I confess a slight, well, extreme predeliction for food blogs. They make the world a better and wildly delicious place. I could read them for hours, and infact sometimes do. But where would the mere words be without delightful photos of the delicious morsels to back them up? To tempt the salivary glands? To get people running into kitchens and putting random fridge friends together in new and delightful ways? The photos are key. The photo is to foodblogs what the telegenic presenter is to food porn – Ina, Lorraine, Nigella, Darina, Rachel, well, winning smiles, amazing kitchen surfaces – the gleaming chrome, the stuffed fridges, the friends, the children, the life – well. . . it’s all on offer really. But from my kitchen, humble and entirely bereft of chrome finishings and devoid of any marble topped work surfaces (these are things of which I at times dream) from the mismatched ashes frequently pop out works of love. And delicious things. Things and time and works and labours of love.
Snow covered Brussels for the first time this year, bringing the city to a muffled quiet silence. That sounds more ominous than it should be, but it’s all magical and quiet and soft. . . Fingers crossed it’ll last for a while.
Currently I’m experimenting with planning (not to an excessive amount), organising things (things that are long overdue and cause me to wake in the middle of the night with worries and oh god, it’s so long, it’s pretty terrible that I haven’t got that done yet… the planning leading to *definate and *defined goals is a good thing – one that will allow me headspace and the ability to say no when needed, yes when I should, and hopefully get me out of this particular form of stasis I’ve been stuck in for a while) and, my oh my, this is one hell of a long sentence, but actually getting Belgian admin sorted. I will update from some prison cell later no doubt, but this mornings work has yielded. . .
I’m between successes at the moment and nothing beats the wonderful frustration of sending off application letter after application letter into the great void, and hearing little to nothing back from it. This can get a person down in the long run, so in order to stave off the madness, and to enjoy my days, I’ve been making aprons.
Aprons, how quaint, I hear you say. How, as a self-professed feminist can you spend you time making something like this, something that our mothers railed against, cutsifying the very image of enforced domestic drudgery…Well aprons are a little odd, but they can be very lovely – exhibit a attests to such lovelieness. There’s something really special about spending time on precise tasks (cutting, measuring, matching, sewing) and seeing something completely different from the random pieces of fabrics emerge at the end. It’s satisfying, absorbing, and really produces something special for the intended recipeient at the end. Plus, aprons are fairly simple. If you’re in any way phobic of irons, or have a demented/possessed one like we do, then be warned, linen will scorch, non-cotton fabrics will warp, and just about anything that can go wrong will – but persevere, and you and your family could also be blessed with a bounty of aprons for Christmas, as mine will be, be they male, female, interested or other, there are aprons heading their way.
I aged over the weekend. We age all the time, but this is the one day in which all of my misgivings about Facebook are absolved.
I want to write about this in more detail later, but it’s completely awful to see the city that you know and love so well consumed by viciousness. My landlord from Dalston, a slightly scary Cypriot called Bambi (never mock a man with a cartoon name, it’s Boy Named Sue land and you’ll regret it) is, I’m sure, part of the groups of men looking after the streets in Hackney. Thinking of all of the London peeps – here’s a Brussels tribute, freshly tagged this morning. . . .
This weekend saw a long-time-no-see friend visit for three days. We met in 2001 thanks to the lottery of our university accommodation – he was one of the boys downstairs, I was one of the girls upstairs. This was September 2001, we met, and ten years later, we’re here, exchanging stories about what has happened to us all, admonishing each other for how long it’s been and promising renewed visits and contact in the future.
Old friends have a phenomenal power to soothe and provoke at the same time. It was utterly wonderful to have him around; I basked in his company – an uncomplicatedly solid friendship based on years of laughing at each other. There’s added value being in the honesty and concern that comes with watching each other change and evolve into the people we are now form the people we once were. It’s the decadeness of it that makes it so daunting really – it feels like it was all just seconds ago in many ways. We slipped into the easy rhythm of our friendship as if it had been last week that we had last bumped into each other. The what’s, where’s and why’s of the last ages put into perspective and the why not’s of now debated.
Brussels was at its mercurial best – massive downpours on Saturday and a bright sunshiny Sunday. We visited museums, markets, memorials, and had lots of cobblestoned midnight chats and walks home. Drenched to the bone more than once, we filled each other in on the past, and plotted for the future. I wouldn’t call myself rested at the end of it, but refreshed and reinvigorated. More please.
Being that this effort is in itself a new venture and an exercise in seeing if I can manage to keep writing (as if no ones reading) dancing like no ones watching etc, why does it feel so strange? As our lives become technologicallybookmarked and archived automatically around us, it’s odd enough to be writing for the sake of it, writing what feels interesting to write, and to let myself go into the stream of consciousness sort of writing that I enjoy so much. Likelihood is that I’ll re-read this and delete the majority of it, or re-edit and re-hash until it’s not quite honest, but still. It’s discomforting, but I suppose liberating. Writing with my own voice, not holding back on tone or whats said. I suppose this is the fear then, that take away the constraints and restraints, that I don’t actually have very much to say…. Continue reading
This is a first, or a sort of first. I’ve got the makings of a blogger of sorts, and according to E, this is the sort of thing that is necessary – putting thoughts about interesting things together in one place, a form of open diary or log of life. Heregoes.