></span> languorously moving from breakfast to brunch to dinner, then tea and supper.<br /><br /><blockquote>For a lazy man,” Goncharov explains, “recumbence” is a “pleasure..</blockquote><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/TLNVwqMuTqI/AAAAAAAADI8/nEuQlPKcdk0/s1600/Peanutbutter+onearth.org.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/TLNVwqMuTqI/AAAAAAAADI8/nEuQlPKcdk0/s400/Peanutbutter+onearth.org.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5526855462163467938" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Peanut butter by onearth.org</span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"></span></div><span style="font-weight: bold;">Peanut butter</span>, I propose, is the solidified epitome of this state of mindless non-doing. It is smooth, even the crunchy version lets you slip each nut without resistance. It is so intensely savoury and sweet at the same time that all foods go well with it, letting you forget the good and bad: <span style="font-style: italic;">bread, with honey, pieces of fruit, yoghurt, other nuts, biscuits, bananas, salami, gherkins, with bacon or just its fat as I found the night before...</span>a jar can be consumed slowly and exuberantly with just a spoon: so little effort, so much calorie. <span style="font-weight: bold;">A perfect Oblomov meal.</span><br /><br />How do you like your peanut butter?Katrinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04663690784541815542noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2990228674596406666.post-90942054438329061792010-09-29T20:18:00.014+01:002010-09-29T21:38:16.103+01:00Cold war and school dinnersIt's not all sex, drugs and roll'n'roll with me and food, you know. Whereas the food I often crave is high octave stuff - not in terms of it complexity (Michelin star plates leave me cold somewhat), but its impact (fat, offal, cream); today I've had the most warm and cuddly lunch possible:<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">...a school dinner par excellence - the Roast dinner with (many) trimmings.<br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/TKOefVHdIFI/AAAAAAAADIU/tbl5ALRU8EQ/s1600/DSC00042.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/TKOefVHdIFI/AAAAAAAADIU/tbl5ALRU8EQ/s400/DSC00042.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5522431829167906898" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">The bestest school dinner: Roast chicken with stuffing, roast potatoes, steamed broccoli and carrots, with gravy</span> </span></div><br />Not just any old school dinner, a very special dinner of Norfolk free-range chicken with local veg and a beautiful oaty apple crumble with grapes grown in the school's own garden (the M & S ad voice seems somehow inappropriate here due to its overt sexuality, but you get the picture).<br /><br />You see, I happen to work for a project that aims to 'transform' the food culture of this country. Yes, as grand as this. You probably remember Jamie's attempts a few years back to get kids eating 'proper' food, instead of the infamous turkey twizzlers (although I'm quite intrigued by the latter, actually makes me thing of the 19th century fad to make 'things', fabulous, magical things out of foods)? Well, <a href="http://www.foodforlife.org.uk/"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Food for Life</span></a> (the name of this grandeurs endeavour) started there with Jamie and school dinners. Then the grand dame of the British food world - <span style="font-weight: bold;">the <a href="http://www.soilassociation.org/Aboutus/Whoweare/tabid/66/Default.aspx">Soil Association</a></span> - took over, got some funding, and made the whole thing bigger and better.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/TKOfBxxTKaI/AAAAAAAADIk/SylSlBWJGAM/s1600/DSC00047.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/TKOfBxxTKaI/AAAAAAAADIk/SylSlBWJGAM/s400/DSC00047.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5522432420975159714" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">The most important people in the school: the dinner ladies.</span> </span><br /><br /></div>Today over 5000 schools across England ate their <a href="http://www.foodforlife.org.uk/Whatshappening/Newsandupdates/Newsitem/tabid/117/ArticleId/306/Take-part-in-the-Food-for-Life-Partnership-Roast-Dinner-Day.aspx">Roast Dinner</a> simultaneously, in an attempt to break the Guinness record for the most number of schools serving the same dinner at the same time'! These schools were also making a point, a stand if you like, to 'save the school dinner' in view of all the mortifying budget cuts so thoughtfully put upon us. Go dinners, go!<br /><br />Anyway, I thought it would be fun to be a little helper for a morning, and boy did the smells and sounds of that bustling school kitchen bring a tear to my sceptical eye. Inevitably, I remembered the days full of buckwheat smells and the looks of the wobbly semolina porridge...<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/TKOghrESFrI/AAAAAAAADIs/GP8pfOFn8-A/s1600/%40+blogs.chron.com"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 304px; height: 400px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/TKOghrESFrI/AAAAAAAADIs/GP8pfOFn8-A/s400/%40+blogs.chron.com" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5522434068443174578" border="0" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center; font-style: italic;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Soviet dinners, sans beer for the little ones.<br /></span></div><br />In those far-away Soviet days of communist cheer and seemingly unspoilt ration feeder I would very often take my <span style="font-style: italic;">obed </span>(a more substantial version of the Western <span style="font-style: italic;">lunch </span>if you may) in the kindengarden where my mum worked as a teacher. In those days Soviet kids used to study in shifts in schools, ie either study from early in the morning and be done by early afternoon, or start at about 1pm and finish at 6. So I would come to visit my mum and be fed after my daily Lenin's 'study, study, study'.<br /><br />Oh, the sweet memories of those wholesome meals...<br /><br />I remember getting down to a bowl of watery but brilliantly red and delicious <span style="font-weight: bold;">borsh</span>, following it up with a plate of <span style="font-weight: bold;">mash potatoes and kotlety</span> (often translated as burgers into English, but really, how can you compare those little dense flat patties of course pork mince and chunks of onion to a mere burger?!) and finish it off perhaps with a bowl of <span style="font-weight: bold;">zapekanka with kisel' </span>(a warm baked cheesecake with raisins, served floating in a fruity, thick drink)...<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/TKOerSsFmlI/AAAAAAAADIc/uVU-RvhOhdY/s1600/DSC00044.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/TKOerSsFmlI/AAAAAAAADIc/uVU-RvhOhdY/s400/DSC00044.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5522432034674678354" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">The most quintessential English pud - apple crumble with custard.</span><br /><br /></div>I'm not going to go all nostalgic on you and say that the food in all schools and kindergardens were this good, but the food I remember was ordinary and boring, 'real' as we love to call such food these days, made without any pre-packaged sauces (they were none to choose from), totally from scratch on that day. There were no choices ('Vegetarianism does not exist in the USSR'), no allergies (you go a bit red, so what, a normal child reaction), no care for the provenance of your meat (you probably didn't want to know).<br /><br />...'<span style="font-style: italic;">We have made extraordinary into ordinary</span>' said the head at the school about their school dinners. Sounds damn pompous, but makes you feel all warm and fuzzy inside.<br /><br />I ate diligently my full plate of the Traditional Roast dinner, finishing it off with some crumble and custard - not far at all from my beloved kotlety and zapekanka, are they, really?<br /><br /><blockquote>What is your favourite memory of the school dinner?</blockquote>Katrinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04663690784541815542noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2990228674596406666.post-65824408788674015362010-09-18T14:25:00.009+01:002010-09-18T15:38:47.349+01:00Yet another autumn, yet another breakfast<div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/TJS97-VwsCI/AAAAAAAADHM/5IaOXhhfimg/s1600/DSC00585.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/TJS97-VwsCI/AAAAAAAADHM/5IaOXhhfimg/s400/DSC00585.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5518244281479901218" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Early autumn in the Alexandra Palace park.</span></span><br /><br /></div>I love autumn. In all its disguises: the hellishly changing weather, the wind, the soft sun, the unexpectedly piercing light, the colours, that suit me so much better than the unapologetic brightness of summer, they also seem milder to the world around.<br /><br />Where summer is brash, adventurous, in your face, like a young girl that just wants to have fun, sleep around, not think, only act. Autumn is melancholic (that most promising of all moods when a sad smile comes together with a thoughtful eye), understated, sensual, akin to a woman who reflects on her pleasures and only allows those who appreciate and take time to come closer...<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/TJS-IwTgzrI/AAAAAAAADHU/d1v3scvwtug/s1600/DSC00584.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/TJS-IwTgzrI/AAAAAAAADHU/d1v3scvwtug/s400/DSC00584.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5518244501050674866" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Ally Pally, once early Saturday morning.</span> </span><br /><br /></div>Autumn also means, of course, the gathering of fruits, harvesting - when all the cliche statements about seasonality and the glut keep flooding in. But this is also the time to collect thoughts, to gather up, a kind of slow breathing out before a jump. The fog and dump air, the early nights allow one to wonder around almost unnoticed, to watch people and rain. To put a hood on or snuggle in underneath a big black umbrella - and think...<br /><br />Perhaps it is a school girl in me that still thinks that <span style="font-style: italic;">a</span> year starts on 1 September (and in Russia it is <span style="font-style: italic;">always </span>this precise date and never a more practical 4 or 5), with hordes of excited kids wearing long, white socks, and a tomato-red pioneer tie, carrying awkwardly the only imaginable flowers - Gladioli - huge, strangely erotic, grown-up. This is when you notice that <span style="font-style: italic;">tick</span>!, the clock changing, you changing - you are deliriously excited and shit scared about the year ahead.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/TJTInqVii_I/AAAAAAAADHk/1ut7cLjGjLU/s1600/vase_with_gladioli_vincent_van_gogh_poster-p228787865555899177vsu7_500.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 400px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/TJTInqVii_I/AAAAAAAADHk/1ut7cLjGjLU/s400/vase_with_gladioli_vincent_van_gogh_poster-p228787865555899177vsu7_500.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5518256027140787186" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Gladioli by Van Gogh</span></span>.<br /><br /></div>...I took the pictures above just this morning, whilst jogging up to Ally Pally. I was rushing, I was on the way to do business, serious, practical stuff, but I had to stop and drink, chew the view. I feel almost embarrassed about being so affected by a few leaves and clouds, but it must be something with that almost physical sense of being part of the cycle - it makes me <span style="font-style: italic;">feel </span>the change, believe that something marvelously exciting is around the corner. I become a little girl, with big wide eyed, holding a strong, warm hand, not yet comprehending but liking it even more for that.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/TJS-O_ukFeI/AAAAAAAADHc/L5A0ZkAoB2I/s1600/DSC00587.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/TJS-O_ukFeI/AAAAAAAADHc/L5A0ZkAoB2I/s400/DSC00587.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5518244608269882850" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Autumnal (ish) breakfast.</span></span><br /><br /></div>I came back home and marked the arrival of yet another autumn with the tastiest breakfasts I have had in a long time.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Slowly crisped up bacon</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">Salad of lettuce, ripen tomatoes, spring onions, baked beetroot</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">Marinated Polish cucumbers</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">Pain complet (French wholemeal bread) that I let to soak up all the bacony juices</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">A cup of strong, milky coffee</span><br /><br />A very simple, nothing to report breakfast. It was tasty above all. It made me believe that there would be many, many more breakfasts like this - and that's what matters.Katrinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04663690784541815542noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2990228674596406666.post-52503345140839857112010-09-06T22:42:00.016+01:002010-09-08T12:37:49.515+01:00The Taste Awards - Kafka would have had a feast...<span style="font-style: italic;">Hell with it</span>. I'm going to let go, gorge, indulge myself, over-do it, envelop inside and out with this voluptuous feeling of a total surrender to food. I am going to enjoy every molecule of it, slowly and quickly at the same time, anticipating the guilt to come and saying <span style="font-style: italic;">hell with it</span>.<br /><br />It's a rainy Monday evening, and even the tube is on strike. I am invited to the finals of the <a href="http://www.finefoodworld.co.uk/"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Taste Awards</span></a> in <a href="http://www.fortnumandmason.com/">Fortnum</a>'s - that pompous dinosaurs of a store that manages to be both eccentricly archaic and tenderly up to date. I have been a judge before, but on this occasion I am wearing high purple heals and gipsy dangling earrings.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/TIVu_eoSPNI/AAAAAAAADGc/hnhB3cPn_TM/s1600/Fortrum+2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/TIVu_eoSPNI/AAAAAAAADGc/hnhB3cPn_TM/s400/Fortrum+2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5513935355617885394" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Fortnum and Mason's window displays.</span> </span><br /><br /></div>Every time I come to the Awards I promise to myself to network, to 'do rounds', to do deals with useless and useful men. But this time I'm saying fuck with it. This is supposed to be THE emporium of food and I am going to do what the Romans did - eat, lick, goggle, swallow until your eyes feel with a delirium of over-satiation.<br /><br />This is a psychological vomitorium, with me imagining starving African children on the background. <span style="font-style: italic;">Heck with it</span>. My feelings of nutritious happiness will purvey the world and make everything all right.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/TIVwQPlJUwI/AAAAAAAADGk/nuCKVWn5Z_4/s1600/F%26M.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 337px; height: 400px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/TIVwQPlJUwI/AAAAAAAADGk/nuCKVWn5Z_4/s400/F%26M.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5513936743147590402" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Fortnum's know how to do high class and kitsch.</span></span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;">Surrounded by the impossible dream of a fat store, full up to its bream with exquisitely branded goodies and exotic packages, all lying, standing, kneeling, all around you, all having their price tags carefully tucked in. They tempt you to forget that not all of them here is for you delectation. Not them. There is so much that you can put your lips around.<br /></div></div><br /><br />...I start with a pig, of course. A big and curvaceous leg of a pig lounging sensually on a crisp white linen. A man with a thin and sharp knife and knowledgeable hands (this skill requires years of practice and a certificate to proof) smiles innocently and offers a sliver to try.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/TIVwvMNr2uI/AAAAAAAADGs/jlmrSg8Pniw/s1600/iberico+ham.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 228px; height: 289px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/TIVwvMNr2uI/AAAAAAAADGs/jlmrSg8Pniw/s400/iberico+ham.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5513937274819828450" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Iberico ham (an unknown to me painter).</span></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">My taster thanks to www.iberflavours.com</span> </span><br /><br /></div>I take the warm piece of <span style="font-weight: bold;">Iberico ham</span>, burgundy and almond colour, roll it and put my tongue over it. Oh hell. If there is a re-incarnation, I know I want to be an Iberico pig, leaving on acres and acres of free land, feeding myself silly on acorns and occasional grass and roots. So Russian of me really. They say these pigs endure extreme temperatures and survive any weather.<br /><br />Oh, and the fat.<br /><br />The woman selling the ham started briskly telling me how this fat is <span style="font-style: italic;">actually</span> good, I glanced back and she stops. I do not need to be told that. This fat is so fucking good. I want to put a thin stack of these warm, grainy, fat slices in my bag - for all its £12 per 100gr price tag - and fish out one by one three times a day, to remind myself of the woodlands, smell of mushrooms and wet soil. And this ludicrous over-indulgence.<br /><br /><br />...After stall after stall of - the best but expected - cheeses I spot a modest little plate full of warm <span style="font-weight: bold;">fishcakes</span> (thanks to Moxon's fishmongers). The fat of the Iberico ham is brush and lush, these cakes of cod, lug (?) and wild garlic, are like old-fashioned, flower-patterned pottery laid out on a sunny day.<br /><br />The man explains that the <span style="font-weight: bold;">lug </span>(apparently a forgotten, back of the ear, part of the fish) gives the cakes a more grainy, salt-cod like texture and flavour. Perhaps. I just think they are good and clever - in that they are the only ones on display tonight that are warm and home-made-like. I keep nagging the man about the unsustainability of the cod (he says that the stocks around the UK have actually 'replenished remarkably' - hmm, who knows), whilst putting a blob after blob in my month. I feel cheery.<br /><br />Then there are rows and lines and stacks of bacon (maple syrup layered), mini baps with sausage (Northumberland, pure pork), ice-creams and sorbets (Bloody Mary and Bloody oranges), more wine, more looking for more, avoiding the glances of lust around - they are for another sausage, no doubt, not for me.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/TIVy1OOlBdI/AAAAAAAADHE/BjZg6AZPyXY/s1600/DSC00521.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/TIVy1OOlBdI/AAAAAAAADHE/BjZg6AZPyXY/s400/DSC00521.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5513939577462916562" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Oaty Vanilla Crunch Creams www.cobbs.inf0</span><br /></span><br /></div>...My heart rate palpitates, I go up a floor, where sweets are laid out. Brownies always do good at such Awards - chocolate, butter, sugar, the no loose Big 3 - triple chocolate, gluten-free with cranberries, macademia nuts.<br /><br />Eventually I get to a quiet plate of pale <span style="font-weight: bold;">biscuits sandwiching cream</span>. I like these. They are the essence of Englishness (perhaps the way the way tourists see it). 'Honest' all-butter biscuits, holding a naughty centre.<br /><br />I imagine this is something I could make - or rather put together - at home. Proper, expensive oatcakes, say spread with a mixture of high-volume cream cheese mixed in with icing sugar, or caramel, or dark honey. These on display are not like this at all, but I like the feeling of connection to the guy-producer (I seem to think it's a man) who is at the same biscuit wavelength as me.<br /><br />...I need to go. Words and gazes slur. People's voices are slightly hysterical (or is it my ears?) and so are they months. They keep chewing, munching, slurping. The displays are cleared but they continue moving their lips and teeth as if in a trance. I feel myself saying a whisper of a goodbye to someone, whilst patting my warm, expanded belly, but maybe I am not saying a thing, maybe I am like them, just keep moving, digesting, consuming.Katrinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04663690784541815542noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2990228674596406666.post-21957579878041882122010-08-26T08:41:00.008+01:002010-08-26T09:40:04.370+01:00On breaking fast and melancholyI have been feeling rather melancholicly recently. May be because I have just come back from sparkly Morocco into the winds and rains of London; or the realisation that the summer, with all its promise of excitement and adventure, is almost over, never quite delivering; or some quasi-existential, not-quite-middle-life crises feelings all rolled into one. Getting out of bed and putting feet onto cold floor is a chore...<br /><br />Breakfast is the only thing that has been rescuing me. The second thought after 'oh, God, it's morning again' is that of food. No matter how sad I feel, my appetite never leaves me. The enjoyment comes not just from the physical pleasure of tasting and waking up to flavours, but also from the process of thinking up your morning meal. The mental voyage through your fridge, slowly assessing what your tongue and belly feels like, what would comfort you most, adds just a touch of zing to your day. I love breakfasts and don't need to be told that it is healthy to eat them or that one shouldn't rush them. I wouldn't dare.<br /><br />So here are a few examples of my morning little feasts. Some happened months ago and I have never quite found a reason to write about them. My humble, mostly solitary (J loves his oats with milk and ooof to work) morning meals are my favourite past time, so in the future I will be posting more, perhaps a collage of breakfasts, changing from season to season, mood to mood...But for now:<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/THYcM1eT4WI/AAAAAAAADGE/xb8A76NjbaM/s1600/DSC00538.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/THYcM1eT4WI/AAAAAAAADGE/xb8A76NjbaM/s400/DSC00538.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5509622200972599650" border="0" /></a><span style="font-weight: bold;">Soft-boiled egg, Lithuanian rye bread, chopped tomatoes and cucumbers.</span><br /></div><br />This is quite recent, on another melancholic day, crouching on the decking of my garden.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/THYbYFDQdMI/AAAAAAAADF0/48eoNSqFLw4/s1600/DSC00404.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/THYbYFDQdMI/AAAAAAAADF0/48eoNSqFLw4/s400/DSC00404.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5509621294621029570" border="0" /></a><span style="font-weight: bold;">Organic herby sausage, mushrooms fried with garlic and onion, lettuce leaves, with organic tomato ketchup.<br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: left;">Sometime in the spring: I had bought that bottle of ponsy organic ketchup and so made a fry-up to go with it.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/THYbu0BolwI/AAAAAAAADF8/LZlFwIdZN-0/s1600/DSC00372.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/THYbu0BolwI/AAAAAAAADF8/LZlFwIdZN-0/s400/DSC00372.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5509621685187811074" border="0" /></a><span style="font-weight: bold;">Turkish coffee<br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: left;">Some of you, my dear readers, will remember my '<a href="http://rodnushechka.blogspot.com/2010/01/hot-dark-tempting.html">Hot, dark, tempting</a>' post about the making of proper Turkish coffee, in a <span style="font-style: italic;">dzezva</span>. This photo is some 6 months old, but this coffee is a frequent occurrence on my breakfast table (often in this charming butterfly cup).<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/THYayM-DafI/AAAAAAAADFk/3C2YuHGjAwk/s1600/DSC00517.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/THYayM-DafI/AAAAAAAADFk/3C2YuHGjAwk/s400/DSC00517.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5509620643911657970" border="0" /></a><span style="font-weight: bold;">Smoked mackerel, black bread, cherry tomatoes and salted Polish cucumbers.<br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: left;">Possible one of my most favourite meals any time of the day. You are probably wondering by now about the prevalence of protein and salt in my breakfasts, and lack of dairy and sugar. Yes, my Russo-Ukrainian genes (or habits really) talk here. A bowl of cornflakes (or even good musli) just never has the same soothing or exhilarating effect.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">And lastly, but so not listly:<br /><br /></div><span style="font-weight: bold;"></span></div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/THYciySaCEI/AAAAAAAADGM/Tml1AdPtTSo/s1600/DSCN3592.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/THYciySaCEI/AAAAAAAADGM/Tml1AdPtTSo/s400/DSCN3592.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5509622578074486850" border="0" /></a><span style="font-weight: bold;">Moroccan breakfast: Ksra (flat bread), beghrir (pancakes), apricot and strawberry jam, watermelon</span>.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;">From our recent <a href="http://rodnushechka.blogspot.com/2010/08/labyrynth-of-smells-fruit-and-veg.html">trip to Fez</a>, whilst staying in a beautiful riad, where we were having our breakfast in a courtyard with blue blue skies above us and a melancholy of fading mosaics around us..<br /></div></div><span style="font-weight: bold;"></span></div></div><span style="font-weight: bold;"></span></div></div>Katrinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04663690784541815542noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2990228674596406666.post-56265482198667818252010-08-22T22:13:00.010+01:002010-08-29T16:39:20.497+01:00Iftar - the breaking of the FastDuring my recent short trip to Morocco I remember bitterly regretting not having organised a meal in an 'ordinary' family home (not that it's an easy task, but the world of couchsurfing stretching far). We were travelling during <span style="font-weight: bold;">Ramadan</span>; when the gruelling test of no eating or drinking (or sex..) is rewarded by the mini-feast of <span style="font-weight: bold;">Iftat </span>in the evening. Iftar happens just after the sunset, surrounded by your family, very much akin to our Christmas, and lasts good couple of hours. This is unless you are a single man and then you go to a nearby cafe. I was yearning to experience Iftour in a 'proper' home setting.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/THpgZMJegDI/AAAAAAAADGU/0tmAl5a0Z-I/s1600/Harira.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 270px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/THpgZMJegDI/AAAAAAAADGU/0tmAl5a0Z-I/s400/Harira.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5510823079915192370" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Harrira, dates and preserved lemons - a traditional Iftar.<br />Photo thanks to</span><span style="font-style: italic;"> http://imazighennarif.blogspot.com</span></span><br /></div><br />It was not until the very last evening, in the small mountain town of Azrou, that I realised that to experience Iftar we did not have to search for an idealic family environment. Finding a simple caf, packed with local Moroccans who for various reasons did not have home to go to, was a great way to see the ritual - and participate in it.<br /><br />The preparation for the evening meal starts at about 3-4 o'clock in the afternoon when (mainly) women go out shopping for food at numerous <a href="http://rodnushechka.blogspot.com/2010/08/labyrynth-of-smells-fruit-and-veg.html">markets</a>. Single men go out to buy some ready-made provisions for their solitary evening meals at the market stalls. You can almost touch the anticipation in the air, it increases and speeds up as time approaches the long-awaited break-fast. The atmosphere thickens with people's hunger and smells of cooking.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/THGTJ6kOVGI/AAAAAAAADFE/7JUWIXR5iiI/s1600/DSC00530.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/THGTJ6kOVGI/AAAAAAAADFE/7JUWIXR5iiI/s400/DSC00530.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5508345617800123490" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Counting minutes bef</span></span><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-size:85%;">ore Iftour, the meal breaking the fast. </span></span><br /></div><br />At around 6pm the air turns still, as if in anticipation for a storm. People's bloods starts to run slower, hearts slow down, everyone's eyes are on their watch. The prayer normally takes place about an hour or so before the Iftar, and so you see men leaving the mosques with solemn eyes, perhaps contemplating their spirituality, perhaps their rumbling stomachs. Those dining outside their homes - young unmarried men, businessmen in-between cities, some widowed women - find a place to eat long before the fast is broken. Putting together your meal in such public surroundings is as much of a ritual as making a 3 course meal at home, even if it only means shelling your egg, sprinkling cumin on it, or stirring hot harissa into your soup. You can almost count seconds by the flow of blood pressure running through your ears...<br /><br /> And then it happens, a loud whisper floats through and above the punters in the cafe - you can eat.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/THGTmiF1UhI/AAAAAAAADFM/GYkHvkaotAE/s1600/eggs+and+sweets.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 286px; height: 400px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/THGTmiF1UhI/AAAAAAAADFM/GYkHvkaotAE/s400/eggs+and+sweets.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5508346109446410770" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">The humble Iftar offering: a boiled egg, dates and </span><span style="font-style: italic;">Chbakiyya</span></span>.<br /></div><br />The traditional Iftar meal almost always consists of <span style="font-weight: bold;">Harirra</span>, a thick soup of chickpeas, tomatoes, sometimes lamb and vermicelli. Guidebooks all claim that accompanying the soup with <span style="font-weight: bold;">dates </span>is authentic, perhaps, but I have not seen anyone eating their soup with dates. A splash of green olive oil, a chunk of flat bread is all the bowl of very hot soup needs.<br /><br />Most people actually start off by a drink - a yoghurt drink sold in recycled plastic bottles by women from villages. Or just a can of coke. Then goes a <span style="font-weight: bold;">hard-boiled egg</span>, seasoned with cumin. Then the soup. The meal is finished by a glass of very sweet mint tea (which is made with black or green tea leaves by the way, not just hot water and herb) and <span style="font-weight: bold;">Chbakiyya</span>, a 'tressed' pastry - a coil of flaky pastry soaked in sugar syrup.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/THGUKPwONTI/AAAAAAAADFU/m7DJijl4AEg/s1600/DSC00536.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/THGUKPwONTI/AAAAAAAADFU/m7DJijl4AEg/s400/DSC00536.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5508346722999219506" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Finishing off the feast: mint tea and Chbakiyya.<br /><br /></span></span><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-style: italic;"></span><span style="font-style: italic;">..</span>We started our break-fast together with the others in the cafe, but finished it later than others, enjoying the rare sense of feeling part of the proceedings<span style="font-style: italic;"></span>, this quiet, almost sneaky sharing of the tradition that we would not normally be privy. Infiltration of a different kind.<br /><span style="font-style: italic;"></span></div></div>Katrinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04663690784541815542noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2990228674596406666.post-43094211641477300602010-08-21T11:36:00.026+01:002010-08-21T20:58:21.020+01:00The labyrynth of smells - fruit and veg market, Fez, Morocco<span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;color:black;" ></span><p class="MsoNormal" face="arial"><meta equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"><meta name="ProgId" content="Word.Document"><meta name="Generator" content="Microsoft Word 10"><meta name="Originator" content="Microsoft Word 10"><link rel="File-List" href="file:///C:%5CDOCUME%7E1%5CKKOLLE%7E1%5CLOCALS%7E1%5CTemp%5Cmsohtml1%5C01%5Cclip_filelist.xml"><o:smarttagtype namespaceuri="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name="place"></o:smarttagtype><o:smarttagtype namespaceuri="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name="country-region"></o:smarttagtype><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:snaptogridincell/> <w:wraptextwithpunct/> <w:useasianbreakrules/> </w:Compatibility> <w:browserlevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if !mso]><object classid="clsid:38481807-CA0E-42D2-BF39-B33AF135CC4D" id="ieooui"></object> <style> st1\:*{behavior:url(#ieooui) } </style> <![endif]--><style> <!-- /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0cm; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:11.0pt; font-family:Arial; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";} @page Section1 {size:612.0pt 792.0pt; margin:72.0pt 90.0pt 72.0pt 90.0pt; mso-header-margin:36.0pt; mso-footer-margin:36.0pt; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style><!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0cm 5.4pt 0cm 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0cm; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman";} </style> <![endif]--> </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color:black;">‘The smells’ – the unforgettable combination of cinnamon, rose water, cumin, dust and dung – disturbing and enticing at the same time.
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<br /><!--[endif]--></span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color:black;">‘The smells’ is what I tell people when asked why I fell in love with </span><st1:country-region><st1:place><span style="color:black;">Morocco</span></st1:place></st1:country-region><span style="color:black;">. If you are looking for dust-free streets and hassle-spared promenades, then </span><st1:country-region><st1:place><span style="color:black;">Morocco</span></st1:place></st1:country-region><span style="color:black;"> may not be for you. But if you are turned on by the idea of snatching the last glimpses of the Middle Ages, go now and you’ll be forever haunted by the aroma of the leathery broad beans stewed with cumin and sold in shadowy corners; by the smell of old waters collected in the cobbled, no-wider-than-a-donkey’s-arse, streets; by just boiled potato sandwiches sold by a local gang of boys; by dusty but mind-blowingly delicate carpets; by the odour of freshly made leather goods, combined with intensely sugary mint tea poured from dizzy heights…</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="">
<br /><span style="color:black;"></span><o:p></o:p></p> <p></p><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/TG-11gkhYjI/AAAAAAAADDc/8qNELTPM_A8/s1600/DSCN3615.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/TG-11gkhYjI/AAAAAAAADDc/8qNELTPM_A8/s400/DSCN3615.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5507820800178217522" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">The streets of old Medina (Fez)</span></span>
<br /></div><p class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style="font-size:85%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <span style="font-size:85%;"><u2:p></u2:p></span> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:85%;" ><u2:p></u2:p>
<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" >...We came back to </span><span style="font-size:100%;"><st1:country-region><st1:place><span style="font-family:Arial;"><st1:country-region><st1:place>Morocco</st1:place></st1:country-region></span></st1:place></st1:country-region></span><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" > almost five years after out initial olfactory affair with the place, choosing </span><span style="font-size:100%;"><st1:city><st1:place><span style="font-family:Arial;"><st1:city><st1:place>Fez</st1:place></st1:city></span></st1:place></st1:city></span><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" >, this ancient city with over 9000 streets hidden in its </span><span style="font-size:100%;"><st1:city><st1:place><span style="font-family:Arial;"><st1:city><st1:place>Medina</st1:place></st1:city></span></st1:place></st1:city></span><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" >, for a fleeting breather from </span><span style="font-size:100%;"><st1:city><st1:place><span style="font-family:Arial;"><st1:city><st1:place>London</st1:place></st1:city></span></st1:place></st1:city></span><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:85%;" ><span style="font-size:100%;"> staleness.</span>
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<br /></span><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/TG-2hS__SyI/AAAAAAAADD0/LSCrcbv4_Lg/s1600/DSCN3664.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/TG-2hS__SyI/AAAAAAAADD0/LSCrcbv4_Lg/s400/DSCN3664.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5507821552449571618" border="0" /></a></span></p><span style="font-size:85%;"><o:p></o:p></span> <span style="font-size:85%;"><u2:p></u2:p></span> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:85%;" ><u2:p></u2:p><span style="font-style: italic;">The labyrinth of streets and smells
<br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:85%;" ><span style="font-style: italic;"></span>
<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:85%;" >A<span style="font-size:100%;">ugust is a low season in </span></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><st1:country-region><st1:place><span style="font-family:Arial;"><st1:country-region><st1:place>Morocco</st1:place></st1:country-region></span></st1:place></st1:country-region></span><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" > because of the unbearable heat (40C is normal). This year in addition it is the month of Ramadan, with its soul-testing fasting demands, making travelling a particular challenge. We decided to go on a whim, wanting to experience </span><span style="font-size:100%;"><st1:country-region><st1:place><span style="font-family:Arial;"><st1:country-region><st1:place>Morocco</st1:place></st1:country-region></span></st1:place></st1:country-region></span><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" > in its most uncomfortable.
<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" >
<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" >But once landed, we were taken back by the smell of soil freshly impregnated with rain - the land felt fresh, enlivened. It was pleasant - too pleasant for those looking for the exotic 'otherness'. It was not until we reached the eerily empty walls of </span><span style="font-size:100%;"><st1:city><st1:place><span style="font-family:Arial;"><st1:city><st1:place>Medina</st1:place></st1:city></span></st1:place></st1:city></span><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" > (8pm is when everyone rests at home, having broken their fast, before 'hitting the town') that the memories - the smells - started to creep back in. No traveller can escape Fez Medina without getting lost. I wonder whether local inhabitants find their way by nose, as each corner, crook and cranny has its own smell, an olfactory labyrinth of a kind...
<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style="font-size:100%;">
<br /></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/TG-19F6QtUI/AAAAAAAADDk/a7ZTQld1rRg/s1600/DSCN3624.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/TG-19F6QtUI/AAAAAAAADDk/a7ZTQld1rRg/s400/DSCN3624.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5507820930460595522" border="0" /></a></span><span style="font-style: italic;">Souqs of Fez (and J with a yellow umbrella)</span></span>
<br />
<br /></div><p class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:85%;" ><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:85%;" ><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" >Fez Medina is broken down into sections, </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" >souqs</span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" >, markets, each specialising in a particular trade, each with its unique combination of smells. Thus there is a spice souq, henna souq (now more famous for its pottery), tanneries with their revolting stench of leather treated with dung and chemical dies, the meat market with a whiff of coagulated blood and fresh innards…</span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:85%;" ><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="">
<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style="font-size:85%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/TG--9BiQvmI/AAAAAAAADEc/oMtN2yeDKnY/s1600/DSCN3641.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/TG--9BiQvmI/AAAAAAAADEc/oMtN2yeDKnY/s400/DSCN3641.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5507830824890842722" border="0" /></a></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; font-style: italic;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Chicken on sale. Tesco 'fresh' carries a different meaning here</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" >The fruit and veg market in the Western part of </span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" ><st1:city><st1:place>Medina</st1:place></st1:city></span><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:85%;" ><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:arial;"> is unsurprisingly most aromatic and fresh. Mid August is the time of <span style="font-weight: bold;">figs </span>- heavy, lilac ones and less sweet, lemony ones. All quite small compared to the perfect giants sold in London. Bursting with flavour quite literally, so ripen that they get slightly sticky on the outside. We couldn't hold ourselves and greedily bought a couple of kilos of each kind from a women who had just come down from a village in mountains.</span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="">
<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style=""><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/THAmYoWbzzI/AAAAAAAADE8/d7CHpFndmwk/s1600/DSCN3636.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/THAmYoWbzzI/AAAAAAAADE8/d7CHpFndmwk/s400/DSCN3636.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5507944548864347954" border="0" /></a></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Figs.
<br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Some believe the ultimate Eden fruit was this aromatic, suggestive-looking fruit, rather than a cool and firm apple</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Yellow <span style="font-weight: bold;">melons </span>are on the other hand a lot bigger - and needless to say so much more perfumed - than those sold in Green Lanes. We had the pale-green flesh cut up and served with warm bread for breakfast each morning.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style="font-size:85%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/TG-2rkEy0gI/AAAAAAAADD8/D3emiYWYJoI/s1600/DSCN3667.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/TG-2rkEy0gI/AAAAAAAADD8/D3emiYWYJoI/s400/DSCN3667.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5507821728831820290" border="0" /></a></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:85%;" ><span style="font-style: italic;">Fruit and veg market in Fez</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:85%;" ><span style="font-style: italic;"></span>
<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" >I have read odes to <span style="font-weight: bold;">prickly pears</span> which carry a semi-iconic status on Greek islands, but I had myself been disappointed in the past with their undistinguishable flavour. In Fez these hedgehogs of fruits are sold in big wooden carts, with the seller swiftly and miraculously transforming each fruit into a round pink softness, refreshing to no end and only a few un-prickly seeds to deal with. I can't say the prickly thing is my favourite fruit, but I see what those hot-blooded Greeks might like about them.</span><span style="font-size:85%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><span style="font-size:85%;">
<br /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/TG-3EjLfc-I/AAAAAAAADEM/5dRf4g56VdU/s1600/DSCN3619.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/TG-3EjLfc-I/AAAAAAAADEM/5dRf4g56VdU/s400/DSCN3619.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5507822158088205282" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Prickly pears sold across Medina to clench thirst </span></span>
<br />
<br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">Then there were huge </span></span><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" >pink onions</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:arial;"> everywhere, almost translucent in colour, sweeter than the standard white variety. We bought just one and brought it all the way to London, where I've been slicing it carefully and enjoying bit by bit with a tomato salad.</span></span>
<br />
<br /></div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/TG-_2V3IxtI/AAAAAAAADE0/Lf_3gFZ7SCs/s1600/DSCN3628.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/TG-_2V3IxtI/AAAAAAAADE0/Lf_3gFZ7SCs/s400/DSCN3628.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5507831809599653586" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Pink onions and very red tomatoes</span>
<br /></span></div><span style="font-size:85%;">
<br /></span><meta equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"><meta name="ProgId" content="Word.Document"><meta name="Generator" content="Microsoft Word 10"><meta name="Originator" content="Microsoft Word 10"><link rel="File-List" href="file:///C:%5CDOCUME%7E1%5CKKOLLE%7E1%5CLOCALS%7E1%5CTemp%5Cmsohtml1%5C01%5Cclip_filelist.xml"><o:smarttagtype namespaceuri="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name="place"></o:smarttagtype><o:smarttagtype namespaceuri="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name="City"></o:smarttagtype><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:snaptogridincell/> <w:wraptextwithpunct/> <w:useasianbreakrules/> </w:Compatibility> <w:browserlevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if !mso]><object classid="clsid:38481807-CA0E-42D2-BF39-B33AF135CC4D" id="ieooui"></object> <style> st1\:*{behavior:url(#ieooui) } </style> <![endif]--><style> <!-- /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; 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margin:0cm; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:11.0pt; font-family:Arial; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";} @page Section1 {size:612.0pt 792.0pt; margin:72.0pt 90.0pt 72.0pt 90.0pt; mso-header-margin:36.0pt; mso-footer-margin:36.0pt; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style><!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0cm 5.4pt 0cm 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0cm; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman";} </style> <![endif]--><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:11pt;" ></span><meta equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"><meta name="ProgId" content="Word.Document"><meta name="Generator" content="Microsoft Word 10"><meta name="Originator" content="Microsoft Word 10"><link rel="File-List" href="file:///C:%5CDOCUME%7E1%5CKKOLLE%7E1%5CLOCALS%7E1%5CTemp%5Cmsohtml1%5C01%5Cclip_filelist.xml"><o:smarttagtype namespaceuri="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name="place"></o:smarttagtype><o:smarttagtype namespaceuri="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name="City"></o:smarttagtype><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:snaptogridincell/> <w:wraptextwithpunct/> <w:useasianbreakrules/> </w:Compatibility> <w:browserlevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if !mso]><object classid="clsid:38481807-CA0E-42D2-BF39-B33AF135CC4D" id="ieooui"></object> <style> st1\:*{behavior:url(#ieooui) } </style> <![endif]--><style> <!-- /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0cm; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:11.0pt; font-family:Arial; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";} @page Section1 {size:612.0pt 792.0pt; margin:72.0pt 90.0pt 72.0pt 90.0pt; mso-header-margin:36.0pt; mso-footer-margin:36.0pt; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style><!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0cm 5.4pt 0cm 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0cm; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman";} </style> <![endif]--><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:11pt;" >And of course - <b>tomatoes</b>. Real stuff, with a smell and colour, fully ripen. Most on sale in </span><st1:city><st1:place><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:11pt;" >Fez</span></st1:place></st1:city><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:11pt;" > were not of a particularly fancy variety, but the patience of a farmer who left the fruit on its vine for long enough makes the whole difference. Those who know me know that tomato is what I live for in culinary terms. I hunt them down and buy in bags every time I'm in a county with a suitable climate.
<br />
<br />...We came back tired to our hotel, smiling silly, happily, minutes before another thunderstorm poured down, shutting down most aromas of the city, quietening the sounds....We sneaked in our bags of fruit and bread - eating or drinking is not allowed until darkness, remember - and had our mini feast. In bed. Divine. Blasphemous. All the better for it.</span><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:11pt;" >
<br />
<br /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/TG-_GpZTCxI/AAAAAAAADEk/SsiNxrhjwlo/s1600/DSCN3608.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/TG-_GpZTCxI/AAAAAAAADEk/SsiNxrhjwlo/s400/DSCN3608.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5507830990209485586" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Lunch in riad: tomatoes, figs, bread</span></span>
<br /></div><meta equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"><meta name="ProgId" content="Word.Document"><meta name="Generator" content="Microsoft Word 10"><meta name="Originator" content="Microsoft Word 10"><link rel="File-List" href="file:///C:%5CDOCUME%7E1%5CKKOLLE%7E1%5CLOCALS%7E1%5CTemp%5Cmsohtml1%5C01%5Cclip_filelist.xml"><span style="font-size:85%;"><o:smarttagtype namespaceuri="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name="City"></o:smarttagtype><o:smarttagtype namespaceuri="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name="country-region"></o:smarttagtype><o:smarttagtype namespaceuri="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name="place"></o:smarttagtype></span><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:snaptogridincell/> <w:wraptextwithpunct/> <w:useasianbreakrules/> </w:Compatibility> <w:browserlevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if !mso]><object classid="clsid:38481807-CA0E-42D2-BF39-B33AF135CC4D" id="ieooui"></object> <style> st1\:*{behavior:url(#ieooui) } </style> <![endif]--><style> <!-- /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0cm; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language:RU;} @page Section1 {size:595.3pt 841.9pt; margin:72.0pt 90.0pt 72.0pt 90.0pt; mso-header-margin:35.4pt; mso-footer-margin:35.4pt; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style><!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0cm 5.4pt 0cm 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0cm; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman";} </style> <![endif]--><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:85%;" ><!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span> <span style="font-size:85%;"><u1:p></u1:p></span> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> Katrinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04663690784541815542noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2990228674596406666.post-40201477502222120532010-08-15T09:30:00.012+01:002010-08-15T11:03:00.155+01:00Napoleon cake - the most Russian French cakeIf you have ever been invited to a celebration party in (or around) Russia, you would have most probably tasted the omnipresent Napoleon cake. Essentially a French Mille-Feuille - a <span style="font-weight: bold;">'thousand layer' cake</span>, often known as a Custard slice elsewhere, it has been adapted, adopted and fully nationalised by Russians, as THE Russian cake.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/TGe2k66zoeI/AAAAAAAADCo/2hBGmE3kQvo/s1600/DSCN3566.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/TGe2k66zoeI/AAAAAAAADCo/2hBGmE3kQvo/s400/DSCN3566.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5505569814891176418" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Napoleon - THE Russian cake<br /></span></span></div><br />Most Russians will reassure you that the name has a direct link to a certain French Emperor, and was invented in his honour (perhaps in line with another Russian treasure with a French name - <a href="http://rodnushechka.blogspot.com/2009/12/king-of-all-salads-majestic-olivier.html">salad Olivier</a>). I admit, I have not done a lot of research into the origin of the name (perhaps a topic for my future Phd in Anthropology), but the wise <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mille-feuille">Wikipedia </a>suggests that the recipe is of 'ancient origin' (read, no one really knows) and the name comes from <span style="font-style: italic;">napolitain</span>, ie in French, originated in Naples. the word later got miraculously changed to Napoleon, perhaps by a simple linguist association.<br /><br />In Russia the most iconic version - or the most Soviet, depending on how you look at it - is made with condensed milk cream, that cloyingly sweet and terrifyingly addictive substance. Unlike the 'proper' French Mill-feuille, where the top is often covered by patterned icing, the Russian version is topped with crumbled pastry. The budget version if you like, which I in fact prefer to the teeth-gnawing icing.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/TGe34KGPKfI/AAAAAAAADCw/GpMlxev-tM8/s1600/DSC00515.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/TGe34KGPKfI/AAAAAAAADCw/GpMlxev-tM8/s400/DSC00515.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5505571244894792178" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Condensed milk, favourite sweet treat of Soviet children, and the ingredient in Napoleon cake.</span> </span></div><br />I have numerous memories of my mother making Napoleons for me, often in preparation for various school events, such as the ceremony of becoming a Pioneer, or my birthday when it was expected that you'd bring a cake to your school. The memory of the smell - warm, soft butter and baked pastry - aways made me weep the other night, remembering my childhood, my mother's hands, frosted with snow windows in our little wooden house...*clearing away melodramatic tears*.<br /><br />I have made the Napoleon last night for our big house warming party, challenged to it by <a href="http://www.amyspurling.com/cakechallenge.php">Amy</a>, whose '<a href="http://rodnushechka.blogspot.com/2010/08/my-soviet-kitchen.html">Soviet Kitchen</a>' I have recently reviewed. The process was surprisingly straight-forward, the result head-spinningly good. I was proud - and stuffed - to my eye balls.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/TGe5KVIFPvI/AAAAAAAADC4/kwqDAlnRYhA/s1600/good.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 390px; height: 400px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/TGe5KVIFPvI/AAAAAAAADC4/kwqDAlnRYhA/s400/good.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5505572656604593906" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">My Napoleon cake</span></span><br /><br /></div>Amy's given a recipe to follow, which I'm relaying here with comments and alternations:<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">"Наполеон"</span> <span style="font-weight: bold;">cake </span>(adopted from Zhenya's recipe)<br /><br />For the pastry:<br />1 egg<br />250g soft butter (but not so much so that it disintegrates, perhaps an hour's out of fridge)<br />540g flour<br />juice of 1/2 lemon<br />1/2 teaspoon salt<br />125 ml water (cold)<br /><br />For the cream:<br />300g of soft butter<br />405g tin condensed milk<br /><br />1. Mix flour and butter with fingertips, till they form breadcrumbs.<br /><br />2. Mix the water, egg, lemon juice and salt.<br /><br />3. Pour into the breadcrumbs and mix again. The result will be quite hard to kneed, because of all the butter, so just try to put everything in one neat piece, as much as possible.<br /><br />4. Divide the mixture into 7 balls and leave in the fridge for an hour (or longer).<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/TGe5aoRo7iI/AAAAAAAADDA/mFTjvamQ46w/s1600/DSC00514.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/TGe5aoRo7iI/AAAAAAAADDA/mFTjvamQ46w/s400/DSC00514.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5505572936622861858" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Pastry balls before going into fridge for chilling</span></span><br /></div><br />5. Turn on your oven to 220C (or 200C if fan-assisted).<br /><br />6. Prepare clean, open kitchen surface. Have a little bit of flour to dust the surface and the pastry whilst working on it. Take out one ball at a time (the colder the pasty, the easier it is to work with), flatten it first with your hands, then roll it out carefully with a rolling pin to shape a thin (about 3 mms) circle, square or a rectangle (depending on what shape you want your finished cake to be). The shapes are going to be all over the place, so you can try to use a plate to cut out your circle, or trim the rough edges later. Don't panic.<br /><br />7. Using your rolling pin, lift each circle and carefully place onto a baking sheet (no need to smear with butter, as there's so much of it in the dough already). Something I didn't do - prick each circle with a fork in several places, to stop bubbles forming whilst baking; or place another baking sheet on top for the first few minutes of baking it to flatten it.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/TGe6CkDWcpI/AAAAAAAADDI/bNPvqYXAjI0/s1600/DSC00516.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/TGe6CkDWcpI/AAAAAAAADDI/bNPvqYXAjI0/s400/DSC00516.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5505573622683955858" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Making Napoleon's layers</span></span><br /><br /></div>8. Bake 2-3 layers at a time in your oven for about 15 minutes - until they are lightly browned.<br /><br />9. While they are cooking, mix the butter and condensed milk together, beat to form a cream.<br /><br />10. Once the circles are cooked, allow to cool. At this stage you can carefully cut out the imperfections with a sharp knife (but be prepared that bigger pieces of pastry may fall off as it is so crumbly - don't worry, it will all be yummy). Take the least perfect circle, crumble it and set aside (you'll need the crumbs to sprinkle on top of the cake for decoration).<br /><br />11. Start layering your Napoleon: one circle, spread some cream generously (I'd say good 4 tbs), put another circle and so on, finishing with cream. Smear more cream onto the sides - tricky, but persevere.<br /><br />12. Sprinkle the top and sides of the cake with the crumbs you set aside, and leave to stand in room temperature for 2-3 hours, then transfer into a fridge overnight or even whole day. Napoleon is best on day 2-3, as all the layers will 'soak up' the cream.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/TGe7CYqbehI/AAAAAAAADDQ/dINTMenVcNk/s1600/DSCN3568.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/TGe7CYqbehI/AAAAAAAADDQ/dINTMenVcNk/s400/DSCN3568.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5505574719138265618" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Napoleon - the imperfect, yet deliriously delicious result</span></span><br /><br /></div>13. Serve with hot black tea or <a href="http://rodnushechka.blogspot.com/2010/01/hot-dark-tempting.html">Turkish coffee</a>.<br /><br />...My guests ravenously ate the whole cake in some 20 minutes, greedily licking up crumbs and drops of cream. I had to restraint some of them..Nostalgia combined with sugar and fat - the most powerful mix in the world.Katrinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04663690784541815542noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2990228674596406666.post-38358919505530329502010-08-13T12:33:00.001+01:002010-08-13T12:35:25.476+01:00'Moon' - Estonian food with a (hi)story<meta name="Originator" content="Microsoft Word 10"><link rel="File-List" href="file:///C:%5CDOCUME%7E1%5CKKOLLE%7E1%5CLOCALS%7E1%5CTemp%5Cmsohtml1%5C01%5Cclip_filelist.xml"><link rel="Edit-Time-Data" href="file:///C:%5CDOCUME%7E1%5CKKOLLE%7E1%5CLOCALS%7E1%5CTemp%5Cmsohtml1%5C01%5Cclip_editdata.mso"><!--[if !mso]> <style> v\:* {behavior:url(#default#VML);} o\:* {behavior:url(#default#VML);} w\:* {behavior:url(#default#VML);} .shape {behavior:url(#default#VML);} </style> <![endif]--><o:smarttagtype namespaceuri="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name="country-region"></o:smarttagtype><o:smarttagtype namespaceuri="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name="City"></o:smarttagtype><o:smarttagtype namespaceuri="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name="place"></o:smarttagtype><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:snaptogridincell/> <w:wraptextwithpunct/> <w:useasianbreakrules/> </w:Compatibility> <w:browserlevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if !mso]><object classid="clsid:38481807-CA0E-42D2-BF39-B33AF135CC4D" id="ieooui"></object> <style> st1\:*{behavior:url(#ieooui) } </style> <![endif]--><style> <!-- /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; 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charset=utf-8"><meta name="ProgId" content="Word.Document"><meta name="Generator" content="Microsoft Word 10"><meta name="Originator" content="Microsoft Word 10"><link rel="File-List" href="file:///C:%5CDOCUME%7E1%5CKKOLLE%7E1%5CLOCALS%7E1%5CTemp%5Cmsohtml1%5C01%5Cclip_filelist.xml"><o:smarttagtype namespaceuri="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name="country-region"></o:smarttagtype><o:smarttagtype namespaceuri="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name="City"></o:smarttagtype><o:smarttagtype namespaceuri="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name="place"></o:smarttagtype><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:snaptogridincell/> <w:wraptextwithpunct/> <w:useasianbreakrules/> </w:Compatibility> <w:browserlevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if !mso]><object classid="clsid:38481807-CA0E-42D2-BF39-B33AF135CC4D" id="ieooui"></object> <style> st1\:*{behavior:url(#ieooui) } </style> <![endif]--><style> <!-- /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0cm; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:11.0pt; font-family:Arial; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";} @page Section1 {size:612.0pt 792.0pt; margin:72.0pt 90.0pt 72.0pt 90.0pt; mso-header-margin:36.0pt; mso-footer-margin:36.0pt; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style><!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0cm 5.4pt 0cm 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0cm; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman";} </style> <![endif]--> <p class="MsoNormal">What is the typical Estonian cuisine? I often get asked upon accidentally dropping my place of origin, a tiny country an hour's ferry drive from <st1:city><st1:place><st1:city><st1:place><st1:city><st1:place>Helsinki</st1:place></st1:city></st1:place></st1:city></st1:place></st1:city>, with history and pride that stretch its petite body. Most Europeans these days have the vague notion that <st1:country-region><st1:place><st1:country-region><st1:place><st1:country-region><st1:place>Estonia</st1:place></st1:country-region></st1:place></st1:country-region></st1:place></st1:country-region> is an Eastern-European county, and so associations with dumplings (true), borsch (true) and lots of vodka (sort of true) follow. Ask a Russian, and he'll probably say it is <span style="font-style: italic;">mulgikapsad</span>, an <st1:country-region><st1:place><st1:country-region><st1:place><st1:country-region><st1:place>Estonia</st1:place></st1:country-region></st1:place></st1:country-region></st1:place></st1:country-region> version of Polish <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bigos"><span style="text-decoration: none; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">bigos</span></a>, a stew of sauerkraut and meat (sort of true) and a curious combination of herring and cottage cheese (I am yet to sample).<o:p>
<br /></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" face="arial" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;"></p><blockquote><i style="">'The essence of Estonian cuisine is in its numerous, small islands, which, because of their remoteness have been less affected by centuries of occupation: sturdy vegetables, plentiful fish, forest goods</i>: </blockquote><meta equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"><meta name="ProgId" content="Word.Document"><meta name="Generator" content="Microsoft Word 10"><meta name="Originator" content="Microsoft Word 10"><link rel="File-List" href="file:///C:%5CDOCUME%7E1%5CKKOLLE%7E1%5CLOCALS%7E1%5CTemp%5Cmsohtml1%5C01%5Cclip_filelist.xml"><o:smarttagtype namespaceuri="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name="City"></o:smarttagtype><o:smarttagtype namespaceuri="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name="place"></o:smarttagtype><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:snaptogridincell/> <w:wraptextwithpunct/> <w:useasianbreakrules/> </w:Compatibility> <w:browserlevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if !mso]><object classid="clsid:38481807-CA0E-42D2-BF39-B33AF135CC4D" id="ieooui"></object> <style> st1\:*{behavior:url(#ieooui) } </style> <![endif]--><style> <!-- /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0cm; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:11.0pt; font-family:Arial; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";} @page Section1 {size:612.0pt 792.0pt; margin:72.0pt 90.0pt 72.0pt 90.0pt; mso-header-margin:36.0pt; mso-footer-margin:36.0pt; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style><!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0cm 5.4pt 0cm 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0cm; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman";} </style> <![endif]--> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Roman Zaštšerinski</span> explains to me, an award-winning chef who has recently opened his own restaurant '<span style="font-weight: bold;">Moon</span>' (pronounced as mo-hon, meaning a poppy in Estonian) in a humble but hip area of Kalamaja, right next to <st1:city><st1:place>Tallinn</st1:place></st1:city> harbour. This 'family' kohvik (a cafe that serves food, not just snacks), follows the mantra so often overused in the UK - fresh, local, seasonal - but that seems so refreshingly novel in Tallinn, especially when combined with Roman's restraint creativity.<o:p></o:p></p> <p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt; text-align: center;" align="center"><span style="font-size:100%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/TGMPsScVRSI/AAAAAAAADCQ/UKInFxnIcDo/s1600/J+R+I.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 246px; height: 400px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/TGMPsScVRSI/AAAAAAAADCQ/UKInFxnIcDo/s400/J+R+I.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5504260423116211490" border="0" /></a></span><i>Recently opened Moon restaurant:
<br />(from left to right) Igor Andrejev (chef), Roman (chef and owner) and Jana Zaštšerinski (owner and sommelier)</i><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt; font-family: arial;">Roman and I, together with his wife, Jana Zaštšerinski, the co-owner and the laid-back sommelier, are sitting in one of Moon's rooms, a few minutes before it opens for a busy lunch service. It is hot and blindly sunny outside, and the airy room full of light wood feels even lighter; in fact, the place feels like a good gastro-pub, with its sturdy furniture and un-fussy cutlery. Both owners are impossibly young, already with an impressive track record (Roman's been named the best Chef by Gastronomy Society of Estonia, and is a chef-de-cuisine of one of the top <st1:city><st1:place><st1:city><st1:place>Tallinn</st1:place></st1:city></st1:place></st1:city> restaurants <b><a href="http://www.restoran-o.ee/">Ö</a>)</b>. They are relaxed, confident with firm hand-shakes. Roman smiles sincerely and asks straight away to address them informally with 'ty' (an informal version of 'you'). Even if only for 10 minutes, their attention was undividedly<i> </i>mine.
<br />
<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"> I am curious what they think about the 'real' Estonian food</span> - is it disappearing with Estonian burgeoning encounter with the EU and people's slow but steady financial independence? </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;">Jana animatedly reassures me that on the contrary, a lot of young people are increasingly interested in grow-your-own, <i>dachas</i>, shopping at farmers' markets. In fact, she half-smiles, it is more her mother's generation that scorned the markets - those caught in between the Soviet collectivism and modern-day yearning to return to 'one's roots'. Jana dreamily tells me how she remembers having to collect <i>podorozniki </i>(weed with lots of healing properties, growing in abundance by the side of roads) as part of her summer school tasks. She is planning to get Moon's staff to do similar things whilst the restaurant is closed in July...</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt; text-align: center;" align="center"><span style="font-size:100%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/TGMF6Xmzl6I/AAAAAAAADBI/o8UPgbazmXU/s1600/DSC00272.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/TGMF6Xmzl6I/AAAAAAAADBI/o8UPgbazmXU/s400/DSC00272.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5504249669904209826" border="0" /></a></span><i>Estonian forests - full of edible goodies, used in Moon's kitchen</i><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt; font-family: arial;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">What did they want to achieve with opening their own place</span>, I wonder, after all it is so much simpler than Roman's previous haute-couture ventures.
<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;" face="arial"></p><blockquote>'It's all about the ingredients and simplicity':</blockquote><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;">Roman explains. Moon uses a heck of a lot of semi-obscure Estonian berries (such as <b>chokeberry, lingonberry</b>) and they work with several local producers on sourcing produce. Fish comes from the fish market literally down the road. To a foodie Brit this sounds so familiar, but at the same time my heart was melting under Estonian's curiously hot sun - re-connecting people with food that has history does a better job than any commission on ethnic diversity...</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt; text-align: center;" align="center"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/TGUg9bECozI/AAAAAAAADCg/y79VBP7bXaQ/s1600/326r.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/TGUg9bECozI/AAAAAAAADCg/y79VBP7bXaQ/s400/326r.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5504842359139115826" border="0" /></a><i>Inside of Moon</i><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Who comes here?</span> Roman explains that at the very beginning it was mainly Estonians who were frequenting Moon, but these days it is both Russians and Estonians, as well a few wondering Finns and Swedes. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;">As the restaurant started to fill in for lunch, I saw quite a few robust young men, on their own or accompanied by pretty but professional looking young women. </p><blockquote>Men who earn enough to afford a nice lunch out, but not too much to have to bear a suit and a tie. </blockquote>The class is a better unifier in modern <st1:country-region><st1:place><st1:country-region><st1:place>Estonia</st1:place></st1:country-region></st1:place></st1:country-region> it seems, which is soothing to my battered Russian heart; and at Moon it is the young, professional, well-educated. <p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;">To me Roman and Jana are the symbols of this who-gives- the fuck- about-your-'nationality' attitude: Roman being a Rus, Jana being Estonian, speaking effortlessly both languages (and English of course), transcending any seeming language and nationality barriers blindly - in a good way. The banter in the restaurant amongst the owners, their funky young stuff and the punters is an intermingle of languages. <st1:country-region><st1:place><st1:country-region><st1:place>Estonia</st1:place></st1:country-region></st1:place></st1:country-region> is finally embracing rather than stuffing its cosmopolitanism. I left hopeful – and very full.
<br />
<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"> So what about the food?</span><o:p></o:p></p> <u1:p></u1:p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;">It is wholesome, inventive, young-spirited. It's good.
<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;" align="center"><span style="font-size:100%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/TGMOOju94DI/AAAAAAAADBY/jdt8aAOUB-w/s1600/DSC00335.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/TGMOOju94DI/AAAAAAAADBY/jdt8aAOUB-w/s400/DSC00335.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5504258812850069554" border="0" /></a></span><i>Home-made bread at Moon</i><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">
<br />Roman with his worldy experience, manages to combine European influences with Estonian eccentricities, resulting in such dishes such as <b><i>Orsotto </i></b>(risotto made out of barley, grown widely in <st1:country-region><st1:place>Estonia</st1:place></st1:country-region>) with roasted beetroot and goat cheese. Hating barley from my Soviet kindergarden days, the grain has been resurrected with the addition of earthy vegetables, spicy olive oil and a fun addition of garlic breadcrumbs on top. Clever and delicious.</p><p class="MsoNormal">
<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/TGMUMsB9ofI/AAAAAAAADCY/urnpg7r2AEU/s1600/DSC00340.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/TGMUMsB9ofI/AAAAAAAADCY/urnpg7r2AEU/s400/DSC00340.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5504265377787257330" border="0" /></a></span> <o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt; text-align: center;" align="center"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/TGMUMsB9ofI/AAAAAAAADCY/urnpg7r2AEU/s1600/DSC00340.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><!--[if gte vml 1]><v:shape id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5504265377787257330" spid="_x0000_i1029" type="#_x0000_t75" alt="" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/TGMUMsB9ofI/AAAAAAAADCY/urnpg7r2AEU/s1600/DSC00340.JPG" style="'width:300pt;height:225pt'" button="t"> <v:imagedata src="file:///C:\DOCUME~1\KKOLLE~1\LOCALS~1\Temp\msohtml1\01\clip_image005.jpg" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/TGMUMsB9ofI/AAAAAAAADCY/urnpg7r2AEU/s400/DSC00340.JPG"> </v:shape><![endif]--><!--[if !vml]--><span style=""></span><!--[endif]--></span></a><i>Orsotto with roasted beetroot and goat cheese</i><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;">There are a few squarely Russian dishes on the menu, with meaningful tweaks; such as these pickled (salted marinade, with just a bit of sugar) cucumbers, served with sourcream and honey. A revelation.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;" align="center"><span style="font-size:100%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/TGMOWZQcwCI/AAAAAAAADBg/mdW19DAn1fg/s1600/DSC00337.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/TGMOWZQcwCI/AAAAAAAADBg/mdW19DAn1fg/s400/DSC00337.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5504258947476668450" border="0" /></a></span><i>Pickled cucumbers with honey and sour cream</i><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">
<br />More classic offerings are the <b><i>Siberian pelmeni</i></b>, dumplings served in wild mushroom bouillon - delicate (a young pigglet?) pork flavour with intense aroma of mushrooms, and <b>Borsch</b> made with beef stock - that <a href="http://www.blogger.com/www.nami-nami.ee">NamiNami</a> specifically recommended to me. I would have loved to try <b>Boeuf a la tartar with spicy Adzika</b> (hot Georgian paste).
<br />
<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Desserts </span>also borrow from native lands, with such creations as <b>Napoleon </b>(classic Soviet mille-feuille cake) with lingonberry's jam. I went for an alcoholic closing - home-made liqueur from black <b>chokeberry </b>(Aronia). Dark, strong, yet refreshing.<o:p></o:p></p>
<br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Go. </span>
<br /><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><a href="http://www.blogger.com/www.kohvikmoon.ee">Moon Kohvik</a>. address <em><span style="font-family:Arial;">Võrgu</span></em> 3, <st1:city><st1:place>Tallinn</st1:place></st1:city> 10415. Tel: + 372 6 314 575.</p><p class="MsoNormal">
<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">A 3-course dinner for two, including drinks and service is around EEK600-700, or £35.<span style="visibility: visible;font-family:courier new;font-size:100%;" id="main" ><span style="visibility: visible;" id="search">
<br /></span></span></p> Katrinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04663690784541815542noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2990228674596406666.post-78058821714340749142010-08-11T08:11:00.013+01:002010-08-11T10:17:52.533+01:00'My Soviet Kitchen'I banged the jar of salted cucumbers sideways on the table covered with patterned <span style="font-style: italic;">kleyonka </span> - the lid easily came off. He cut off three thick slices of <span style="font-style: italic;">servelat</span>, dense with fat and a memory of pig, and placed them sparingly onto oblongs of black bread. Vodka glasses were ready, all warm, bitter and heaven-promising. We threw back our heads - not too far, mind you, the space didn't allow - and gulped in one go...<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/TGJR-A7TEEI/AAAAAAAADAY/wDVf68dbYl4/s1600/launchsovkitchen.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 266px; height: 400px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/TGJR-A7TEEI/AAAAAAAADAY/wDVf68dbYl4/s400/launchsovkitchen.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5504051820442619970" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">'Soviet kitchen', photo by Andriy Bychay</span></span><br /></div><br />Good old, old days, eh? Done by millions of (ex) Soviet people, in tiny spaces of their kitchens, shared by neighbours, friends, families, passer-bys..<br /><br />Never, however, shared with crowds of gallery visitors, whilst sitting on a <span style="font-style: italic;">taburetka, </span>on and <span style="font-style: italic;">as </span>a display<span style="font-style: italic;">, </span>in an alcove of the church crypt!<br /><br />This is exactly what happened to me the other day at the launch of <span style="font-weight: bold;"><a href="http://www.blogger.com/www.amyspurling.com">Amy Spurling</a>'s book</span> '<span style="font-weight: bold;">My Soviet Kitchen. Ivy's guide to life in the ex-USSR</span>' published by <a href="http://www.roastbooks.org/">Roastbooks</a>.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/TGJalxI16II/AAAAAAAADAg/nzAnon9cuIA/s1600/The+book.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 400px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/TGJalxI16II/AAAAAAAADAg/nzAnon9cuIA/s400/The+book.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5504061299492251778" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Amy's newly-published book<br /><br /></span></span></div>Described by some as<span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> a 'neo chick lit with a darker side, a vodka twist, recipe’s galore and a generous slice of post-Soviet living</span>', the book (and its companion guide as a free bonus) is, from what I can make, a fictionalised story of the author's journey as a Phd student in Russia (as well as Georgia, Estonia, Uzbekistan) in the years soon after the collapse of the USSR.<br /><br />Having only read a few pages so far, I can say that Amy's writing style is snappy, light, and witty, with the most dead pan English understatement you can imagine. This combined with Russian over-flowing love for drama and exaggeration, makes for a rather entertaining read (note, am practising English understatement). Some compared the book to Bridget Jones's dairy - Soviet style - and I can imagine why (especially with Amy's weakness for omitting pronouns at the beginning of sentences - am liking the style;)).<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/TGJib5vIFyI/AAAAAAAADAo/LS2XFTDla6s/s1600/launchcover.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 266px; height: 400px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/TGJib5vIFyI/AAAAAAAADAo/LS2XFTDla6s/s400/launchcover.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5504069926094640930" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">'The book cover', photo by Andriy Bychay<br /><br /></span></span></div>Amorous adventures, cultural clashes, awkward encounters with foreigners - the book you can easily swallow up in a few hours whilst lying on a beach (or in bed, whilst nursing vodka-induced hang-over). However, 'My soviet Kitchen' is so well-researched and full of such precise - and hilarious - description of all the kitsch Soviet detail, such as the composition of <span style="font-style: italic;">komunalkas </span>(communal flats, housing several families, and one kitchen) and how to shop in a ex-USSR supermarket (queue 1 to choose, queue 2 to pay, queue 3 to pick up), that it will be fun to read for the most macho of us.<br /><br />I would give out copies of the accompanying little book '<span style="font-weight: bold;">The guide to life, post-soviet style</span>' to any non-Soviet person who is either:<br /><br /> a) married to a Rus<br /> b) interested in being married to a Rus<br /> c) or ever finds oneself in a company of Russians.<br /><br />The guide has recipes (such as <a href="http://nami-nami.blogspot.com/2005/07/cooking-estonian-kama.html">Estonian Kama drink</a> or Georgian feast), Mayakovsky's Lilya Brik muse and their menage a trois, Properties of Soviet Snow (slyakot, parosha, purga, etcetc), and even the band DDT and Viktor Tsoi!<br /><br /><br />...Back to the launch.<br /><br />As in Amy's book, we were taken on the journey through the Estonian <span style="font-style: italic;">banya</span>, sauna, complete with Estonian beers and beech <span style="font-style: italic;">venik</span>:<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/TGJjJ4o4RII/AAAAAAAADAw/4GwAP929vME/s1600/launchbanya.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/TGJjJ4o4RII/AAAAAAAADAw/4GwAP929vME/s400/launchbanya.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5504070716073985154" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">'Estonian sauna', photo by Andriy Bychay<br /></span></span></div><br />A proper Georgian feast (thanks to <a href="www.iberiarestaurant.co.uk">Iberia</a>, a Georgian restaurant in North London and the <a href="www.georgianwinesociety.co.uk">Georgian wine society</a>), which later served as a real-life snack table, all eaten to the bone:<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/TGJlW7mBRzI/AAAAAAAADA4/i6y9IatEgw4/s1600/Launchgeorgianfeast.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 266px; height: 400px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/TGJlW7mBRzI/AAAAAAAADA4/i6y9IatEgw4/s400/Launchgeorgianfeast.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5504073139228854066" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">'Georgian feast' , photo by Andriy Bychay<br /><br /></span></span><div style="text-align: left;">A Soviet train, with real train-y chukh-chuch sounds (i-pod, behind the red curtain) and vodka:<br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;"></span></span></div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/TGJl0f_uD6I/AAAAAAAADBA/mZMHKPfoCv0/s1600/launchtrain.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 266px; height: 400px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/TGJl0f_uD6I/AAAAAAAADBA/mZMHKPfoCv0/s400/launchtrain.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5504073647216529314" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">'Soviet train' , photo by Andriy Bychay<br /></span></span></div><br />...3 hours later, we were dancing to DDT jauntily, doing <span style="font-style: italic;">khorovods </span>(holding hands in circles) and were very, very drunk.<br /><br />From Amy's 'companion guide to life':<br /><br /><blockquote>'Soviet-man stages of drunkenness:<br /><br />Man disappears to the toilet and comes back with wet hair. At attempt to revive himself and regain lost ground.<br /><br />Man slumped against the wall.<br /><br />Man slumped against the front door when you open it.'<br /></blockquote>Katrinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04663690784541815542noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2990228674596406666.post-8699264601384918802010-08-03T22:06:00.021+01:002010-08-05T10:16:32.382+01:00Oxford Food Symposium, or how to find similar-bellied friends whilst tasting rotten herring<span style="font-style: italic;"></span><blockquote><span style="font-style: italic;">'How do you feed hundred people with one goat? You can't. You need to ferment the meat of one goat to feed the crowd' a Sudanese saying quoted by Harrold McGee.</span></blockquote><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/TFm_irGxCcI/AAAAAAAAC_I/ryvcEg3TSlo/s1600/Still+life+with+ham+Pieter+Claesz.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 340px; height: 318px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/TFm_irGxCcI/AAAAAAAAC_I/ryvcEg3TSlo/s400/Still+life+with+ham+Pieter+Claesz.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5501639022217333186" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><i>Still life with ham, lemon, a roll, a glass of wine, and others on a table by Pieter Claesz<br /></i></span></div><br />When faced with an enormity of task to relay to you, my dear reader, the proceedings and happenings of the<a href="http://www.blogger.com/www.oxfordsymposium.org.uk"> <span style="font-weight: bold;">Oxford Food Symposium</span></a> I have recently attended, my mind (or belly that is) goes into a gentle stupor. Where does one start?<br /><br />And so I won't bother, I'll just tempt you with a few delectable tit-bits that will hopefully interest you to read on - and, indeed, join me and another 200 knighted foodies at the next year's Symposium.<br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-style: italic;"></span><blockquote><span style="font-style: italic;">'Never heard of it! Oxford what??'</span></blockquote><br /></div><br />This glorious 2 day event is essentially a series of high-brow (and less so) academic lectures, combined with a number of extraordinary feasts - all taking place in Oxford, at St Catherine's college.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/TFpykjYxFPI/AAAAAAAAC_g/JTbiMA2sz9w/s1600/St+Catz.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/TFpykjYxFPI/AAAAAAAAC_g/JTbiMA2sz9w/s400/St+Catz.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5501835867086460146" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">St Catz, Oxford - the location of the symposium. The canteen</span></span><br /><br /></div>The symposium has been going for some 30 years, every year focusing on a particular theme. This year being - hence the afore-mention quote - '<span style="font-weight: bold;">Cured, fermented and smoked</span>'.<br /><br />The event has changed its shape quite dramatically from its modest beginnings when a few well chosen (including such legends as <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Claudia_Roden">Claudia Roden, </a>whose illumenous presence was still there this year) got together to discuss the higher meanings of food. Now it is a more sizeable gathering of over 200 democratically paid attendees.<br /><br />In short, it's for those of use who ascribe to - <span style="font-style: italic;">I like to eat,' therefore I think.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"></span><blockquote><span style="font-style: italic;">'Okeeeey, but what kind of lectures? give us some flavour!'</span></blockquote><br /><br />The day kicked off by formidable <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sidney_Mintz">Sidney Mintz</a> - an Anthropologist most famous for his 'Sweetness and power, the place of sugar in modern history', but is akin a semi-god for most impressionable young anthropologists. I had a pleasure of discussing the role of sauerkraut in Jewish Eastern European history with him very briefly.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/TFp0jLmyO0I/AAAAAAAAC_o/wboVExJpHoA/s1600/sidney_mintz.gif.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 160px; height: 249px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/TFp0jLmyO0I/AAAAAAAAC_o/wboVExJpHoA/s400/sidney_mintz.gif.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5501838042546191170" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Sidney Mintz was one of the speakers at the Symposium</span></span><br /></div><br />Some topics covered were the history of Sustromming - a heavily fermented herring from the north of Sweden; fermentation from a microbe's point of view and the role of corned beef in shaping the Irish identity. Pure, unfermented bliss.<br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;"></span></span><br /><br /></div><span style="font-style: italic;"></span><blockquote><span style="font-style: italic;">'Cut to the chase. What was the food like?'</span></blockquote><br /><br />Sadly, I missed the opening dinner on Friday night - <span style="font-weight: bold;">a Feast of Cockaigne </span>cooked by Jeremy Lee of Blueprint Café, but I cought up effortlessley the following 2 days:<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:130%;">Saturday lunch</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">An 'authentic' (their quotes, I do not dare to doubt) Sichuan Province feast conceived by <a href="http://www.fuchsiadunlop.com/">Fuchsia Dunlop</a> and prepared by London's <a href="http://www.bar-shu.co.uk/">Barshu Restaurant</a></span><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Bang Bang Chicken</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Sweet-and-sour Spare Ribs</span><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span><span style="font-style: italic;">Spicy Cucumber Salad</span><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span><span style="font-style: italic;">Refreshing Green Soybeans</span><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span><span style="font-style: italic;">Gong Bao Chicken with Peanuts (the dish is named after a Qing Dynasty governor-general of Sichuan)</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Bear's Paw Beancurd</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">Choy Sam with Fragrant Oil</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">Steamed Rice</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/TFp4Km4FogI/AAAAAAAADAA/6y-HDj67j3E/s1600/DSC00370.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/TFp4Km4FogI/AAAAAAAADAA/6y-HDj67j3E/s400/DSC00370.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5501842018416304642" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Shichuan feast by Fuchsia Dunlop</span></span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;">I am not a fan of Chinese cuisine - from whichever part of the great country it comes from - but what Fuchsia and Barshu do is to me at a different level.<br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span></div> <div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >Saturday night Irish banquette</span><br /><span> <span style="font-size:85%;">(enjoy the <a href="http://www.thedailyspud.com/2010/07/27/smoked-salmon-connemara-whiskey/">Daily Spud's</a> view on it)</span></span><span style="font-size:85%;"><br />prepared by Páidric Óg Gallagher of Gallagher's Boxty House in Dublin</span><br /></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Wrights of Howth Organic Smoked Salmon with Connemara Peated Single Malt Whiskey</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">Sally Barnes' Smoked Mackarel</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">Ummara Smoked Silver Eel (caught in Brussels, for research purposes believe it or not)</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Fingal Ferguson's Venison Salami and Irish Chorizo</span><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span><span style="font-style: italic;">McCarthy's of Kanturk Guiness and Cider Spiced Beef</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">McCeough's Air-dried Lamb</span><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /><br /></span><span style="font-style: italic;">Served with treacle and soda bread, horseradish cream and ballymaloe relish</span><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/TFp4vLqrtsI/AAAAAAAADAI/rjpuMfKg0aQ/s1600/DSC00377.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/TFp4vLqrtsI/AAAAAAAADAI/rjpuMfKg0aQ/s400/DSC00377.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5501842646767482562" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Wrights of Howth Organic Smoked Salmon with Connemara Peated Single Malt Whiskey</span><br /><br /></span><span style="font-style: italic;">Gallaghers Boxty House Boxty Potato Dumplings in a Crozier Blue Cheese Cream Sauce</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">Roasted Loin of Fermanagh Bacon<br />boiled topside Corned Beef from Kettyle Irish Foods<br /><br /></span><span style="font-style: italic;">Served with Kishes of new potatoes from the gardens of Lissadell House, Cuinneog Irish Butter, sauteed York Cabbage, champ potato</span><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /><br />Selection of Irish cheeses with Ditty's Home Bakery Traditional Oatcake Biscuits and Foods of Athenry Porter Cake</span><br /><br />and wine, and more bread, and more cheese, and Irish coffee made to order and..<br /><br /></div><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-size:130%;">Sunday lunch - a Norvegian feast</span></span><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:85%;">prepared for us with the help of Pål Drønen and Margareth Tislevoll</span><br /></div><br />This, to my taste, was the most interesting and inspiring of all meals, for the variety of the smoked and cured meats and fish and cleverness of the various curd cheese offerings (good old tvorog to a Russian soul..).<br /><br />However, it was also at that stage that I started to feel slightly fermented myself, inside and out, from the copiousness of the food consumed, and therefore can only provide a few visuals of the dinner.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/TFp5nCYN9GI/AAAAAAAADAQ/glGzET9OcKI/s1600/DSC00390.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/TFp5nCYN9GI/AAAAAAAADAQ/glGzET9OcKI/s400/DSC00390.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5501843606346789986" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Norvegian delicacies: eel, fermented cheese, salmon..</span></span><br /><br /></div><span style="font-style: italic;"></span><blockquote><span style="font-style: italic;">'You've had good food and listened to some 'inspiring' talks, what now?'</span></blockquote><br /><br />It is also a rather wonderful, khmkhm, opportunity to network - brrr, a horrid word - to meet and make acquiescences with similar-minded, sorry, similar-bellied, people.<br /><br />Some of the more memorable chats ranged from the role of food in sustaining Communism (or not), to how to make the best vodka cocktail (with pickled juices), and create theatre performances around food.<br /><br />Next year's theme is 'Celebrations'...Katrinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04663690784541815542noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2990228674596406666.post-67822278720530698352010-07-31T21:12:00.010+01:002010-07-31T22:19:06.628+01:00SweetbreadsI have recently established quite a neat relationship with one wonderful little organic farm down in Hampshire. <a href="http://www.blogger.com/www.rothervalleyorganics.com">Rother Valley</a> and I have developed a mutually beneficial friendship, where I try to, let's say, assist with potential business, and they, in turn, supply me - for a fee of course - with a glory of organic meat. The farm specialises in pure Aberdeen Angus beef - soulful, compact cows with melancholic eyes - but they also link up with farms around, that provide other meats - chicken, pork, lamb - as well as game.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/TFSQp6Lis4I/AAAAAAAAC_A/9RhKkXRAvn8/s1600/Aberdeen-Angus_1386452c.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 250px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/TFSQp6Lis4I/AAAAAAAAC_A/9RhKkXRAvn8/s400/Aberdeen-Angus_1386452c.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5500180094592922498" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">An Aberdeen Angus </span><br /></span><br /></div>I use them, however - and I mean <span style="font-style: italic;">use </span>- to source those weird and wonderful things, that most of their clients don't want, but for which I have space in my heart and belly - offal, really fatty or chewy parts. So far I have had <a href="http://rodnushechka.blogspot.com/2009/07/beauty-of-pig-trotters.html">pig trotters</a>, pork belly, <a href="http://rodnushechka.blogspot.com/2010/07/russian-trains-and-russian-tongues.html">ox tongue</a>; have also tried to buy brains and cows feet but with less luck. Sam, who runs the show at Rother Valley, has once wondered if I 'was making a Frankenstein'..<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div>Last week it was the turn of <span style="font-weight: bold;">sweetbreads</span>. What a bizarre name for an equally bizarre part of a body. The thyroid and the thymus of a young sheep or a calf that has apparently acquired its name because of its mild, sweet flavour (the bread is an old English word for flesh). I find there is almost something sexy about the name, an image of a young wholesome wench in Swiss Alpes with jugs of creamy milk springs into mind..<br /><br />I have wanted to try cooking sweetbreads for some time now, and then Rother Valley agreed to deliver a handful of these little breads to me for free, I had to act quickly - they really do taste better as fresh as a daisy (that Swiss maid obviously still lingers in my mind).<br /><br />How to prepare sweetbreads:<br /><br />1. put them into a bowl of cold water and leave to soak for good 2-3 hours.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/TFSLWHH-FhI/AAAAAAAAC-g/BymfPFAOKiQ/s1600/DSC00454.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/TFSLWHH-FhI/AAAAAAAAC-g/BymfPFAOKiQ/s400/DSC00454.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5500174256912078354" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:85%;" >Sweetbreads a la naturel</span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:85%;" >, just before soaking</span><br /></div><br />2. Bring a saucepan of water to boil, put your sweetbreads into it, turn down to simmer and poach for 3-5 minutes.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/TFSNkL5AXqI/AAAAAAAAC-w/LpgaqzwZgCU/s1600/DSC00457.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/TFSNkL5AXqI/AAAAAAAAC-w/LpgaqzwZgCU/s400/DSC00457.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5500176697732914850" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Sweetbreads cooked, shrivelled</span></span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;">3. Prepare a bowl of iced water and plunge the cooked breads into it for a couple of minutes. Take them out and take off the outer layer, which is like a thin see-through leather. Dispose that and any grisly or fatty bits.<br /><br />4. Dust the breads in a little of seasoned flour and fry them quickly (2-3 minutes each side) in a pan with plenty of butter. They should be crispy on the outside and delicate and fluffy on the inside. they go beautifully with more robust flavours, such as bacon.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/TFSOLo_HdCI/AAAAAAAAC-4/Yj3uSRRnNJg/s1600/DSC00460.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/TFSOLo_HdCI/AAAAAAAAC-4/Yj3uSRRnNJg/s400/DSC00460.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5500177375558071330" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Fried sweetbreads with bacon<br /><br /><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"></span></span></span><br /></span></span><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-style: italic;"></span>The picture above is rather pathetic, I know, but the result was quite moorish (although to my taste the sweetbreads came out a bit too mealy - overcooked I think).<br /><br />This is how sweetbreads are supposed to look.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"></span></div></div></div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/TFSL4Bpr86I/AAAAAAAAC-o/TDxnAsJ2Z84/s1600/sweetbreads.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/TFSL4Bpr86I/AAAAAAAAC-o/TDxnAsJ2Z84/s400/sweetbreads.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5500174839558435746" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Sweetbreads with pea puree and bacon</span><span style="font-style: italic;"> (photo thanks to blog.timesunion.com) </span></span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;">I would suggest wrapping smaller pieces of sweetbreads in bacon, perhaps with some buttered sage and serving them fried, with a little toast, as <span style="font-style: italic;">zakuski, </span>with shots of chilled, but not frozen vodka.<br /></div></div>Katrinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04663690784541815542noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2990228674596406666.post-72844373405319015322010-07-25T21:13:00.008+01:002010-07-25T22:13:51.355+01:00On breaking fast and making rootsI have always admired nomads. Those wondrous soles, with no ties or attachments, who glide through the world with a quiet excitement in their eye and melancholy in their heart. But I am not one of them. I am one of us, one of you. Gliding feels like falling down most of the time to me, despite of its dream-like appeal. I have lately started to lay down roots, making out my own territory.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;">My parents had travelled thousands of miles from warm and boisterous Ukraine to cool and composed Estonia, on a whim, because they were painfully drawn to the 'otherness' of Tallinn - its cobbled streets, understated beauty of its architecture and unparalleled in communism cafe culture. I did the same, all those years ago, on a really cold November day, I packed up and went - spontaneity doesn't really describe what happened - only to find myself a dozen years later, here, perching on a little pretty patio; savouring the delights from lands far away, as if an observer, watching my roots slowly hushing down..<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/TEykDl9_yCI/AAAAAAAAC-Y/Sx-_OauFu3E/s1600/DSC00406.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/TEykDl9_yCI/AAAAAAAAC-Y/Sx-_OauFu3E/s400/DSC00406.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5497949626751240226" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">My little Eden (to be)</span></span><br /></div></div><br />We have bought a place - an adorable and slightly wanky flat with a shy little garden that has its own mini Cyprus tree (perhaps I subconsciously got drawn to this place because of all the years I spent in Crimea adoring these giant pointy trees). I have never had a garden before and so got terribly paranoid about the loudly speaking neighbours next door, booming music coming from another house, crows doing their crowing business too noisily too early in the morning. A princess sleeping on a little pea, what can I say...<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/TEyfGihSjOI/AAAAAAAAC-Q/Nxw5uoVr-kI/s1600/DSC00407.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/TEyfGihSjOI/AAAAAAAAC-Q/Nxw5uoVr-kI/s400/DSC00407.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5497944179806997730" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Breakfast of local goodies</span><br /></div><br />But it did get better the morning that I opened my garden doors, quite early in the morning - everyone around us still seemed asleep - brought a big mug of milky coffee with me and sat down on the steps, just as I was, wearing an oversized man's shirt and clutching my Guardian (which has became 'mine' over the years of living with J...funny how those delicate paws of roots get working...).<br /><br />The area where we live is full of Greek, Turkish and Eastern-European shops (and they will certainly be a theme of many more of my future posts), and so my brunch that morning was an homage, a toast, to all those people who, just like me, packed up their bags and moved.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">Grilled halloumi cheese<br />Toasted French sourdough bread<br />Chickpeas with parsley, lemon and Cyprus olive oil<br />Mixed salad of overgrown tomatoes, cucumbers, dill and parlsey<br />A few lovingly hot peppers <span style="font-style: italic;">Aci Biber</span><br /></div>Katrinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04663690784541815542noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2990228674596406666.post-3790049403304873672010-07-22T14:49:00.009+01:002010-07-22T15:16:38.658+01:00Pirita market - sweet thornsDon’t I like contradictions…for those who’ve read my <a href="http://rodnushechka.blogspot.com/2010_06_01_archive.html">latest melancholic musings</a> about the disappearance of the farmers’ markets in Estonia, here is a cheery note – the market ‘scene’ in Tallinn is far from dying. <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Those little cutsey creatures (for I often think of these local bazaars, full of characters and beautifully obscure products, as living beings, say playful cats that both comfort you with their foodie murrrs and make you work by demanding time and effort) pop up here and there like early autumn mushrooms, quite spontaneously, randomly organised, but all the more charming for their teasing behaviour. I encountered one such market - a small cluster of wooden stalls that I had not come across before - in the seaside area of Tallinn, Pirita. </p><p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/TEhNnXUSs9I/AAAAAAAAC94/S1Bc5WJlX1g/s1600/Birgitta.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/TEhNnXUSs9I/AAAAAAAAC94/S1Bc5WJlX1g/s400/Birgitta.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5496728683875054546" border="0" /></a></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Convent of St Birgitta, Tallinn</span><span style="font-style: italic;">. photo thanks to Dennis@stromness</span></span><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">Pirita is a solemn stretch of sand, colour of melted ice-cream, framed by pine trees and prickly undergrowth (not many things I miss in my self-imposed migration, but these foresty beaches with cool waters, so shallow and calm that they look like antic mirrors). I paint a serene picture, but Pirita is also an intensely popular area of the capital for youngests to ‘hand out’, for families to bring their off-spring, for tourists to <span style=""> </span>wonder off (Pirita was the place where the Olympic games of the 1980s took place, the water game part, so it is still full of yachts, sport 'complexes' and tanned young men running fast).</p><p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/TEhPkBTe3II/AAAAAAAAC-I/YN2Ygpd6F3g/s1600/DSC00272.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/TEhPkBTe3II/AAAAAAAAC-I/YN2Ygpd6F3g/s400/DSC00272.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5496730825449725058" border="0" /></a></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Estonian forrests by the sea</span></span><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">The tiny market was right by the side of the road, backed up by the imposing ruins of the medieval Birgitta monastery on one side, stylish houses on another, and a forest on the third.<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">I saw a little stall selling tiny local strawberries in self-made paper baskets, good bread, seasonal veg – not all from nearby <i style="">talus</i>, smallholdings, but perfection is boring. My heart jumped when I saw a whole stall dedicated to sea buckthorn<span style=""> </span>- a little orange berry, that used to be prevalent throughout <st1:place>Northern Europe</st1:place>, but is now<span style=""> </span>in real short supply in the <st1:country-region><st1:place>UK</st1:place></st1:country-region>, although still in abundance in <st1:country-region><st1:place>Estonia</st1:place></st1:country-region>.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/TEhOPjUjSgI/AAAAAAAAC-A/joJIQELmI5o/s1600/DSC00259.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/TEhOPjUjSgI/AAAAAAAAC-A/joJIQELmI5o/s400/DSC00259.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5496729374292134402" border="0" /></a></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">All things sea buckthorny at a local market</span></span><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">A young man was selling jams, juices, nectars, what looked like pollen for sprinkling on cereal and lots of other creations – all made from this curiously sweet and tart berry, the flavour reminiscent of an apricot, but somehow…muddier, the texture more sticky. The flavour that makes you work, a reference to Marmite is difficult to avoid (those who watched the latest serious of the Great British Menu will recall the look of disgust on the judges faces, including – impossible, I know – Matthew Fort’s. The chef who dared to used it for his dessert was Nathan Outlaw in his <a href="http://www.bbc.co.uk/food/recipes/seabuckthorncurdmeri_94007">sea buckthorn curd meringue</a>). </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I have tried sea buckthorn jam with cold cuts of pork, or on a toasted slice of rye bread with my morning brew, mixed with cottage cheese and almonds. With venison it would be delectable.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I am yet to try the juice though. I have a bottle of this clone-ish orange nectar in my cupboard, ready for the next party. I’m planning to mix it with something sparkling and lots of crushed ice, mint should go well. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Have any ideas for my sea buckthorn juice? Let me know, and I’ll report once tried.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>Katrinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04663690784541815542noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2990228674596406666.post-45002708795012022612010-07-08T16:56:00.007+01:002010-07-08T18:41:43.820+01:00Russian trains and Russian tonguesForeigners in <st1:country-region><st1:place>Russia</st1:place></st1:country-region> almost always note one peculiarity about Russians’ travelling habits – Russkis take food, home-made food, pretty much wherever they go.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/TDYKDsyxrlI/AAAAAAAAC9Q/2zwKZfzixog/s1600/Russian+train+farm3.static.flickr.com"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/TDYKDsyxrlI/AAAAAAAAC9Q/2zwKZfzixog/s400/Russian+train+farm3.static.flickr.com" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5491587854304915026" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Inside a Russian train (a more luxury version). Photo thanks to Tatters:) at farm3.static.flickr </span></span><br /></div><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Trains in particular are a sight of numerous feasts. Soviet trains are of course like nothing else in the world – almost double the width of their European compatriots, snail-speed slow but wonderfully public (which may or may not be to your liking - ‘platzkart’ being the most common type of a carriage – no doors, just 6 bunks of beds in each row and a little table in between. I remember long strands of white sheets hanging off the top beds as if to make a little self-made alcove, to allow women to change clothes. It all seemed so much fun then…not because of changing women of course...although this might have been fun now..hmm, sorry, back to trains). </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/TDYKrfHamVI/AAAAAAAAC9g/AFzPmopE2Tw/s1600/russian+train+of+streats.files.wordpress.com"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 268px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/TDYKrfHamVI/AAAAAAAAC9g/AFzPmopE2Tw/s400/russian+train+of+streats.files.wordpress.com" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5491588537828153682" border="0" /></a></p><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Food in Russian trains. Photo thanks to </span><span style="font-style: italic;">streats.files.wordpress</span></span><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">A common scene encountered on those long, clickety train journeys would be families, babushkas, young ladies – all taking out their carefully wrapped goody bags, laying them out on tables in between the rows of bunk beds, sharing these ‘products’ with their fellow compartment comrades. These offerings, which could include anything from stacks of <span style="font-style: italic;">buterbrody </span>(open sandwiches) to home-pickled gherkins and full blown hot meals, always had to have some hard-boiled eggs. I still remember their very characteristic smell whifting through the carriages, the sound of spoons clattering in tall glasses with dark tea, quiet cluckering of women over their offspring…</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Recently I have re-created – ish – these childhood memories on my way from <st1:city><st1:place>London</st1:place></st1:city> to <st1:place><st1:city>Tallinn</st1:city>, <st1:country-region>Estonia</st1:country-region></st1:place> – the motherland, as I sometimes refer to it. This was the kind of upgraded version of the old Russian train-food experience: </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p style="font-style: italic; text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal">Location – Stansted airport, waiting lounge</p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="font-style: italic; text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal">People – common human crowd all around, a good – Russian – friend next shoulder </p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="font-style: italic; text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal">Food – Chilled ox tongue (home-made), gherkins, rye bread (Waitrosely good), forgettebly named Russian chocolate</p><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><p style="font-style: italic; text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal">Drink – ex-yoghurt 100ml* plastic bottles filled with red wine and half and half wine and vodka</p><p style="font-style: italic;" class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p style="font-style: italic;" class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/TDYH8H9lgtI/AAAAAAAAC9I/jLl-VcgWskc/s1600/DSC00196.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/TDYH8H9lgtI/AAAAAAAAC9I/jLl-VcgWskc/s400/DSC00196.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5491585525135803090" border="0" /></a></p> <p style="font-style: italic;" class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Feasting at Stansted airport, London a la russe</span></span><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">We had a blast. Gorging on all this beautiful – rather odorous – food right in the middle of, basically, a massive shopping meal, brightly lit as a hospital, it was especially enjoyable because of all the misunderstanding looks grazing, oops, glancing at us. The smell of garlic, which the tongue was packed with, and alcohol, followed by the sounds of cucumbers plopping in our mouths and us talking increasingly loudly, made – I’m sure – for an amusing and rather annoying sight. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">Bring on the socialist order (a Conservative-Communist coalition anyone?)! These people have not tried the real publico-social method of travelling – or eating.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">….</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">If you would like to simulate (it can be just that of course – the real thing is at least 3 hours flight away, and some 20 years ago perhaps), then here’s the recipe for the Ox Tongue that we have so successfully consumed amongst the capitalist consumerism of the London airport:</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p style="font-weight: bold;" class="MsoNormal">Cooked Ox Tongue</p><p style="font-weight: bold;" class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/TDYLkTBzyEI/AAAAAAAAC9o/NP-QtjXw1V0/s1600/DSC00043.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/TDYLkTBzyEI/AAAAAAAAC9o/NP-QtjXw1V0/s400/DSC00043.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5491589513835956290" border="0" /></a></p><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Cooked ox tongue, post ice-water treatment</span></span><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">1 ox tongue (they usually weight about 700-1000 gramms)<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">garlic liberally</p><p class="MsoNormal">bayleaves + peppercorns<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">1. They look huge, scary and unpleasant - hold the disbelief. Put in a large saucepan, cover with cold water. Once start boiling, take off the scum (but don't bother too much), then add a couple of bay leaves and 5-10 peppercorns.</p><p class="MsoNormal">2. Simmer for 1.5-2 hours</p><p class="MsoNormal">3. Prepare a large bowl full of ice and cold water. Plunge the cooked tongue into water and keep it there for a couple of minutes.</p><p class="MsoNormal">4. Take out and peel off the outer skin. You'll see, it comes off like a banana skin. The tongue will instantly look that much more appealing.</p><p class="MsoNormal">5. Cool a bit more if necessary, so that you can handle it with hands. In the meantime, slice thinly 2-3 gloves of garlic.<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">6. Make short, shallow cuts randomly across the tongue, so that you can insert slivers of garlic into these holes. Don't matter, how and when, just pack'em up!<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">7. Place the tongue onto a flat-ish plate, find something heavy to press it with. I normally put another plate on top, to cover the tongue, and then a saucepan full of water - some careful balancing is required.<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">8. Chill in a fridge over night.</p><p class="MsoNormal">9. When taken out, the tongue will be flat and ready to be gorged on. Slice it thinly, add horseradish, pickled, bread, and vodka, of course, and you are ready to go.<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">Train or no train.</p><br />* for those far from <st1:city><st1:place>London</st1:place></st1:city> - bigger containers are not allowed to bring into British airports for ‘security reasons’. <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>Katrinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04663690784541815542noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2990228674596406666.post-4127857819997828422010-06-26T11:49:00.014+01:002010-07-04T16:00:59.420+01:00A Tallinn market and its local fruits<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/TDCT3nO69-I/AAAAAAAAC8g/hYrDrt6LuiI/s1600/DSC00242.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/TDCT3nO69-I/AAAAAAAAC8g/hYrDrt6LuiI/s400/DSC00242.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5490050529398290402" border="0" /></a><br />Meet Alexander, a former 'designer-modelier', a navy officer and presently an artisan of all things pickled. Alexander is clearly a dandy with a keen eye for style - just look at his cap and artfully laid table of home-grown herbs and 'conservanty'. When asked to pose for a photo, he comfortably fell into a coquette-ish pose with a fleeting 'oh, I've been photographed sooo many times over the years!' . However, he quickly became all business when asked which <span style="font-style: italic;">adjika (</span>hot Georgian paste) he would recommend (best is made with lots of corriander, 30 krones) or how to use large, green leaves laying in a sack (to pickle those little prickly cucumbers, 10 krones).<br /><div> </div><br /><div>Alexander is a seller at <span style="font-style: italic;">Jaamaturg </span>(a Train station market), one of Tallinn's final outposts of home-grown produce and, increasingly so, of far-flung cheap clothes and manufactured tomatoes. He is one of the few retirees selling goodies from their <span style="font-style: italic;">dachas </span>to supplmenet their scarse pensions. Amongst the majority of stalls stuffed with goods bought in chilled warehouse, there are still a few old babushkas offering small, neat bundles of dill and plastic cups of wild strawberries. But Alexander sticks out for being a rare man with a display and attitude that brings a rare smile amongst the understandably defeated looks of women. Once these babushkas are gone, one fears there will be no more produce from allotments or the charm and knowledge that only seems to come to markets where people who grow or make stuff come to sell.<br /></div><br /><div> </div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/TDCXPT6xgQI/AAAAAAAAC8o/nKrFunF5p_E/s1600/DSC00241.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/TDCXPT6xgQI/AAAAAAAAC8o/nKrFunF5p_E/s400/DSC00241.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5490054235065254146" border="0" /></a>This is an irony that when in Britain farmers' markets are on the rise, with flocks of middle classes rushing to stock up on 'organic' goodies with 'provenance', paying over the odds for the privilage, here it is the underprivilaged - the retired, the unemployed - who still come to such markets (there are no more than a handful of them left in the whole of Tallinn). This is not to say that in Estonia there is no interest in grow your own or food with a story - just look at the heavily stacked shelves of bookstores, full of Estonian Jamies and Hughes* - but perhaps the speed with which these markets are dying out is greater than the birth rate of <span style="font-style: italic;font-size:85%;" ></span>the 'real food' enthusiasts.<br /><p><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/TDCYsYRXptI/AAAAAAAAC84/GtttU0cat3o/s1600/DSC00228.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/TDCYsYRXptI/AAAAAAAAC84/GtttU0cat3o/s400/DSC00228.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5490055833961604818" border="0" /></a>Jaamaturg is a particularly colourful market, as it is snugly sandwiched between the old Soviet train station - still very much in operation, but with only a few lines running East - and <span style="font-style: italic;">Kalamaja</span>, a district of Tallinn full of wooden houses built in the 1930s, sleepy parks and drunks. Kalamaja literally means a house of fish, a place where freshly caught fish is processed, as in the past, and to some extent still now, fishing is a big industry in Estonia. Although these days the melancholic and beautiful but polluted Baltic sea can only provide with plentiful Baltic herring - a smaller variety of the Atlantic type. Most fish on sale in Jaamaturg comes frozen from Norway. One honourable exception perhaps is caviar made out of pressed seaweed: refreshingly tasty, pretty-looking and cheap, as well as an allowed substitute for a vegan. The one on the picture was produced in Russia, however several brands are made locally.<br /></p><p><br /></p><p><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></span></p><p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/TDCayouX82I/AAAAAAAAC9A/-IHsbwUmVbo/s1600/DSC00217.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/TDCayouX82I/AAAAAAAAC9A/-IHsbwUmVbo/s400/DSC00217.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5490058140480697186" border="0" /></a>Kalamaja houses several docks and the main Tallinn harbour. As everywhere in the world the area around the train station is not for midnight walks, but as everywhere else, what starts off as an area of low rents and high criminal activity, ends up as a hippy land, adored by artists and those aspiring to be. Kalamaja in Tallinn is what Hoxton in London used to be some 10-20 years ago.<br /></p><p><br /></p><p>One hopes Jaamaturg will survive not despite but because of its quirky old-fashioness and low prices. The market seems such a fitting spectacle for Kalamaja: not a pretty, messy place where one can buy anything from old Soviet memorabilia, to that made-in-China Dior bag and Estonian perfumed strawberries. It is nevertheless chilled and well-ordered with characters, such as Alexander, abound. They call it a soul I believe.<br /></p><br />p.s. well, hello again my dear readers. I am back, although not sure if anyone else is still around. a big warm hug to you anyway, even if you have no company..Katrinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04663690784541815542noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2990228674596406666.post-7123296617510990752010-04-25T22:44:00.004+01:002010-04-25T22:57:53.446+01:00A breatherMy patient reader. please don't despair. the blog is on a sabbatical. blame anthropology. <a href="http://www.soas.ac.uk/foodstudies/">anthropology of food</a> to be exact. the route that I have been foolish - and brave enough - to embark on is taking every moment of my spare, and not that spare time.<br /><br />Some of the things to come: Florentine markets, Offaly offal affairs, Stories of Londonners, Anthropology of Food...<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/S9S5u8uc5RI/AAAAAAAAC70/6fUBDGboWzg/s1600/DSC00126%5B1%5D"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/S9S5u8uc5RI/AAAAAAAAC70/6fUBDGboWzg/s400/DSC00126%5B1%5D" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5464196464133334290" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Mercato Centrale, Fiorenze</span></span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/S9S6k-IiuxI/AAAAAAAAC78/TiTWlUh9GJw/s1600/DSC00137%5B1%5D"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/S9S6k-IiuxI/AAAAAAAAC78/TiTWlUh9GJw/s400/DSC00137%5B1%5D" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5464197392224140050" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Guess what this is?</span></span><br /></div>Katrinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04663690784541815542noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2990228674596406666.post-28362691870353881662010-03-06T14:21:00.011+00:002010-03-11T21:54:19.222+00:00Little sweet nothingsI have arrived. The glamour, fame and glory of being a humble blogger widens your waist, eats up your time, but also occasionally offers a freebie.<br /><br />I have been invited to a 'VIP cooking party' with a charming Italian chef Francesco Mazzei, of acclaimed restaurant L’Anima: to learn the authentic dough spinning, to glug free prosecco and make your own pizza creations. The event was organised as a promotion of six new pizza recipes that a certain long-standing pizza chain had just introduced...the Pizza Express.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/S5JvAWOoGUI/AAAAAAAAC7k/AHTGwyHbidM/s1600-h/DSC00010.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/S5JvAWOoGUI/AAAAAAAAC7k/AHTGwyHbidM/s400/DSC00010.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5445536951201962306" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:85%;" >We are being shown how to flip your pizza dough (love the weird picture!)<br /></span><br /></div>Nothing's wrong with Pizza Express, you understand. And even though my standards - for pizzas, men and otherwise - have somewhat moved on from when I used to frequent this establishment some 10 years ago, I have some warm memories of this place. Monday Jazz evenings, in Watford were when me and my then-boyfriend used to go out for a bit of 'class'... I remember genuinely enjoying the polished fake-marble tables, posh salad Nicoise and a gentle and undefined ramble of Jazz.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/S5JvH3eNHaI/AAAAAAAAC7s/aIXfN3UzDkw/s1600-h/pizza.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 327px; height: 400px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/S5JvH3eNHaI/AAAAAAAAC7s/aIXfN3UzDkw/s400/pizza.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5445537080384757154" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:85%;" >My pizza: mushrooms, truffles and peppers</span><br /><br /></div>So, what was my first blagger-blogger event was like? It was actually a lot more lively and tasty that I had anticipated in my up-my-nose mood. Free Prosecco flew flawlessly, organisation was seamless (they had even thought of pre-preparing pizza bases for us to rescue our botched attempts in pizza-base making) and pizzas were good (mine having lots of mushrooms and some truffle paste, which - surprise and horror - was the first time that I tried. I get it now).<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/S5Ju0tu-zTI/AAAAAAAAC7c/I1ml8OrN0vA/s1600-h/testo+3.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/S5Ju0tu-zTI/AAAAAAAAC7c/I1ml8OrN0vA/s400/testo+3.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5445536751353253170" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Ms Marmite of the famed </span><a style="font-style: italic;" href="http://marmitelover.blogspot.com">underground restaurant</a><span style="font-style: italic;"> and her lovely daughter</span><br /></span><br /></div>But the best bit for me came surprisingly at the very in the shape of little dolcetti - 'small but perfectly formed desserts' that accompanied coffees. Such treats as a mini lemon tart with meringue or a scoop of coffee gelato are officially on Pizza Express's menu for £3.50.<br /><br />Why was I so pleasantly shocked? Not because of the taste - which was ok - but because finally, after my years of moaning that restaurants are only able to offer the unsubtle choice of either a big pud or unsatisfying coffee at the end of a meal, it is Pizza Express out of all places that recognised my need to have something sweet but little after my dinner, to make me feel both indulged and virtuous.<br /><br />Thank you, good old Pizza Express, the nights of jazz, posh nosh and little sweet nothings are maybe not over after all.Katrinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04663690784541815542noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2990228674596406666.post-35113912221411851022010-02-27T18:43:00.012+00:002010-02-27T22:48:16.149+00:00Meze - to be eaten with or without underwearEver heard of a 'panty-dropping' cake? 'come-hither' milkshare? or a <a href="http://www.gastroanthropology.com/gastroanthropology/2010/02/a-backhandspring-sandwich-.html">'backhandspring' sandwich</a> (oh, thank you, my dear Gastroanthropoligist)?<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/S4mebS9p9HI/AAAAAAAAC7A/K2_-lb0-obk/s1600-h/sandwich.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/S4mebS9p9HI/AAAAAAAAC7A/K2_-lb0-obk/s400/sandwich.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5443055816438051954" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:85%;" >'The Backhandspring sandwich' by Gastroanthropologist</span></div><br />These are just some dishes that have been given special names for their state 'inducing' properties: conditions of a great variety, all having something rather physical and sexual about them nevertheless.<br /><br />The tiresome doctrine of food being an entry into a man's soul is given an uplift here and taken beyond the rather sexist notion of a sweet, little (and cunning) woman attempting to win a heart of a serious, strong (and aloof) man. It's about a gesture of will, a hint, an exercise of both love and power.<br /><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:85%;" ><br /><br /></span>As you can imagine, I have my own version, or versions of foods that leave no choice... The <a href="http://rodnushechka.blogspot.com/2010/01/hot-dark-tempting.html"><span style="font-weight: bold;">chocolate and chestnut brownies</span></a> would certainly be just that, ranging from 'cuddle me all over' to 'take me all the way'... But there are foods in my repertoire (oh, believe me, not often that I get a chance to say this about myself!) that are about, shall we say, sensual <span style="font-style: italic;">sharing</span>; foods that <span style="font-style: italic;">have to</span> be eaten in coupledom, leisurely reclining on a sofa; lights dimmed to the point when you have to rely on the senses of your hands more than sensibilities of your eyes.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/S4lwJFK3-sI/AAAAAAAAC6w/M2Oaj0olnAU/s1600-h/selection.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 328px; height: 400px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/S4lwJFK3-sI/AAAAAAAAC6w/M2Oaj0olnAU/s400/selection.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5443004925962877634" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:85%;" >'Assortment, sensual' by me</span></div><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">'Assortment, sensual' - </span>I call this dish in an austere Soviet fashion, just to highlight its very capitalist lusciousness. I gather the word 'assortment' has not been used in Britain to indicate a selection of meats, cheeses and other tit bids, for some time now; which for me is even more of a reason to bring the word back now, in the age of austerity and deep longing for all things retro.<br /><br />And so this is what my assortment had on this occasion:<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Manchego cheese (La Mancha, Spain)<br />Free-range ham, cut thickly (British, of course)<br />Hummus of chickpeas and borlotti beans, home-made<br />Carrot salad, </span><span style="font-style: italic;">sliced thinly</span><span style="font-style: italic;">, with French dressing<br />Watercress<br />Caperberries (Spanish, of course)<br />Soughdour bread, a chunk<br /></span><br />Gorged with a helping of<span style="font-style: italic;"> Bordeaux, whatever year<br /><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/S4l4uatQxZI/AAAAAAAAC64/WvgmLAEH94s/s1600-h/selection+close+up.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/S4l4uatQxZI/AAAAAAAAC64/WvgmLAEH94s/s400/selection+close+up.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5443014363492435346" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:85%;" >Manchego cheese - names are important for a well put-together 'assortment'</span><br /><br /></div>The dish (or rather a plate) is best consumed on a dull weekday, when both parties are tired, slightly bored and in a mood that is neither inspired or inspiring. Eaten slowly (plenty of time, after all you have no strength to do much else that evening), whilst chatting about matters essentially unimportant, the plate will gradually start restoring your frightened, tired spirits and the evening will lead to one thing or another...<br /><br />p.s. What is your 'named' dish? Let's have a little collection of these: from naive little pick-me-up nibbles to full-blown marry-me-now suppers!Katrinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04663690784541815542noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2990228674596406666.post-7311583054350870752010-02-07T14:52:00.020+00:002010-02-07T23:12:32.577+00:00Illegal eatingBoiled babies and dog bodies are not often on one's dinner menu on a fine Saturday night. However, this is precisely what I had last night - and enjoyed (almost!) every bit of it. Although it was no ordinary day and no ordinary place...<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/S27VW0b6hbI/AAAAAAAAC4w/oFpm2CAdzo4/s1600-h/DSC00459.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/S27VW0b6hbI/AAAAAAAAC4w/oFpm2CAdzo4/s400/DSC00459.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5435516388292330930" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">Ms Marmite Lover underground restaurant - tonight's menu<br /><br /></span></div><span style="font-weight: bold;">Underground what?</span><br /><br />The dinner took place in one of the increasingly numerous <span style="font-style: italic;">underground restaurants</span> in London, in this instance it was an impressively spacious and vintage-clad house of <span style="font-weight: bold;">Ms Marmite Lover </span>(further simply as Ms ML) of the <a href="http://marmitelover.blogspot.com/">same-named blog</a>.<br /><br />Underground restaurants, or supper clubs, or guerilla eating - essentially dinner parties staged in houses of strangers for which you pay an agreed fee - are no longer the obscure and below the earth establishments as they once were. I have been told that some of the original ones, a <i>restaurante de puertas cerradas </i>- restaurants behind locked doors - appeared in and around Cuba, but these days these, essentially illegal, eateries are the rage throughout the States and the British isles, attracting the trendy and arty , and those inspiring to be so.<br /><br />Everyone from food bloggers to <a href="http://www.guardian.co.uk/lifeandstyle/2009/feb/10/underground-restaurants-london">Guardian </a>and <a href="http://www.timeout.com/london/connect/food+drink/blog/5/going-overground-the-new-wave-of-underground-restaurants">Time Out</a> have written about the trend, and so last night I had to admit to this 'okkkey, I do need to do one of these' type of affairs. The decision was inspired by the the theme of the menu: <span style="font-weight: bold;">navy, ships biscuits, Napoleon, and sailors</span> - don't ask! But my dear J seemed somewhat of an admirer (although he didn't actually end up coming out with me due to a very un-sailor like cold).<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">On how to choose the better of two...weevils.</span><br /><br />Ms ML put together a fabulously bizarre and appropriately stodgy meal based on the <span style="font-weight: bold;">books of Patrick O'Brian</span>- famed by Russell Crowe and his 'Master and Commander'. This is how Ms ML qualifies the theme of the dinner:<div id="main-wrapper"><div class="main section" id="main"><div id="uds-searchControl"><div id="uds-searchResults"><div class="gsc-control"><div class="gsc-resultsbox-invisible"><br /><div class="gsc-resultsRoot gsc-tabData gsc-tabdInactive"><table class="gsc-resultsHeader" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0"><tbody><tr><td class="gsc-twiddleRegionCell"><br /></td><td class="gsc-configLabelCell"><br /></td></tr></tbody></table></div><div style="font-style: italic;" class="gsc-resultsRoot gsc-tabData gsc-tabdInactive"><table class="gsc-resultsHeader" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0"><tbody><tr><td class="gsc-twiddleRegionCell"><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span></td><td class="gsc-configLabelCell"><br /></td></tr></tbody></table></div></div></div></div></div><div class="widget Blog" id="Blog1"><div class="blog-posts hfeed"> <div class="post-body entry-content"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">[The books were about] </span><a style="font-style: italic;" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jack_Aubrey">Captain Jack Aubrey </a><span style="font-style: italic;">and his ship's surgeon Stephen Maturin. O'Brian spent the last 50 years of his life in the South of France. Now you might think stories about seafaring during the time of Bonaparte would be dry, boy's own type tales but not at all! The relationship between Aubrey and Maturin is touching, the humour bawdy, the technical details of the sails and workings of tall ships fascinating and the ship's routine, along with the intensely male hierarchy on board, gripping....</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Running through these novels are descriptions of food, meals and banquets...</span><span style="font-style: italic;">The </span><a style="font-style: italic;" href="http://www.hms.org.uk/nelsonsnavydiet.htm">naval diet</a><span style="font-style: italic;"> consisted of rum rations, salt beef, portable soup and </span><a style="font-style: italic;" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hardtack">hard tack</a><span style="font-style: italic;">. At the start of each voyage, the purser would gather the victuals for the journey. Hard tack or ship's biscuit would be baked four times to render it as hard as possible; as it ages, it softens. It was supposed to last for five years. You'd have to tap it for weevils before eating. This was an era before tinned goods.</span></span>..'<br /><br />As you can imagine, I was intensely looking forward to the experience - in that kind of perverse way!<br /><br /></div></div></div></div></div><br />The actual recipes of the dinner were taken from a wonderfully conforming and hilarious <span style="font-weight: bold;">'Lobscourse and Spotted Dog'</span>, a book of recipes inspired by O'Brian's writting edited by Grossman and Thomas. 'A triumph of culinary anthropology' as Washington Post put it. Need I say more! The book is a fascinating collection of the old English (and otherwise) dishes, stories, histories and all in-between.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br />The menu</span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center; font-weight: bold; color: rgb(102, 51, 102);"><a href="http://www.hms.org.uk/nelsonsnavygcon.htm">Rum grog</a></div><div style="text-align: center; font-weight: bold; color: rgb(102, 51, 102);"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center; font-weight: bold; color: rgb(102, 51, 102);">A portable soup (an early form of stock cube): Blind Scouse</div><div style="text-align: center; font-weight: bold; color: rgb(102, 51, 102);">Ships biscuit</div><div style="text-align: center; font-weight: bold; color: rgb(102, 51, 102);"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center; font-weight: bold; color: rgb(102, 51, 102);">Stargazy pie with herrings<br />Pease pudding</div><div style="text-align: center; font-weight: bold; color: rgb(102, 51, 102);"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center; font-weight: bold; color: rgb(102, 51, 102);">Boiled Baby</div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/S28zXWOirtI/AAAAAAAAC5I/WIiNP94Q-Yc/s1600-h/DSC00458.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/S28zXWOirtI/AAAAAAAAC5I/WIiNP94Q-Yc/s400/DSC00458.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5435619751456059090" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">Stargazy pie with pease pudding and mushroom ketchup</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"></span></div><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br />I'll start by saying the food was good, but varied</span>. When I say good I mean it matched the expectations (or even exceeded them in case of the pie) and generally left a warm and wobbly feeling in our bellies.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br />Now the details:</span><br /><br />The dinner didn't start well. The transport didn't work properly on the way to the secret location, we were miserably cold and it took us ages to get through the doors due to our difficulty with pronouncing the password (it's an underground restaurant, init). When we were handed in warm (but lady-like size) cups of pink <span style="font-weight: bold;">rum grog</span>, we quickly and obligingly gulped.<br /><br />I say - '<span style="font-weight: bold;">shampoo</span>?'. My companion said - 'don't care, I'm cold'. So we squinted but finished the pink liquid.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/S29GAp8t79I/AAAAAAAAC5w/E-WweLNmQQg/s1600-h/Grog.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 325px; height: 400px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/S29GAp8t79I/AAAAAAAAC5w/E-WweLNmQQg/s400/Grog.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5435640252333944786" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">Rum Grog<br /><br /></span></div>Having settled down at a lovely table of 10, lovingly covered with a vintage table cloth and expensively heavy cutlery, <span style="font-weight: bold;">Blind Scouse</span> arrived.<br /><br />Served cleverly in wide and shallow enamel bowls, Scourse turned out to be a truly home-made soup of barley, potatoes, carrots and other similarly mundane vegetables. The important addition was that of <span style="font-weight: bold;">Ships biscuits </span>(for the teeth-crashing description see above) that were to be soaked in Scouse's stock. It tasted well-intentional and well-turned out. I even forgot my childhood misgivings for grey barley.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/S282yullW4I/AAAAAAAAC5Q/2sUQhxQU9LU/s1600-h/DSC00454.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/S282yullW4I/AAAAAAAAC5Q/2sUQhxQU9LU/s400/DSC00454.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5435623520386505602" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">Table is set - Ms ML knows her vintage plate from her flea market napkin<br /><br /></span></div>(at this point a notch or two of a belt came off). The Pie has arrived.<br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/S283Y3MqgrI/AAAAAAAAC5Y/IbiKcx2XFhE/s1600-h/Stargazy_pie430x300.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 279px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/S283Y3MqgrI/AAAAAAAAC5Y/IbiKcx2XFhE/s400/Stargazy_pie430x300.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5435624175532933810" border="0" /><span style="display: block;" id="formatbar_Buttons"><span class=" down" style="display: block;" id="formatbar_Bold" title="Bold" onmouseover="ButtonHoverOn(this);" onmouseout="ButtonHoverOff(this);" onmouseup="" onmousedown="CheckFormatting(event);FormatbarButton('richeditorframe', this, 3);ButtonMouseDown(this);"><img src="http://www.blogger.com/img/blank.gif" alt="Bold" class="gl_bold" border="0" /></span></span></a><span><span style="font-size:85%;">The star of the dinner (note, what we actually had looked even better)</span></span><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span></span><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span></span></span></div><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br />Stargazy pie with herrings</span>.<br /><br />I had heard of the dish through my (shame, shame on me) earlier addiction to the Great British Menu, where <span style="font-weight: bold;">Mark Hix</span> (whose squidgy, cluby 'Hix' in Soho I had been frequented recently and will probably review soon) won the day with his version of this funny old dish. This was the first time I tried the dish.<br /><br />The pie is essentially a mix of potatoes, carrots, probably leeks, cream, tarragon and herring, covered by the crispiness of quite sweet pastry with herring heads exuberantly sticking out from underneath the pie top - <span style="font-weight: bold;">staring at stars of course</span>. We loved the wholesome, creamy pie, with just the right percentage of salt, pepper and tarragon, all despite of the annoying little bones, intermediately interfering with the experience.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br />The best of stodge worlds</span><br /><br />The dreamy herrings were accompanied by a <span style="font-weight: bold;">pease pudding </span>(or dog's body if I remember correctly), '<span style="font-weight: bold;">English version of dahl'</span>, as Ms ML put it herself. A very moorish accompaniment of peas cooked into mash with lots of butter. This is what the good old English cooking is all about - stodge, lovely, tasty stodge (at that point I remember exchanging remarks with a table colleague about the essential similarity of all northern European cooking - Russians and English are united forever by the love for stodge).<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/S27T_Ukly8I/AAAAAAAAC4Y/t_RicrqKS1Y/s1600-h/DSC00466.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/S27T_Ukly8I/AAAAAAAAC4Y/t_RicrqKS1Y/s400/DSC00466.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5435514885090167746" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:100%;">Boiled Baby - the best titled-pudding ever?<br /><br /></span></div>After the cheese course, which I'm sure was lovely but I couldn't fit into myself anymore, we had the Baby, yes, the whole <span style="font-weight: bold;">Boiled Baby</span> - a simple steamed pudding of flour, raisins, nutmeg and not much else. We all agreed that:<br /><br />1. the dish was absolutely spot on and 'authentic' as this is exactly how Captain Audrey would have liked it<br /><br />2. by serving the Baby with the voluptuous, silky rose-water custard, Ms ML did wonders by making us eating even half of it.<br /><br />Even my Russian stodge-accustomed body could not handle any more.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br />Posh nosh vs humble pie?</span><br /><br />The setting was gorgeous, atmosphere was fun, food was decent. I would happily admit that I'd do it again.<br /><br />I can see how those who run such establishments find the lure of media hype too attractive to resist, which easily leads to <span style="font-weight: bold;">turning up of many noses</span>. As with those Michelin-starred, the booking queues become overwhelmingly long and the stardom of the owners overshadow the quality of the food.<br /><br />But whilst these place are still home kitchens with all their imperfections, mistakes and mostly sincere (if occasionally tetchy) personal interaction, I'm choosing Ms Marmite Lover's little hide-away any day of the week.<br /><br />Well, until I succumb to the glory of <a href="http://www.texture-restaurant.co.uk/about.htm">Texture </a>- on which, hopefully, next week.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/S287bwkA4AI/AAAAAAAAC5g/4Mr1zyfNJ5U/s1600-h/DSC00461.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/S287bwkA4AI/AAAAAAAAC5g/4Mr1zyfNJ5U/s400/DSC00461.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5435628623337938946" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">You ain't gonna get a toilet like this at Gordon Ramsey's</span><br /></div>Katrinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04663690784541815542noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2990228674596406666.post-91593147059002172692010-01-24T12:24:00.007+00:002010-01-25T20:40:36.721+00:00Mexican street markets - Guest post 1<span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Following the brilliant (if not entirely original) idea of a fellow pig trotter lover and blogger Ryan at </span><a style="font-style: italic;" href="http://www.nosetotailathome.com/">Nose to Tail Eating at Home</a><span style="font-style: italic;">, I'm opening up my blog to guests.</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">Have you been to a lovely little market? Have a story to tell about some curious food stuff? Would like to share your Madeleine memory? Or have a thing about all things Russians? Get in touch and I'd love to </span> <span style="font-style: italic;">share your story with the rest of the world.<br /><br />The first post comes from the wonderful fellow anthropologist-to-be Sofia Larrinua-Craxton and her </span><a style="font-style: italic;" href="http://sofiacraxton.co.uk/">website </a><span style="font-style: italic;">about 'all things food'. Sofia is Mexican - evidently - and teaches Mexican cuisine at </span><a style="font-style: italic;" href="http://www.booksforcooks.com/">Books for cooks</a><span style="font-style: italic;"> in London, so she knows her chilli and her tortilla...</span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Mexian street markets...</span><br /><br />Or 'el tianguis' as it is commonly known is the Nahuatl word for the various colourful markets which populate the streets of Mexico, here you can find all the things you need, thought you needed and things you would not even imagined existed but are sold, from wedding dresses to plants and baskets, these markets sell all kinds of stuff and it is lovely to see people buying all kinds of things.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/S14Ai-flOyI/AAAAAAAAC4A/XeQSaAFERGY/s1600-h/mexian+market.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/S14Ai-flOyI/AAAAAAAAC4A/XeQSaAFERGY/s400/mexian+market.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5430778801546410786" border="0" /></a><br />A particularly nice thing to do is to buy fresh fruits and vegetables; <span style="font-weight: bold;">courgette flowers, tomatillos, cactus leaves, ripe guavas, mamey fruit and avocados, sweet mangoes and juicy pineapples</span>, all sit happily waiting to be tested, tasted and bought. For those who fancy a snack, just stop at any of the many street stalls, where you can taste a hand made <span style="font-weight: bold;">quesadilla </span>with fresh hot salsa or a 'tlacoyo' which is a tortilla filled with beans, usually made with blue corn and topped with a delicious salad of cactus leaves, tomatoes, coriander and crumbled cheese.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/S14AtlJRHhI/AAAAAAAAC4I/CQsPc0Lcjdk/s1600-h/mexian+market+2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/S14AtlJRHhI/AAAAAAAAC4I/CQsPc0Lcjdk/s400/mexian+market+2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5430778983720492562" border="0" /></a><br /><br />If in Mexico look for the classic green or pink canopies characteristic of these markets and delight in watching people offering their wares, haggling and buying. Try the various exotic fruits and vegetables and stop for some food. Don't forget to take a hand made bag or basket or better still buy it there. If you like Mexican cooking implements look for them at the stalls, you can get <span style="font-weight: bold;">tortilla presses</span>, lime squeezers and gorgeous enamel pots and pans at very good prices. Of course if you feel eccentric, you can always bargain for some silver jewellery, a banana plant, fake designer shoes or even a wedding dress, the choice is yours. Whatever your taste choices a 'tianguis' is really fun!<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/S14A2XIdfHI/AAAAAAAAC4Q/gG4iwZXzGJ0/s1600-h/mexian+market+3.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/S14A2XIdfHI/AAAAAAAAC4Q/gG4iwZXzGJ0/s400/mexian+market+3.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5430779134577835122" border="0" /></a>Katrinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04663690784541815542noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2990228674596406666.post-73928757946898368002010-01-17T14:02:00.006+00:002010-01-17T15:07:29.876+00:00This is how to win his heart - and the world's belliesHe said I was a goddess.<br /><br />I perform all the tricks that domestic goddesses are supposed to be able to do: move well, raise one eyebrow suggestively and engage in pseudo-intellectual conversations. But, as we all know, to really touch the heart of a man - of either divine and earthly nature, you have to appeal to his belly. The seemingly unexpected and effortless appearance of these gooey, sticky, the colour of mud things had swayed the celestial balance.<br /><br />Chocolate brownies.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/S1McSo9OANI/AAAAAAAAC3U/y73uVV6J_68/s1600-h/DSC00418.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/S1McSo9OANI/AAAAAAAAC3U/y73uVV6J_68/s400/DSC00418.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5427713082468991186" border="0" /></a><br /><br />These are days, and particularly nights, of depressing, matter-of-factely mid-winter, when despite all the <span style="font-weight: bold;">calls to austerity</span>, one yearns for something ridiculously rich, extravagant, and in big quantities. What the goddess does is she smiles gently, strokes a feverish forehead and lightly strikes her magic wand...<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/S1MfGHfwDZI/AAAAAAAAC3c/2zNqbdPwhKI/s1600-h/DSC00409.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/S1MfGHfwDZI/AAAAAAAAC3c/2zNqbdPwhKI/s400/DSC00409.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5427716165863476626" border="0" /></a>It is surprising to realise that the <span style="font-weight: bold;">Brownie</span>, so un-Russian in its origin, so both exotic, because of all the chocolate and dark sugars, and <span style="font-weight: bold;">teen-American</span>, because of its current association, has in fact become the most treasured dessert in this household. Come to think of it, perhaps it is precisely because of the Brownie's Americanist, straight-forward appeal, its capitalist ability to adapt to all tastes and cultures and its <span style="font-weight: bold;">strumpet </span>skill to appeal to both most basic and most sublime, that it has earned its place. A kind of Cold War victory on the ground, in the sexy James Bond and Natasha with a choker on her throat type of way.<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br />Chocolate and chestnut brownies</span>:<br /><br />100g butter<br />200g dark chocolate<br />150g cooked chestnuts, chopped<br />200g sugar, a mixture of caster and dark brown<br />100g plain flour<br />1tsp baking powder<br />3-4 large eggs, lightly whisked<br /><br />1. preheat the over to 180C and line a baking tray, about 20-30 cm<br /><br />2. melt chocolate with butter over a pan of simmering water; let it cool down for a couple of minutes<br /><br />3. transfer the chocolate/butter mixture into a bigger bowl if necessary, add chestnuts, sugar, sifted flour, powder and eggs<br /><br />4. enjoy the unhurried mixing of the heavy load<br /><br />5. pour into the baking tray, make sure the surface is roughly even and bake for about 20 minutes<br /><br />6. the Brownie mixture should be taken out of the oven when still looks a bit uncooked, it will give it that gooey centre<br /><br />7. let the mixture cool a bit, cut into squares and enjoy the almost delirious combination of bitter chocolate, earthy chestnuts and American superpower:) . Great with unsweetened <a href="http://rodnushechka.blogspot.com/2010/01/hot-dark-tempting.html">Turkish coffee</a>, black Russian tea or, indeed, a strawberry milkshake.Katrinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04663690784541815542noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2990228674596406666.post-20045967219717444432010-01-06T22:08:00.004+00:002010-01-06T22:25:09.356+00:00What is the name of me, my sweet mirror?<span style="font-family: georgia;font-size:130%;" >My dear, faithful readers,<br /><br />It has finally come to me needing - asking, begging - your help, your ideas, your brains.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >I-need-your-help with choosing a name for my blog.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-size:130%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/S0UMnBJnZBI/AAAAAAAAC3M/r9tQX-HUats/s1600-h/ideas.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 234px; height: 259px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_kyO3AopM8jA/S0UMnBJnZBI/AAAAAAAAC3M/r9tQX-HUats/s400/ideas.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5423755190700827666" border="0" /></a><br /><br />you all know I've been writing the blog for awhile, and it's gone into different direction from what I originally thought it would be, however there are certain themes...<br /><br /><b>so I would LOVE if YOU came back to me with your vote number one.<br /></b><br />from the list below that me and J has brainstormed, which one you think reflects the best my blog, my character, or just attracts you the most?<br /><br /></span><ul><li style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);font-size:130%;" >Bazaar and Vodka</span></li><li style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);font-size:130%;" >Bolshy Bazaar</span></li><li style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);font-size:130%;" >Russian Glutton</span></li><li style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);font-size:130%;" >Comrade Foodie</span></li><li style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);font-size:130%;" >Belly Revolution</span></li><li style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);font-size:130%;" >She swallows </span></li><li style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);font-size:130%;" >That Madeleine moment</span></li><li><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0); font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >Around the world in 80 markets?</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span></li></ul><span style="font-size:130%;"><br />Any crazy, obsecure, silly ideas are welcome here - no censoring, honest;)<br /><br />Thank you, Spasiba, Merci<br /></span>Katrinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04663690784541815542noreply@blogger.com24