I recently fell ill with a cold. It was nothing serious but given the fact that I rarely get sick, it was one of those one-off events that scares you more than they affect you. However, the reason why I remember that my catarrh was of the mild variety was because I did not lose my sense of smell. Usually when you have a cold, your nose blocks up and you're left feeling frustrated about all the odours you can't now enjoy. But, you know, as long as chefs like Yotam Ottolenghi continue to exist, there's no need to fear that your organ of smell will be affected by a cold. Ottolenghi's recipes can unblock the most stubborn of noses.
My wife cooks a version of this dish at home and the aroma coming from the pan is just as delicious as the one you'll get when you knock this up next time it's your turn in the kitchen.
Basmati and wild rice with chickpeas, currants and herbs
50g wild rice 2 tbsp olive oil 220g basmati rice Salt and black pepper 330ml boiling water 2 tsp cumin seeds 1½ tsp curry powder 240g cooked chickpeas (tinned are fine), drained 180ml sunflower oil 1 medium onion, peeled and thinly sliced ½ tbsp plain flour 100g currants 2 tbsp chopped parsley 1 tbsp chopped coriander 1 tbsp chopped dill
Put the wild rice in a small saucepan, cover with plenty of water, bring to a boil and simmer for 40 minutes, until cooked but still quite firm. Drain and set aside.
To cook the basmati rice, pour a teaspoon of olive oil into a medium saucepan and place on high heat. Add the rice and a quarter-teaspoon of salt, and stir as it warms up. Add the boiling water, reduce the heat to minimum, cover with a tight lid and leave for 15 minutes. Remove from the heat, lift off the lid, cover the pot with a tea towel, then put the lid on top and leave to rest for 10 minutes.
Meanwhile, prepare the chickpeas. Heat the remaining olive oil in a small saucepan. Add the cumin and curry powder, and after a couple of seconds add the chickpeas and a quarter-teaspoon of salt; act fast, or the spices may burn. Stir for a minute or two, just to heat the chickpeas, then transfer to a large mixing bowl.
Wipe the pan clean, add the sunflower oil and place on a high heat. Once the oil is hot, mix the onion and flour with your hands. Take some of the mix and carefully place in the oil. Fry for two or three minutes, until golden-brown, transfer to kitchen paper and sprinkle with salt. Repeat in batches until all the onion is fried.
Finally, add both types of rice to the chickpea bowl, along with the currants, herbs and fried onion. Stir and season to taste. Serve warm or at room temperature.
For a recipe that has 'wild' in its name, there can only be equally untamed music to match it. That's why my first musical choice is a bluesy, Brazilian song that makes me jump out of pure joy whenever I think of the combination of black pepper, cumin seeds and curry powder. Hmmm... spicy.
This is one of those foot-tapping tracks. I love it especially when I walk to work and it comes on my mp3 player. And now I love it even more, when I think of that basmati rice cooking slowly on the hot hob. And yes, that's Damon Albarn on guitar. Rhythmic.
Last track tonight comes from someone who never ceases to amaze me. Fatboy Slim is one of those DJs whom the word 'versatility' defines pretty well. This is a groovy, funky tune that brings to mind the scent of parsley and chopped coriander. Beat that Mr Flu! Be aware that there's some mild swearing halfway through the song, although I think it's bleeped. Tasty.
Yotam Ottolenghi is chef/patron of Ottolenghi in London.
Self-deluded, indulgent, (over)exposed, arrogant, "inadequate, pimpled and single" (the last three epithets courtesy of Andrew 'Bah, humbug!' Marr of the BBC). When it comes to describing bloggers, there's no shortage of insults to hurl at us. How unfair. And pathetic.
I joined Blogland in 2007. I'd just had an article published in a national newspaper and realised that I didn't have a platform on which to continue to discuss the issues about which I had written. Since my column had been on dance, it was logical to open a forum about this art form. Thus, I spoke to the designer who'd created my website a couple of years before about opening a space for debate, but she told me that online talkboards, fora and blogs cost money. It was then that I discovered blogger.com.
I'd heard about blogs before but wasn't very sure about what to expect from blogger (in the back of my mind I probably had a similar prejudice to Andrew 'Ebenezer' Marr's about online posters). Since it was a free service, I had nothing to lose and in June 2007 (cue drum roll) 'A Cuban In London' was born. The name was not easy to choose. I first thought of a catchy one like 'Our Cuban In London', echoing Graham Greene's Cold War novel. But it'd been such a long time since I'd read about Wormold and his web of deceit that I gave up on the idea almost immediately. Around that time one of the British television channels showed 'An American In Paris' and I knew there and then that I'd found a good alternative for the name of my little online nook. Still doubts kept creeping in. It's all right if your blog has a generic name (including your real one), or a title that is closely related to the issue(s) about which you write. But when you define yourself by your nationality, gender, or political leaning, you might, unintentionally, be courting controversy. After all, what is a Cuban, besides the obvious answer: a person born in Cuba? And in what way, I thought at the time, would I be contributing to people's notions of what my countrywomen and men were like? Then, there was the most important question: what did it mean to be a Cuban in London?
After some weeks of - aimless - blogging, I realised that really and truly, besides dance, I had a lot of topics to write about, issues that I had not even contemplated addressing before, matters that had last been discussed to the soundtrack of an empty bottle of rum rolling down the floor of a desolate school dormitory in the small hours. I'd acquired some experience writing for the now defunct monthly newspaper "Noticias", a publication aimed at the Latin community in London. I had also written a few music and books reviews for websites. I put those skills into practice. Dance was not the only subject on which I could wax lyrical. Cultural, social and the occasional political post could well be woven into my online threads. I'd finally found my blog's mission statement.
And friends. During the first few weeks my comments section looked as arid as the Sahara Desert, but little by little, fellow bloggers arrived. My compadres and comadres from Cuba and other Ibero-Latin countries were the first ones on board. They were quickly followed by a coterie of US-, and later, UK-based posters, who were sometimes acquainted with Cuban culture. Eventually the list of international contributors to my comments section grew enough to resemble an ad for Benetton, not only due to our ethnic mix, my darlings, but also to our glamour. Credit where credit is due (smiles and flutters Penélope Cruz-style eyelashes). These fellow posters gave me the encouragement I needed to go the extra mile, to make an effort.
Online friendships work differently from real, physical ones. I think that on that point we all pretty much agree. But our cyber-social interaction needn't be cold and distant. After all, we (I, at least) do spend an awfully long time in front of my PC, reading posts by fellow bloggers, oohing and aahing at their creative output, or at the songs they upload, or at the images they choose to illustrate a particular topic. This exposure to other like-minded folks, even if it was just from the comfort of my computer, led me, shortly after I began my own journey through Blogland, to shed any vestige of prejudice I still had (attention Andrew 'Scrooge' Marr, you'd do well to heed this message).
This is not to say that there are no bloggers for whom my opening words would be a perfect match (thankfully, none belong to this parish). At the last count there were roughly four million blogs in the UK alone. Many times, I've come across websites that are pure vitriol, or are trying to sell something (quick tip, always check your followers' list), or were last updated when Henry VIII was having his little tussle with the Pope. But what I've also realised is that on Blogland, equal attracts equal and after more than three years as a blogger, I count more successes than failures. I especially single out those who've stuck it out with this space for that long.
There're risks, though, in confusing your online life with your real one (if you notice a cautious tone in my words, it is the guarded Scorpio talking). What happens when your fellow bloggers/regular readers unexpectedly disappear? How is one meant to feel when all of a sudden they stop commenting on your posts? Even worse, what about when you pop by a "mutual friend's" blog and you read his/her comments there? Published after your own column went online? How to react? Whereas in real life friendships can either end abruptly (after an awful fall-out, for instance) or peter out slowly, in the wide web world there's no way to arrest the demise of acquaintanceship. All you have is an empty comments box to mull over. Then the questions begin: was it something I wrote? Have I offended him/her? Human emotions on a virtual medium. We homo sapiens surely know how to keep life interesting.
The second risk is the actual, physical disappearance of a fellow blogger, especially someone who has had a big impact on you, be it because of their writing or the thoughtful comments they leave in the feedback section. I still can't get over the death of fellow blogger Renee, who sadly passed away earlier this year. The pain is as palpable as if it had been a friend in real life.
But as I mentioned before the triumphs outnumber the setbacks. In three and a half years as a blogger, these are some of the issues I've discussed and to which I've been introduced, and the writing/photography/art to which I've been exposed:
- Museums I've always wanted to visit and on whose floors, thanks to the existence of blogs, I've left my virtual footprints. - Musings and observations on the mysteries of life, written with the linguistic flair of an 19th century écrivain. - Floristry. - Disability, awareness of it and its effects. - Books, music and films reviews and recommendations. - Multilingualism (a topic in which I have a special interest and which never ceases to generate debate). - Illustrations (and collaborations with caricaturists). - Travelogues that have taken me from St Kitts to Belgium, from Greenland to Malaysia, from Mexico to Maine. The list is endless, the writing and images are always superb. - A network of like-minded Cubans, scattered throughout the world, but united by the same desire to be seen as individuals, rather than being defined by a political figure (well past his use-by date, mind you). Incidentally, my blog has just been featured in a book about the Cuban presence in Cyberland called, 'Buena Vista Social Blog'. - Epic poems whose lessons are still relevant today. - Discussions about religion and multiculturalism. - Serious analyses about literature. - Well-crafted poems, either prompted by a mischievous magpie (isn't that a case of iteration?) or landing on my virtual lap courtesy of a weekly bus. - Exploration of the subconscious mind through autobiographical writing. - Cookery columns.
I could carry on forever, but you probably get the gist: like our real human selves in our real human lives, bloggers come in all forms and guises. I consider myself to be one of the luckier ones for having so many online friends with whom I share similar interests. And for that reason, I raise my glass of (insert name of juice here) to you today. As for Andrew 'Fence-sitter-in-chief-at-the-BBC' Marr, well, Andie boy-o, how to put it into words? You know one of those of things that they give you when you're born, it starts with 'l', it has four letters, ends in 'e', you give it back when you die, and it has a lot of stuff happening in the middle? Well, get one, mate. In the meantime allow me to praise my 'bredrin' and 'sistas' from Blogland. May you all have a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year!
Next Post: 'Sunday Mornings: Coffee, Reflections and Music', to be published on Sunday 9th January at 10am (GMT)
How old was I at the time? Maybe sixteen or seventeen. Although, taking into account that the event happened during my final year in college (year 12), I was probably seventeen. The age is irrelevant, however, because what has lingered in my mind for the two decades since is my memory of that night.
The Grand Theatre of Havana is an impressive building. Architecturally speaking, it's probably one of my favourite constructions in my hometown. But I don't recall having set a foot inside it before my teens. What led me to it on that occasion?
A ballet show.
Up until then this art form had eluded me. In fact, despite having performed in primary school when I was a child (dance, theatre, poetry, singing), dance was not a genre with which I wanted to get acquainted in my early to mid teens. There were many reasons for that, but one of them stands out the most when I look back on those years: it was the fear of being thought a 'softie' (although others would probably use a stronger and more offensive term like 'poof', not a word that, luckily, graces my vocabulary). Yes, I read, but that was a pleasure in which I engaged in private. My piano years were well behind me by then and theatre was not still the attractive option that became in later years. Cinema was my other leisure activity but that was mainly action flicks and the odd art-house movie (which, by the way, I rarely talked about in public).
But in 198_? I made my way to one of the oldest, colonial buildings in Havana to enjoy a performance by none other than Loipa Araújo, who at the time, was prima ballerina of the Cuban National Ballet Company. Of course, I didn't know who she was. The inspiration to go to see her came from one of the programmes on which I was very keen in those years: 'De la Gran Escena' (loosely translated as 'Grand Stage'). A clip of a performance of the 'Swan Lake' awakened my curiosity. And so I made my way to the Gran Teatro de la Habana.
I remember arriving at the theatre on my own and checking all around me to make sure that there was no one who could recognise me. I don't recall the clothes I was wearing, but compared with the other spectators, who were dressed to the nines, I probably came across quite scruffy. What I do remember clearly was the reaction from my fellow attendees.
I bought a ticket for the orchestra seating section (although the piece was performed to recorded music) and the minute I came into the well-lit auditorium all eyes fixed on me. No, I wasn't being paranoid. People were staring at me. And their gazes seemed to say: You don't belong here. I took my seat and slid down on it, until my shoulder blades touched the lower back of it.
At this point you're probably wondering why I'm writing about such a personal experience on a public platform. The reason is that I recently read an excellent article by the artist Grayson Perry (I used to have a quote by him on my blog: The best view is from the mountain you've climbed) about the same feeling that overcame me that night: that of not belonging. Not belonging to a particular setting, not belonging to a particular group, not belonging to a particular class. Not belonging. You can read Perry's column here. In my case it was also not belonging to a particular race.
In order to understand why the audience reacted so strongly to my presence at that theatre that night I have to provide you, my fellow bloggers and followers with a few details of Cuban society circa the mid-to-late 80s when I was an adolescent.
Like in any other country around the world, there were tribes in Cuba, more specifically amongst the Cuban youth. And without being too dense or deep about it there were many reasons for their existence, government policy being one of them. I could say, at the risk of being corrected by a fellow countryman or woman, that there were four distinct tribes in the Havana of 1988-9: the pepillos (mainly into pop music, think of the New Romantics in terms of look, but please, please, bear in mind the big differences between the UK post-punk Spandau Ballet-devotees and Cuban Miami Sound Machine-enthusiasts ), the guapos (literally 'tough guys', mainly into salsa [or casino as we call it], funk, disco and Michael Jackson), the friquis or friqui-friquis (rockers, with their own subdivisions: punks, heavy metal fans) and trovas (the name comes from Nueva Trova, or New Song Movement). Except for the 'guapos', I alternated between the other three groups. Those who were into ballet, jazz and any other art form were a tribe apart.
And that was the main reason why I was given such an unwelcome reception at the Grand Theatre of Havana that night. I had trespassed, strayed into a land that was off-limits to the likes of me, a young, black, scruffy lad from a rough part of town. I was a persona non grata. As Grayson says in his article (à propos de the film 'Precious') in relation to his upbringing 'Ifelt echoes of a sentiment perhaps never even voiced in my family of origin but which I have inherited. The message said: "Not for the likes of us."'
Not for the likes of us. How many of you have had the same feeling? Especially as some of you, readers and fellow bloggers, are also writers and artists in your own right and it is that world on which Grayson focuses in his column. In my case, unlike Perry, I did have a cultured background. My dad, a professional pianist, always instilled in me the urge to go and find out, ask questions, visit galleries, listen to music, see plays. My mum, on the other hand, taught me how to read and write in a hospital bed when I was five. And yet, when I made my way into that theatre that night, and all eyes were on me, I felt like a charlatan. Who did I think I was, coming to see the great Loipa?
You're probably thinking that a situation like mine in a country like Cuba, with its reputation for fairness and egalitarianism, was a one-off. To which my reply is: It was anything but. It's true that after Alicia Alonso was given the green light by Fidel Castro and co. to carry on expanding and developing Cuba's National Ballet Company, access became less of a problem for people who wouldn't so much get a look-in years before, namely, blacks and the great unwashed. The effect, nevertheless, was similar to papering the cracks of a big, marble tower. What the Cuban government did not solve and has never been able to sort out is the deep-seated racial and class divisions that preceded Fidel and his bevy of merry, bearded men. The mother who hides the expensive crockery when her daughter's black boyfriend comes to visit. The Communist Party member whose arm is around the older, sun-kissed, humble farmer but who shuns him the minute the cameras are switched off. The university lecturer who favours and gives higher grades to those students from wealthier backgrounds. Likewise, audiences at ballet shows remained pretty much the same in the intervening decades (and the few black faces in the public that night belonged mainly to gay men who were wondering, too, what I was doing there) until the 90s when the economic crisis forced the closures of many nightclubs and cabarets in Havana, driving their regulars to other spots where they could find their much sought-after entertainment, for example, ballet shows.
To my credit, I didn't pack it in that night and carried on attending the Cuban National Ballet Company's seasons after that initial traumatic evening. However, it was a few years before I got rid of what Perry calls in his article 'impostor syndrome'. It's strange and ironic, too, that when I began my own dancing career with the Havana University Folkloric Ensemble in the mid 90s, the friends and acquaintances I had by then made in the ballet world turned their noses up at my choice of genre: too black, too primitive, too... uncouth. There were a few exceptions, for instance, Lorna Feijóo, a very versatile and nimble ballet dancer, with whom I discussed Afro-Cuban dance and who happened to be a student of mine when I used to teach English.
Perry also writes about the dichotomy that affects those of us who come from working-class backgrounds (although even that word, 'working class' is debatable in some contexts) once we get over our first-hand experience of social snobbery. Some go on to become socials snobs themselves, whilst others are caught in the middle of an uncomfortable axis: you feel like an exotic rara avis amongst the posh, whilst not being totally at ease with hoi polloi.
At almost forty now, I feel comfortable with who I am but I can't stop thinking of those kids I run into (for instance my son's friends) and proclaim that they don't like this or that activity, which eventually translates as this activity is not for the likes of them. I'm not supposed to like ballet, or classical music, or abstract art, they seem to say. I realise that this attitude is as dependent on socio-economic factors as it is on parental guidance. Ultimately, though, and it's always been my advice to the younger generations (including my children), it's about you and what you want to do, not what people tell you to do. After all, that first time at the ballet didn't deter me from coming back every season. And if the others wanted to stare, let them stare, they were the ones missing out on the great spectacle before their eyes.
Pandora's World Cup Box
Now that the World Cup is well and truly underway, it's time to bring back to life Hephaestus's creation to regale us with tales of the zeniths or nadirs the beautiful game has reached. Which one is which is entirely up to you, my dear readers.
And so, first we have the most sought-after cuddly toy in stores now: a replica, not of Rooney, or Ronaldo, not even Messi, but the ah!-so affable and bubbly Adrian Chiles, a man so watered-down that he was, apocryphally mind, banned from the BBC's Blue Peter garden for misusing the hose. Adrian's amorphous shape is ideal for goal celebrations or penalty shoot-outs angst.
Afraid that your team might lose? 5-0 down and two minutes of added time to go and playing with only eight men on the pitch? Fear not, for Matrix Cool Chair is here to help. All you need to do is take the blue pill. And everything will be different. Your team will recover and in less than thirty seconds (that's the official allocated time for Wayne Rooney at press conferences) they will overcome the deficit and win. Oh, I forgot to mention that the Matrix comes with an automatic channel flicker in case the tablet doesn't work.
Did you know that refs will be equipped with swearword detectors in various languages? Alas, North Korea did not submit its list of profanities. They allegedly said that they were too pure to indulge in foul language. They also added that if the South African authorities kept going on about it they were going to nuke the living s**t out of their World Cup facilities. At which point South African president Jacob Zuma enquired about the marrying age for North Korean women and what the alimony requirements involved. It's believed that a kit containing the most popular swearwords from the northern part of the Korean peninsula is on its way to Jo'burg.
Ornette Coleman Award of the Tournament so far: the vuvuzela.
There I was, minding my own business a couple of Sundays ago when I decided to check the feedback on my last Song for an Autumn Sunday Morning. I was cooking at the same time and helping my children with their homework (yes, I can multitask, thanks for asking). Salva left me a link to a clip that used music by Martina Topley-Bird and suddenly my Sunday was turned upside down.
But in a positive way, mind you, so thanks, Salva. I was cooking lentil dahl, so that recipe became the theme for my regular Food, Music, Food, Music, Food, Music, Food, Music, Ad Infinitum...and as for the music, the minute Salva mentioned Topley-Bird, my mouth began to salivate.
I love Martina's music. I bought her debut album Quixotic a few years ago and it's never been out of my CD player. My favourite track so far is 'Soul Food' (this is the original album version). So, guys, fasten your seatbelts, this is going to be a bumpy and funky ride. And yes, this is another vegetarian dish, sorry my carnivorous brethren and sisters, dahl is one of the regular food staples chez moi.
Lentil Dahl
Ingredients
200g red lentils 1 large onion 2 cloves of garlic 150g runner beans 1 tin tomaotes (or 2 large, fresh tomatoes) 5 tablespoons vegetable oil 1 teaspoon cumin seeds 1 teaspoon coriander seeds 1/4 teaspoon About 1 litre water
Peel the onion. Chop it in half and then slice finely. Peel and crush the garlic. Crush the cardonom pods to remove the seeds. Discard the outer pods. Heat a thick bottomed pan on the hob until it is hot. Add the spices and cook for 2 minutes, stirring regularly. Put the spices in a pestle & mortar and crush. Heat the oil in the same pan as you heated the spices in. Add the onion and garlic and saute, covered, for 5 minutes. Add the spices and stir well. Cook for another 2 minutes. Add the lentils and about 3/4 of the water. Mix well. Cover and simmer gently for 1/2 hour. Check and stir regularly. If it looks like it's drying out, add a little more water. Prepare the runner beans by trimming the ends and cutting off any stringy bits on the sides. Then slice diagonally into fine strips, about 5mm wide. Drain the tomatoes (if from a tin) and chop roughly. Once the lentils are softened, add the runner beans and tomatoes to the pan. Stir well and cook for a further 5 minutes.If it looks like it's drying out, add a little more water. Serve with rice or nice, crusty Tiger bread.
Now, a dish with so much heart and soul in it, deserves an equally ardent and spicy playlist. We kick off with Fatboy Slim's 'Praise You', purely because it's got one of the silliest and funniest dance routines I've ever seen in my life. This is followed by one of the most eccentric and charismatic Cuban singers ever to roam this planet, La Lupe, and her take on this old classic 'I Did it My Way'. She was too hot to handle for the Cuban government post-1959, which banned her music from commercial radio until the early 90s. My beautiful island is still present in the next track with Mongo Santamaria on congas covering 'Afro Blue'. Nick Cave's powerful lyrics give our bodies a much needed respite, but not our minds, though; the prisoner's plight is still ringing in my ears by the end of his masterpiece 'Mercy Seat'. And who can forget one of the better intros ever? That'll be The Temptations 'Papa Was a Rollin' Stone '. St Germain's one of my favourite musical outifts for when I am cooking, especially soups, dahls or any kind of broth. They fill me up completely and 'So Flute' is one of my favourite tunes by them. I love the video, too. Martina Topley-Bird follows quickly after and despite the sound not being top quality in this clip, I seriously recommend it, 'Soul Food' is contagious and catchy. We finish as we began, with Fatboy Slim and who has he brought with him this time? None other than Mr Christopher Walken, he of that famous monologue in 'Pulp Fiction'. Oh, yes, you know, the one about the watch. Mr Walken happens to be also one of my favourite actors (when he's in the mood to perform, mind) and his cameo on this video is a pleasure to watch. 'Weapon of Choice', ladies and gentlemen.
By the way, this is the music I was cooking dahl to. If you choose to eat it whilst listening to it and you end up holding your sides and in stitches, don't blame me, blame Salva. Thanks.
