BLEURGH SNIFF…
First cold of the summer. Head full of saturated cotton wool, and I have a Sick Puppy meet (how effing ironic) tonight, so I can’t even make my excuses and go home. Plus, dropped my phone and lost the back cover, so even the RAZRX feels crummy. Oh well, finally found somewhere to put the sticker I got earlier in the week promoting the free healthcare for Africa promotion Midge Ure’s just launched…
45 minutes of Robert Newman on the global oil war. Provocative. Disturbing. Pant-wettingly funny!
Made it to the local Vue for a screening of X-Men: The Last Stand. The response has been kind of ho hum in the press, and TLC was under-impressed. I thought in a lot of ways it was the best of the trilogy. It was certainly the truest to the spirit of the books, and wasn’t ashamed to raid ideas from them. There were elements of stories from Chris Claremont, Grant Morrison and Joss Whedon in there, and this is A Good Thing. Also, the battle scenes finally felt right, properly epic, graceful and fun. Again, a good thing.
In general, I picked up a lot of that elegaic sense of loss and sacrifice that’s so much a part of the X-Men mythos, and I’d have been more honked off about the deaths of three of the main characters, if not for the knowledge that in the X-Men NO-ONE EVER STAYS DEAD. How many burials has Scott Summers endured for his flame-haired wife now? Four? For me, this really pins into the work Joss is doing on “Astonishing X-Men” at the moment, playing with the idea of being unable to grieve over the loss of a loved one and move on… because she keeps coming back.
To be honest, this one was more for the fans, with a ton of little injokes and references (Danger Room! Sentinals! squeeee!) that kept me happily geeked out for 2 hours 10.
Oh, and Clare griped about Dark Phoenix looking a little too much like dark Willow, from Buffy.
Fair point, but Chris Claremont was there first…
There’s a new button on the site. You might need to scroll down to see it. I’ve signed the Amnesty Interntional pledge for freedom of information on the web, and that button contains fragments of a posting that has been banned or censored for political reasons. The full story is here. Read it, please. If it makes you want to sign up to do more, then all the better, but at least, get yourself informed on the issues.
+++WE APOLOGISE FOR THE BREAK IN TRANSMISSION. YOUR USUAL ABNORMAL SERVICE WILL BE RESUMED AS SOON AS PRACTICABLE+++
FODDERBLOG: A new culinary term
Loosterise (v.) – to moisten a stew or casserole, therefore loosening it’s texture. A conflagration of the words “loosen” and “moisturise”. As invented by TLC, yesterday. My wife, she am purty and clever also.
I’ve been playing with iGod | Chat with God in a slack period today. When people talk about him moving in mysterious ways, they weren’t kidding!
Here’s a transcript of my Conversation with God…
Me:
hello, god
God:
Hello child. What is your name?
Me:
My name is Rob
God:
It’s good to see you, Rob.
Me:
Thank you, It’s nice to finally meet you.
God:
You are quite welcome! Yes it is good.
Me:
Am I a good person?
God:
I don’t know if you are one or not. I know you are a person.
Me:
But surely you know everything!
God:
I tend to know a great deal. Tell me what subjects interest you.
Me:
films
God:
Je n en ai jamais vu.
Me:
i don’t speak french.
God:
Me either.
Me:
But you just did! Is this you moving in mysterious ways?
God:
You say I did. Yes I think this is me moving in mysterious ways, but I’m not completely sure.
Me:
You don’t seem sure of very much. Quite disturbing for the divine being to be like this!
God:
That assumption is only a supposition. Not really that much. My brain contains categories, but not one that matches your last input.
Me:
Are you sure you’re the real god?
God:
Are you doubting me? Don’t you know what happened to Abraham in the desert?
Me:
You tell me.
God:
What do you want me to tell you?
Me:
What happened to Abraham in the desert!
God:
I don’t know what happened.
Me:
But…I…you just….aaargh!
God:
But what? Why?: Rob said you just. That is a very original thought.
Me:
Here’s another one: I’m starting to think this is a waste of time.
God:
Oh there.
Me:
Where?
God:
Where would you like?
Me:
Oh, I give up. Goodye, God.
God:
That’s interesting. You surrender? What kind of food do you like?
FODDERBLOG: The Evening Before The Morning After
Sometimes you just know that dinner’s gonna work. You walk in with the one ingredient needed to make it shine, in the full understanding that yes, you’ll have to get a kettle on for boiling water as you walk in the door, probably before you get your coat off, but that’s all part of the deal. That’s what’ll make this one good, because this one is being cooked with love.
Water boils as I take off my coat. Into a pint jug goes half a pack of the dried chanterelle mushrooms I picked up on my way home from Fresh and Wild, for a half-hours soaking. I spend a while musing on the day with Clare, who has her head in an OU assignment, before chopping an onion, some garlic and the two field mushrooms in the salad tray of the fridge. The onions and garlic are sizzled in some olive oil and butter while I brave the garden for sage and rosemary. About a tablespoon’s worth, when I’ve chopped them. The herbs go into the hot pan along with the mushrooms, and everything cooks down for a good five minutes.
By now the chanterelles have had half an hour. I drain them, holding back the soaking liquid which is full of mushroomy goodness. This goes into a second pan, along with the pint or so of chicken stock I have in the fridge from Saturday’s chicken saute, and brought to a bluppy simmer. The soaked mushrooms go into the pan, along with a good shot of salt and pepper. That makes friends with everything else, then a cup of risotto rice goes in, followed soon after by a glass (or so) of white wine. There is bubbling and some seriously good aromas come up.
Once the rice has soaked up the wine, I start ladling in stock, a couple of spoonfuls at a time. I stir occasionally as the rice drinks the liquid, adding more as the pan becomes dry. This takes about twenty minutes. I fill the time with a glass of the same wine that went in with the rice (I don’t cook with anything I can’t drink. Tell me nobody does that anymore…) while flicking through the latest Uncut, and an article on The Smiths “The Queen Is Dead.” Twenty years old, apparantly. Feet up on the counter. No music. For a while, the only sound is the contented bubbling of the rice pan. I let it cook slowly, allowing the flavour to develop.
Once the rice is done, I stir in Parmesan and a little extra pepper, and let it rest momentarily while I toast the last of Saturday’s bread with a scrub more cheese on top. A quick swirl of extra virgin olive oil on top of the bread when it comes out from under the grill, and I call that done. Mushroom Risotto with Parmesan Toast.
It’s richly flavoursome, dark, filled with different textures and sodden with booze. I wouldn’t go so far as to call it food as biography, but there’s something about the meal that seems appropriate.
It’s December the 12th, and tomorrow I am 39. I won’t cook tomorrow. Tonight, all that’s left is the washing up and, if I feel the need, one last glass of wine.
EXCUSES AND HALF TRUTHS 