There's a funny moment in our lives (funny, both ha-ha and strange) when we realise that we have fallen for what we used to mock before. This Augenblick can only be interpreted as a journey from a carefree, fun-filled summer day to the crepuscular beauty of an autumn evening in no more than twenty-four hours. This is that moment in our lives when a "bolero", a “fado” or a "tango" calls to a part of us that had hitherto lain hidden. Or dormant. Or unexplored. Or covered up by layers and layers of identity markers. Those markers we pick up from the shop we call life. There we are, little, hopping, skipping creatures, barely able to reach the dinner table, entering the shop stage right and many years later, exiting stage left, carrying with us multiple transformations, disguises and masks. It is that time of the year when rain-soaked, dark-inked pavements trigger off feelings of nostalgia in me. This time around, a wet summer, combined with the early onset of autumn has unleashed a deluge of memories. Not just any memories, mind. In November it will be 20 years since I landed in the UK. To stay. To set down roots. To throw my lot in with the people of this country. But the question that has arisen in the last half decade is: have I succeeded? Succeeded at what could be the swift response.Perhaps, I should rephrase that question: has it been a fulfilling life for me so far?
With the rain still hanging over the low-rise flats in my neck of the woods and weak sunrays spearing through eastbound, grey clouds, I recently pulled up just outside my house after another long bike ride around London. Whilst catching my breath back, I paused to ask myself that question: has my life been fulfilling so far? The short answer is yes, above all personally and professionally. The long one would be: it’s a work in progress (I haven't even developed the immigrant's usual love-hate relationship with their new home). It is easy to relocate to another place and not have a sense of belonging to it. I believe that the process of settling in another country is a two-way system: you give and take in equal measure. I looked at my bicycle and retraced my steps all the way back to that morning. It had caught me in east London interviewing a guy who can only be described as an essential part of the incredible, creative power this city has. The afternoon had seen me have my lunch in west London in a beautiful park; the dry grass a provocation to the gathering clouds. Trafalgar Square was a sight to cycle past, not a tourist stop. The downpour caught me not long after. It gave me time to think. Unlike running, when most of the time I listen to music, whenever I am pedalling my way around London my ears remain earphone-free. Instead I focus on the sounds of the city: the loud-revving car engines revealing impatient drivers, the voices (with their various accents), the beeping, the swearing, the muzak blaring out of cafes and restaurants, the R'n'B/reggae/rock/grime blasting out of open windows, the football chants, the soft, swishing sound of the closing doors of a double-decker, the whispered plea, "Can you spare some change, please?" Part of the progress I have made in these 20 years is figuring out what the pattern of this city is. All cities have one, especially metropolises. Havana’s is laid-back, London is a rush-hour one, with a nowadays added screen-facing, neck-bent population. During the next few weeks, up until November, when I will be celebrating my second decade in this country, my posts will be even more London-centric, if that’s possible. I will be posting interviews I conducted during the summer holidays with some of the makers and shakers of this city’s incredible entrepreneurial might. There will be plenty of autumn-coloured reflections, impressionistic in their design with perhaps a surrealist touch in their delivery. After all, another element in London’s pattern is how often it confounds expectations. Here is a city that is not afraid to wear its eccentricity on its sleeve. A city in which anyone can end up being bathed in nostalgia-scented memories by the power of a fado or a bolero.
The human experience is a moment-hopping journey. Random memories coalesce together in the hope we can make sense of our existence, of who we are, why we are here. We weave a consciously lineal narrative into our voyage through the world and yet our subconscious releases these stories like a bundle of pick-up sticks in a game of Mikado. Snap! There we are, aged six and our front tooth has just come out. We smile at everyone without fear or shame. The hole in our denture defies ridicule and encourages individuality. Distant is still the feeling of embarrassment that will plague our future years, whenever we are asked on to the dance floor. Snap! There we are, sitting by ourselves on the cracked wall next to the abandoned, weed-strewn, communal garden. We are the acne-afflicted teenager with pain in his heart and no Plan B on how to deal with it. Yesterday we rose to kiss our loved one. Standing on toes, raised heels. Raised hopes. Dashed now. Snap! We are the young adult with a frown on our face and a letter in our hand explaining mortgage rates. Our ship moves ever so slowly away from harbour. Soon, we will not have tranquil waters anymore. Instead we will be at the mercy of the ever-changing weather. The letter sits on the table. The mortgage rates fluctuate in the stock market. We are building our monument to Nostalgia.
Nostalgia. Self-lacerating and yet so welcome. One minute you are the mature, decisive adult who handles each child-related emergency with pragmatism and sang froid. The next minute, you are an emotional wreck as memories of that cracked wall flash up in your mind. Nostalgia. Indulgence in the past or fear of the future? Traps that Time sets for us, unsuspecting humans, or tools to re-imagine easily forgotten eras? The ball I threw while playing in the park has not yet reached the ground. No, it moved in whimsical ways and continues to move that way. Neither lineally nor predictably, but randomly. Like a bundle of pick-up sticks in a game of Mikado. Ready to be released.
Autumn is here. And you all know what that means. As it is customary most posts until early December will be autumn-scented. This one tonight is autumn-cooked. And who else but Nigel Slater to open the autumn celebrations? As you all know, I am a big fan of Slater's recipes and I cannot wait to cook this one.
The recipe
Soak 125g of moong dal – skinned and split mung beans – for 30 minutes in warm water.
Peel and roughly chop 1 medium onion, then cook it in 30g of melted butter over a moderate heat until translucent. Add 1 tbsp of mustard seeds and cook until they start to pop, then stir in 1 crushed clove of garlic. Peel and grate a 50g lump of ginger, stir into the onions then add a finely chopped red chilli. Continue cooking for 5 minutes, stirring regularly.
Stir in the contents of a 400g can of chopped tomatoes and a can of water and bring to the boil. Season with salt and black pepper then stir in the soaked and drained mung beans and leave to cook at a calm simmer for 30 minutes. Check the liquid level regularly. Lastly, stir in 1 tbsp of garam masala.
Place 2 large, flat mushrooms in a foil-lined oven dish. Baste them all over with 50g of melted butter, the juice of 1 lemon and 5 tbsp of water. Season, then scrunch the edges of the foil together to loosely seal. Bake in a preheated oven at 200C/gas mark 6 for about 20-25 minutes, basting as necessary.
Check the dal for seasoning, then divide between 2 large bowls, place a baked mushroom on top and spoon over any baking juices. Enough for 2.
The trick
Soaking the moong dal reduces the cooking time considerably, but it is not entirely necessary. It is worth keeping an eye on the liquid levels while they are cooking should you choose not to pre-soak the beans, topping up with a little vegetable stock or water as necessary.
The twist
Use small brown lentils instead of mung beans. Instead of serving with baked mushrooms use the dal as a stuffing for baked aubergines, stirring the aubergine flesh into the dal as it cooks.
The music to go with this hearty recipe has to be equally warm. That is why I open with a favourite of mine. Never mind that he is eighty-something and getting on a bit. He has a new album out and to me Leonard Cohen is autumn. Especially when he is a "Marianne" mood.
It is a mystery to me as to why Cristina Branco is not better known as the outstanding fado singer she is. After all, she is just as good as Mariza, the "queen" of this popular Portuguese musical genre. Well, you can see for yourselves now.
A decade-old tango re-worked as a flamenco melody. What is not to like about it? Especially when performed by none other than Estrella Morente. Listening to this song reminds me of the sound of dry leaves as you step on them in autumn. What a gem.
I know what you're thinking. I do not play a lot of what could be considered "mainstream" music on my blog, but occasionally I make exceptions. I have never owned a The Corrs record but I certainly like a few of their songs, especially the singles. This one is one of them. Love the autumnal feeling it leaves me with.
Next Post: "Thoughts in Progress", to be published on Saturday 29th October at 6pm (GMT)
“Old age is a faraway land full of wrinkled, drooling, absent-minded, incontinent and senile inhabitants. It’s the penultimate stop before the terminus. Actually, it is the last stop for some.”
Those words are not mine. In fact, they don’t belong to anyone in particular in that they are not a quote we can easily append to someone. Those words, however, partly represent our current attitude to the elderly as a society. As a youth-, beauty-obsessed society.
I am writing this post later than usual. It is normal for me to draft up my “reflections” a week or two before the Sunday on which they are due to be posted. But this time it has taken me longer to put pen to paper. Or hands to keyboard as modernity dictates. The reason for my unusual procrastination is Alice Munro’s beautiful and touching prose. Her writing had the unfortunate effect of immobilising me mentally. I knew what I wanted to write about. The question was: how? I have been familiar with the Canadian author’s short stories for some time now. And yet, The Bear Came over the Mountain, re-published recently by The New Yorker on the occasion of Munro winning the Nobel Prize for Literature had me welling up. That was before I remembered I had already seen the film based on her short story.
I then began to think that there aren’t many movies, literary works or dance pieces (to name but three art forms) around these days that address old age from a mature, realistic point of view. Either we get the forgetful old dear, the sassy grey-haired (heavily patronised, sadly), or the ageing, but still all-conquering Lothario (usually a man, obviously). Both The Bear Came over the Mountain and Away from Her,the film based on the tale, focus more on the characters and their circumstances.
In The Bear..., Grant and Fiona are a married couple about to embark on a difficult journey. Fiona is checking into a home for people in the early stages of dementia. At seventy years old, Fiona is “still upright and trim, with long legs and long feet, delicate wrists and ankles, and tiny, almost comical-looking ears”. On the way to Meadowlake, Fiona’s new abode, there are doubts and jokes. Driving past a swampy hollow, now covered in ice, Fiona remembers that she and Grant went skiing there many years before. This recollection makes Grant almost want to turn around. What follows thereafter is a heart-rending (but, luckily, unsentimental and non-cliché) exploration of the consequences of dementia, but also of what old age is.
Old age: what kind of land is it?
And what it isn’t. Old age is not a faraway land full of wrinkled, drooling, absent-minded, incontinent and senile inhabitants. It is a stage, the last one in our human life, for sure, but not less important than the ones which preceded it. Senescence is the concept they didn’t tell you about back in school because you were too busy being young. We will never be old, we tell our younger selves, with the bravado that characterises our adolescent and young adulthood years. When I was a teenager, I looked at my grandmother, with whom I still shared my flat in Havana (and with my mother, my auntie and my cousin. By then my dad had disappeared from the scene) and saw an active woman. She was in charge of the house chores, always fussing after visitors, always smiling. But I never saw myself as her. I never thought of myself as ever being her age. To me my “Mima”, had sprung up into my life in her 60s, or 70s, or 80s. Any age but a young age.
That’s what I see around me today. Not just in the UK, where the obsession to look young (or not to look old, take your pick) is taking its toll on the current and possibly on the next generation. I see that in Cuba when I visit. I have seen that in Spain and Italy where I have holidayed. Old age is stereotyped. That’s why The Bear Came over the Mountain left me mentally paralysed and unable to write. It is a different world Alice Munro writes about with very real characters. There is love aplenty in the story. Natural, ageless love. But there is also love that leads to wrong decision-making. Fiona falls for a man, Aubrey, at Meadowlake. Her mental state doesn’t let her realise that she is still married to Grant. The latter comes to visit her twice per week and becomes an unwilling witness to the development of his wife’s romance with Aubrey. The Bear,,, is a short story that hurts. It is also a story full of grey areas, because senescence is hardly a black and white issue. The movie is just as nuanced with Julie Christie in top form in the role of Fiona.
One of the many misconceptions of old age is that the elderly envy the young. I don’t believe so. Or, at least, I don't believe it is applicable to everyone. It is true that there are activities that become off limits with the passing of time. That might make some people yearn for better health and robustness. Yet, since old age is just another stage in life’s grand journey, the key word is adaptation. I am lucky in that I have three very close role models. My mother still works at the same copyright agency she joined when I was nine years old. She is seventy-six. My father, at seventy-one, still gigs as a pianist. He has been forced to reduce his working hours but his skills are as sharp as they were when he still lived with me. Lastly, my mother-in-law, who turned eighty earlier this year, still composes (she is a singer song-writer) and has an active life.
The other often mistaken notion is that old people do not have sexual lives. This is partly based on the same youth-, beauty-obsessed attitude I mentioned at the beginning of this post. The idea of big, wrinkled bellies, sagging breasts and grey, pubic hairs might be a turn-off for many. And not just for the young, mind you. However, sex is just as important to someone who is seventy as it is to someone who is twenty-seven. Perhaps what changes is the intention and the setting. I would like to believe that there is more intimacy, closeness, love and romance involved. There is a beautiful passage in The Bear Came over the Mountain that clearly proves my theory: “Grant skied for exercise. He skied around and around in the field behind the house as the sun went down and left the sky pink over a countryside that seemed to be bound by waves of blue-edged ice. Then he came back to the darkening house, turning the television news on while he made his supper. They had usually prepared supper together. One of them made the drinks and the other the fire, and they talked about his work (he was writing a study of legendary Norse wolves and particularly of the great wolf Fenrir, which swallows up Odin at the end of the world) and about whatever Fiona was reading and what they had been thinking during their close but separate day. This was their time of liveliest intimacy, though there was also, of course, the five or ten minutes of physical sweetness just after they got into bed—something that did not often end in sex but reassured them that sex was not over yet.”
Old age is not a faraway land full of wrinkled, drooling, absent-minded, incontinent and senile inhabitants. Old age is a land full of people who were once young and are now embarking on the last stage of their journey. A journey which should be as enjoyable as the ones that came before.
Please, be aware that the following post contains meat. A lot of it. And duck fat, too. I thought I'd mention that. And music, of course. So, if you're a veggie, you might want to stick around for the melodies and skip the recipe. Thanks.
The Ballymaloe Cookery School in Ireland advertises itself as the 'only cookery school in the world located in the middle of its own 100-acre organic farm...' I say, amen to that, but it makes no odds to me whether the building is in a farm or in a shopping centre. The following recipe looks so yummy that I was blowing kisses at it when I first spotted it in the Observer Food Monthly supplement a few weeks ago. Darina Allen, Ireland's best-known chief and owner of the Ballymaloe Cookery School came up with this delicious dish after she saw one of her students chucking out some over-whipped cream. In her own words she 'realised that most people, even those who came to learn at her school, had lost touch with the traditional skills of cooking – and proceeded to make pats of butter with that cream. Her Forgotten Skills of Cooking course was born that day, and her latest book of the same name includes 700 of those skills, from bread-making and fruit-preserving to compost, making sausages and how to cook a perfect steak'.
From that book, I bring you now one of those dishes that will make your winter nights all the more bearable.
Braised Lamb Shanks with Garlic, Rosemary and Cannellini Beans
By the way, she advises slow-cooking with this recipe. Absolutely my kind of chef!
4 lamb shanks, about 1kg 8 small sprigs of rosemary 8 slivers garlic 4 anchovy fillets, halved salt and freshly ground black pepper
For the tomato fondue: 1 tbs extra-virgin olive oil 110g onions, sliced 1 garlic clove, crushed 900g very ripe tomatoes, peeled salt, freshly ground pepper and sugar to taste 2 tbs of any or a combination of the following: freshly chopped mint, thyme, parsley, lemon balm, marjoram or torn basil a few drops of balsamic vinegar (optional)
For braising: 30g duck fat or olive oil (remember the left-over fat from the Sunday roast I keep in the fridge? It would come in handy now, wouldn't it?) 225g streaky bacon 2 carrots, roughly chopped 2 celery stalks, roughly chopped 1 leek, roughly chopped 1 onion, roughly chopped 1 garlic head, halved horizontally 225ml bottle good red wine (as a teetotal, I skip this step) 300ml lamb or chicken stock (see below)sprig of thyme 2 sprigs of rosemary 2 bay leaves 2 strips of dried orange peel 1 x 400g tin cannellini beans, drained or 200g dried cannellini beans, soaked overnight then boiled rapidly for 30 mins 600ml homemade chicken or lamb stock 2 sprigs of thyme leaves from 2 sprigs of rosemary, chopped sprigs of rosemary, for garnish
Make the tomato fondue: heat the oil in a casserole or stainless-steel saucepan. Add the onions and garlic and toss until coated. Cover and sweat on a gentle heat until the onions and garlic are soft but not coloured.
Slice the tomatoes and add with all the juice to the onions. Season with salt, pepper and sugar. Add a generous sprinkling of herbs. Cook, uncovered, for about 10 minutes, or until the tomatoes soften. A few drops of balsamic vinegar at the end of cooking will greatly enhance the flavour.
Next, preheat the oven to 150ºC/Gas 2. Remove most of the fat from each shank and then scrape the meat away from the bone to loosen it.
Make two deep incisions in each joint and insert a sprig of rosemary and a sliver of garlic wrapped in half an anchovy fillet into each incision. Season the meat with salt and black pepper.
Heat the duck fat or olive oil in a heavy sauté pan or casserole and sauté the meat until it is well browned on all sides. Remove the lamb shanks from the pan. Next add the bacon and cook until crisp, then add the carrots, celery, leek, onion and garlic and cook over a high heat until slightly browned. Add the red wine to the pan and bring to the boil, stirring for a minute or two.
Add the stock, herbs and orange peel to the pan, then place the lamb shanks on top. Cover and cook in the oven for 2¼ hours.
Remove from the oven and add the tomato fondue, cannellini beans, herbs and enough stock to half-cover the beans. Cover and simmer for a further 45 minutes to 1 hour. When the lamb has finished cooking it should be falling off the bone. Remove the thyme, bay leaves and orange peel. Taste and correct the seasoning.
Serve the lamb shanks in a hot, deep dish with the beans and vegetables poured over and around. Garnish with sprigs of fresh rosemary and thyme.
My first musical offering tonight is a slow-cooking number that suits perfectly this slow-cooking recipe. Listen to Cuban-born Mayra Andrade's 'Lua' (the equivalent of 'moon' in English) from her album 'Navega' and be ready to be blown away by her exquisite voice. I love the way the backing instruments are kept to a minimum, the better to highlight Mayra's vocal prowess. Yummy.
From clean-shaved heartthrob to public toilet predator, the career of Georgios Kyriacos Panayiotou has been full both of highlights and pitfalls. But one aspect has remained unchanged throughout his ups and downs: George Michael is a brilliant pop artist. And the following track, 'Father Figure', from his debut album, 'Faith' should be enough evidence. Strong voice, a knack for song-writing and charisma (I guess you need lots of the latter if you are in the habit of prowling the restrooms of Beverly Hills) have made Michael a very unusual and versatile performer. If we were to draw a comparison with Darina Allen's recipe, even if you're a veggie, you can't help admiring the way that lamb meat comes off the bones so easily once it's been given the slow-cooking treatment. Just like Michael's voice. Methinks. Enjoy.
There are good tangos and top-quality ones. And then there's 'Nostalgias'. To say that it is a classic, it's almost like saying that 'Hey Jude' was an OK song composed by a quartet named after (including misspelling) an insect of the order Coleoptera. From the start, Enrique Cadicamo's composition became one of the most covered songs by tango and non-tango singers. In fact, my favourite version so far is Estrella Morente's, a flamenco performer whose delivery is pitch-perfect. And look at her hands are 4:37. My God, is it any wonder that I've been playing her two CDs 'Mi Cante y Un Poema' and 'Mujeres' back to back to back for the last few months? I strongly advise you, non-Spanish speakers, to seek out a full translation of the lyrics online. It's one of the saddest songs about a break-up I've ever heard in my life. And as usual: Buen provecho.
Copyright 2010
Next Post: 'Sunday Mornings: Coffee, Reflections and Music', to be published on Sunday 28th February at 10am (GMT)
Up to now, except for the first one, all the recipes I have posted in this weekly section contain meat or fish. Well, now it's the time to give vegetarian food its opportunity to shine, too. And as I consider myself an omnivore, I feel that I've let the other half of me down. But as the old axiom goes: 'Better late than never'.
This recipe comes courtesy of Paul Kirk, a man who has travelled the world training restaurant chefs in the art of the grill and in a second you'll find out why. He has a book out called '500 Barbecue Sizzlers' where you can delve a bit deeper and come face to face with the thrill of the grill.
Spicy Grilled Aubergine
1 large aubergine cut into 1.5cm (1 1/2in)thick slices 1 to 2 tsp salt, to remove the water from the aubergine 2 tbsp olive oil 2tsp red wine vinegar 2tsp fresh lemon juice 1tsp crushed dried chillies (as I am not a chillies person, I usually leave this ingredient out, but feel free to include it yourself) 1tsp herb seasoning mix 2tbsp olive, to brush aubergine for barbecuing 1tbsp chopped fresh parsley 1tsbp chopped fresh mint
Put the aubergine slices in a colander in a single layer and sprinkle with salt. Leave to drain for 20 minutes, then turn, sprinkle the other side with salt and leave to drain for 20 minutes more.
While the aubergine drains, whisk together the olive oil, wine vinegar, lemon juice, garlic, crushed chillies and herb seasoning. Set the spicy sauce aside.
Preheat the barbecue to medium. Press each aubergine slice between two pieces of kitchen paper to dry them. Brush both sides with olive oil. Place the aubergine on the grill and cook for four to five minutes per side, rotating after a few minutes on each side if you want to get grill marks.
Watch the aubergine slices carefully because they go from gently browned to charred quickly. When the aubergine is cooked, remove from the grill and place in a large bowl. Stir in the spicy sauce to coat. Leave to cool slightly, then sprinkle the parsley and mint over the aubergine and serve warm or at room temperature.
Just as the recipe I've brought you this week, the playlist should be as smoky and crispy, too. As a music purist I believe that barbecue songs should be rooted in that old tradition of stoking and tending a fire, in this case, a melody. So, this week my selection comprises clips by:
Oi Va Voi - Refugee (Live) Burning Spear - Jah Is My Driver (Live) Rachael Yamagata - Worn Me Down Habib Koité - Batoumambé Me'Shell Ndegeocello - Boyfriend Estrella Morente - Zambra Sevara Nazarkhan - Gazli Heather Headley - I wish I wasn't (Live)
