- French people call the traffic police "Schtroumpfs" (Smurfs) on account of their blue uniforms
- It is no longer cool to describe things as 'mortel' (deadly) if you are a 15 year old boy. Apparently you say 'violent'.
- Flanders only became part of France in 1659.
- I will never understand modern art.
- Parrots symbolise eroticism, apparently
- The fable of the monkey and the dolphin, by Jean de la Fontaine.
- The inside of the Conservatoire in Lille is really, really beautiful.
- It is possible to defrost speculoos eclairs from Picard in the microwave.
- When you're in a French cafe, you don't need to tip if you're being served by the owners.
- It is possible to get Malborough Sauvignon Blanc in Armentières.
- There is *always* room for dessert if it contains caramel au beurre salé.
- New Zealanders turn up everywhere, even in Petra.
- And, to my pain, there is no bar service on the TGV from Paris to Lille.
Sunday, March 20, 2011
March 20 2011: Things I Learnt This Weekend
Sunday, March 13, 2011
March 13 2011: A Mighty Wind
So my Amazon parcel turned up the other day, as the result of a birthday voucher. I don’t shop online very much, so when I do get a delivery, it’s like Xmas.
Neil Gaiman: Neverwhere and the Graveyard Book. Hilary Mantel, A Place Of Greater Safety (about the French Revolution). Sharon Jones and the Dap-Kings – 100 Days, 100 Nights. How I survived 3 years without this album I do not know.
Aaaaaand: Ministry of Food, by Jamie Oliver, fulfilling a life-long (ok, month-long) dream. Wheeee! Off to the kitchen for more adventures.
The challenge will now be to match a Jamie recipe to one of the random ingredients I get in my organic panier. It’s not the best time of year for interesting fruit and veg. There have been a few too many apples, oranges, onions and potatoes in recent baskets. But I am persevering, in the hopes of brighter days ahead. If I skip a week, who knows what I might miss out on?
But I could have skipped the other week, no problem. I opened the paper bag and saw three purple knobbly things lurking in the bottom. Oh no, Jerusalem artichokes – what do I do?
Jerusalem artichokes have a certain underground status here – literally, as they were one of the only things that Parisians could grow in their basements to eat in the long years of the German Occupation during World War II. But they have a nasty side-effect, affecting approximately 50% of the population: they induce terribly powerful wind.
Perhaps due to one or both of these factors, there is an entire generation of Parisians who will not eat them, and so they fell out of favour. Which is a pity, as they have a delicate nutty taste, and go well with a lot of things. But the only two times I’ve eaten them, one was at an expensive restaurant, and the other was at the house of someone who really knows what she’s doing.
So how to cook them? I check the newsletter for this week, which usually provides helpful recipes. Raw Jerusalem artichoke with citrus and mint? Do they know what temperature it is outside? This was before my new food bible arrived - so I google Jerusalem artichoke recipes, and Gordon Ramsey comes up trumps. Apparently the thing to do is simmer them in milk for 20 minutes, drain off the milk, and then puree the results, adding back enough of the milk to achieve a smooth puree. Delicious – but I suppose anything tastes good if you add enough butter, milk and cream.
But what of the after-effects, I hear you cry? Well let’s just say that sleeping alone has it’s advantages
It’s very rare that I get the same vegetable on different weeks – but it’s late winter, so there is not much choice out there. I pick up my next panier tomorrow night.
Be afraid, be very afraid.
Neil Gaiman: Neverwhere and the Graveyard Book. Hilary Mantel, A Place Of Greater Safety (about the French Revolution). Sharon Jones and the Dap-Kings – 100 Days, 100 Nights. How I survived 3 years without this album I do not know.
Aaaaaand: Ministry of Food, by Jamie Oliver, fulfilling a life-long (ok, month-long) dream. Wheeee! Off to the kitchen for more adventures.
The challenge will now be to match a Jamie recipe to one of the random ingredients I get in my organic panier. It’s not the best time of year for interesting fruit and veg. There have been a few too many apples, oranges, onions and potatoes in recent baskets. But I am persevering, in the hopes of brighter days ahead. If I skip a week, who knows what I might miss out on?
But I could have skipped the other week, no problem. I opened the paper bag and saw three purple knobbly things lurking in the bottom. Oh no, Jerusalem artichokes – what do I do?
Jerusalem artichokes have a certain underground status here – literally, as they were one of the only things that Parisians could grow in their basements to eat in the long years of the German Occupation during World War II. But they have a nasty side-effect, affecting approximately 50% of the population: they induce terribly powerful wind.
Perhaps due to one or both of these factors, there is an entire generation of Parisians who will not eat them, and so they fell out of favour. Which is a pity, as they have a delicate nutty taste, and go well with a lot of things. But the only two times I’ve eaten them, one was at an expensive restaurant, and the other was at the house of someone who really knows what she’s doing.
So how to cook them? I check the newsletter for this week, which usually provides helpful recipes. Raw Jerusalem artichoke with citrus and mint? Do they know what temperature it is outside? This was before my new food bible arrived - so I google Jerusalem artichoke recipes, and Gordon Ramsey comes up trumps. Apparently the thing to do is simmer them in milk for 20 minutes, drain off the milk, and then puree the results, adding back enough of the milk to achieve a smooth puree. Delicious – but I suppose anything tastes good if you add enough butter, milk and cream.
But what of the after-effects, I hear you cry? Well let’s just say that sleeping alone has it’s advantages
It’s very rare that I get the same vegetable on different weeks – but it’s late winter, so there is not much choice out there. I pick up my next panier tomorrow night.
Be afraid, be very afraid.
Thursday, March 10, 2011
Heaphy Track Day Three: The Sandflies Of Doom
You might be wondering if anything else of note happened to me on my Christmas holiday, so doggedly am I recounting the tramp. Well, of course lots of stuff happened, but not all of it had such dramatic potential – or such an astonishing setting.
After the drama of the previous day, it was all downhill from here – literally. The track wound its way down the hill and along the Heaphy River. My joints were aching after the last two days efforts, and two matching blisters had sprung up on each little toe. On top of all this, I realized I hadn’t had a coffee for 48 hours. Why do we do these things to ourselves?
When we stopped for morning tea, I put the pack down with great relief. Most of the way along the track, we hardly saw any other walkers. The bush is so big, and there were so few of us, that you could walk in total, blissful isolation.
We got up to struggle back into the packs and move on, and I noticed a movement. For once, we had company on the track. A New Zealand robin, by the looks of it.
He hopped closer to me, and I stood stock still. He came right up to me and started pecking the light-coloured stripes on my shoes – thinking they were worms, no doubt. I felt the softest of impacts, and tried not to laugh. He hopped on top of the stump where Dad had put his coat and backpack, and gave them one or two exploratory pecks. Then he spotted the Vogels bread bag (did you know that Vogel means bird in German?). I moved at last, to rescue it from his enquiring eye and beak.
It wasn’t even lunchtime and I was exhausted. Every step hurt, and the downhill didn’t help. The track seemed endless. Eventually I said to Dad to go on and put the kettle on for lunch, so he took off ahead of me and I just kept plodding. Surely I must be nearly there? I passed a rare group of walkers coming the other way, and asked them how far the hut was. “Half an hour”, came the cheerful reply. Ten minutes later I came across another DOC ranger, sawing through a tree that had fallen across the track. How far was the hut, I asked hopefully. “Half an hour”, came the reply. Still? Oh dear.
Time blurred – and stood still. I felt like I’d been walking forever. And then I saw Dad coming back towards me – he took my pack, and I winced as the shift in weight made my blisters hurt from a different angle. But it meant we weren’t far from the hut.
It was just as well he had gone on ahead – our matchbox had given up the ghost, and he had just caught the previous trampers before they left the hut and begged a light to heat up the water for soup.
We arrived at Lewis Hut, right on the banks of the Lewis river. Desperately in need of relief, I veer off to the small toilets standing a short distance from the hut. Now, I know the sandflies on the West Coast are legendary – but I am still taken by surprise at the savagery of the assault. One month after the walk, when I started writing this entry, I still had the scars. Please don’t ask me where.
We took refuge in the hut itself, which thankfully has dense insect screens across all windows and doors, so we could get some fresh air without being eaten alive. After a nap, the prospect of carrying on down the path was slightly more appealing. Chuck a couple of panadol down to dull the throbbing in my toes and off we went.
We had beaten the worst of the downhill, and the afternoon’s walk was almost a doddle, winding alongside the Gunner river. The landscape changed again, bringing us nikau palms, dramatic cliffs, pebbly banks, driftwood, and the tannic brown of the water. Sitting on the bank eating our Whittakers dark chocolate with orange (shameless product plug – am hoping for a sponsorship deal on the next walk), we almost expected to see Frodo and Sam go by in little coracles.
The day was wearing on when we finally arrived at the Heaphy hut. I dumped my pack gratefully, fished out my mobile phones, and made a beeline for the water’s edge. All I could think about was soaking my feet. I was intercepted by Ms Head Prefect, who gleefully informed us that the only cellphone coverage is available down past the high tide mark, and even then it’s Telecom. Oh bugger.
What a beautiful place the Heaphy river mouth is, despite its lack of useful cellphone coverage. The water was shockingly cold, but therapeutic. I stared at the silver horizon, the pearly sky, the placid water. We had walked over the hills to the sea. We still had one day to go, but we had already achieved so much.
Looking back towards the hut, there is a dramatic stand of nikau. I noticed a beautifully carved wooden bench and walked over to investigate. It had a plaque in memory of a long-serving ranger, with the inscription: “Paradise to be enjoyed”. Quite.
For some reason, the sandflies weren't so vicious down at the Heaphy hut. They swarmed around the door and the bench for taking off of boots, but the toilets were mercifully pest-free. Perhaps it was being on the coast.
The hut was not very full, although the people who were there had spread out so much that there was not much space on the lower bunks. There were few attempts at conversation – I think everyone was feeling a little travel-weary. For once it was my turn to arrange dinner (I won’t glorify the process by calling it cooking). The lamb tagine was really quite tasty, and even resembled actual lamb tagines I have eaten. I made a sketchy effort to update my journal, with notes that I can barely read now, and then I climbed on to the top bunk, sandfly bites and all, and passed out.
After the drama of the previous day, it was all downhill from here – literally. The track wound its way down the hill and along the Heaphy River. My joints were aching after the last two days efforts, and two matching blisters had sprung up on each little toe. On top of all this, I realized I hadn’t had a coffee for 48 hours. Why do we do these things to ourselves?
 |
| From Dec 2010-Jan 2011 Xmas holiday |
When we stopped for morning tea, I put the pack down with great relief. Most of the way along the track, we hardly saw any other walkers. The bush is so big, and there were so few of us, that you could walk in total, blissful isolation.
We got up to struggle back into the packs and move on, and I noticed a movement. For once, we had company on the track. A New Zealand robin, by the looks of it.
He hopped closer to me, and I stood stock still. He came right up to me and started pecking the light-coloured stripes on my shoes – thinking they were worms, no doubt. I felt the softest of impacts, and tried not to laugh. He hopped on top of the stump where Dad had put his coat and backpack, and gave them one or two exploratory pecks. Then he spotted the Vogels bread bag (did you know that Vogel means bird in German?). I moved at last, to rescue it from his enquiring eye and beak.
 |
| From Dec 2010-Jan 2011 Xmas holiday |
It wasn’t even lunchtime and I was exhausted. Every step hurt, and the downhill didn’t help. The track seemed endless. Eventually I said to Dad to go on and put the kettle on for lunch, so he took off ahead of me and I just kept plodding. Surely I must be nearly there? I passed a rare group of walkers coming the other way, and asked them how far the hut was. “Half an hour”, came the cheerful reply. Ten minutes later I came across another DOC ranger, sawing through a tree that had fallen across the track. How far was the hut, I asked hopefully. “Half an hour”, came the reply. Still? Oh dear.
Time blurred – and stood still. I felt like I’d been walking forever. And then I saw Dad coming back towards me – he took my pack, and I winced as the shift in weight made my blisters hurt from a different angle. But it meant we weren’t far from the hut.
It was just as well he had gone on ahead – our matchbox had given up the ghost, and he had just caught the previous trampers before they left the hut and begged a light to heat up the water for soup.
We arrived at Lewis Hut, right on the banks of the Lewis river. Desperately in need of relief, I veer off to the small toilets standing a short distance from the hut. Now, I know the sandflies on the West Coast are legendary – but I am still taken by surprise at the savagery of the assault. One month after the walk, when I started writing this entry, I still had the scars. Please don’t ask me where.
We took refuge in the hut itself, which thankfully has dense insect screens across all windows and doors, so we could get some fresh air without being eaten alive. After a nap, the prospect of carrying on down the path was slightly more appealing. Chuck a couple of panadol down to dull the throbbing in my toes and off we went.
 |
| Putting a brave face on the blisters |
We had beaten the worst of the downhill, and the afternoon’s walk was almost a doddle, winding alongside the Gunner river. The landscape changed again, bringing us nikau palms, dramatic cliffs, pebbly banks, driftwood, and the tannic brown of the water. Sitting on the bank eating our Whittakers dark chocolate with orange (shameless product plug – am hoping for a sponsorship deal on the next walk), we almost expected to see Frodo and Sam go by in little coracles.
 |
| From Dec 2010-Jan 2011 Xmas holiday |
The day was wearing on when we finally arrived at the Heaphy hut. I dumped my pack gratefully, fished out my mobile phones, and made a beeline for the water’s edge. All I could think about was soaking my feet. I was intercepted by Ms Head Prefect, who gleefully informed us that the only cellphone coverage is available down past the high tide mark, and even then it’s Telecom. Oh bugger.
What a beautiful place the Heaphy river mouth is, despite its lack of useful cellphone coverage. The water was shockingly cold, but therapeutic. I stared at the silver horizon, the pearly sky, the placid water. We had walked over the hills to the sea. We still had one day to go, but we had already achieved so much.
 |
| From Dec 2010-Jan 2011 Xmas holiday |
Looking back towards the hut, there is a dramatic stand of nikau. I noticed a beautifully carved wooden bench and walked over to investigate. It had a plaque in memory of a long-serving ranger, with the inscription: “Paradise to be enjoyed”. Quite.
 |
| From Dec 2010-Jan 2011 Xmas holiday |
The hut was not very full, although the people who were there had spread out so much that there was not much space on the lower bunks. There were few attempts at conversation – I think everyone was feeling a little travel-weary. For once it was my turn to arrange dinner (I won’t glorify the process by calling it cooking). The lamb tagine was really quite tasty, and even resembled actual lamb tagines I have eaten. I made a sketchy effort to update my journal, with notes that I can barely read now, and then I climbed on to the top bunk, sandfly bites and all, and passed out.
Sunday, March 6, 2011
March 6 2011 : Lost For Words
I think you can tell a lot about a person from the last film they went to see. Right now I’m wishing the last film I went to see was The King’s Speech.
Gosh, wasn’t it just fantastic? I felt a warm glow when it won Best Picture, and rightly so – they just don’t make films like that any more. And Colin Firth… what can I say. Making an uptight, repressed inarticulate royal seem realistic, vulnerable and sympathetic deserves an Oscar – and he could give Prince Charles a few tips.
Helena Bonham Carter seemed to have the quirky dialed right down, going back to her Merchant Ivory roots but letting just enough feist peek through to make her Elizabeth delicious.
But Geoffrey Rush – oh Geoffrey Rush was ROBBED of Best Supporting Actor (and I do not use capital letters lightly). What a beautifully judged performance as the goad against Bertie’s stuffiness and repression. Funny, touching – when the movie was over I wanted to stand up and cheer.
The next movie I saw provoked no such reaction… when No Strings Attached finished, all I wanted to do was slink out of the cinema and soap my brain. NSA, released here under the unprepossessing title ‘Sex Friends’, wanted to be a sexy, raunchy romp, but really it was just a glossy idealistic romantic comedy with period jokes. Shudder.
But at least NSA was aspirational – young romance sponsored by Apple and Audi. In Requiem Pour Une Tueuse, no-one can afford an iPhone (except for one ill-fated character) or a classic car. Instead it’s all clunky, functional dumb-phones and driving Renault hatchbacks.
[Warning, mild spoilers – but really, you won’t care]
Requiem Pour Une Tueuse is like someone decided to remake La Femme Nikita (why bother?) but this time with opera (again, why bother?) and forgot to call Luc Besson. So at the last minute they dragged in a poor young film director who has only ever done relationship dramas. And instead of a thrilling action movie in a beautiful setting, we get moody introspection (signaled by meaningful looks) and inner turmoil (signaled by pouting), and existential dilemmas (signaled by meaningful looks and pouting), plus a barely-articulated love triangle and a most unsatisfactory ending.
I expected better from Melanie Laurent, who has done better things with less (Le Concert) and also done fantastic feisty, complex women (Inglorious Basterds, Paris). But I should have seen trouble on the horizon when Clovis Cornillac turned up as the best soldier the French equivalent of the SAS has ever seen. Oh jeez. Clovis Cornillac is the guy you call when you need puppy-dog eyes, not when you need a hired killer. So he mopes around the screen watching Melanie Laurent fail to kill anyone, while he himself fails to kill anyone, except accidentally.
I need to go and watch La Femme Nikita again – and the director of this rubbish should be strapped in a chair and forced to watch Luc Besson’s entire oeuvre over and over again until he gets it.
Gosh, wasn’t it just fantastic? I felt a warm glow when it won Best Picture, and rightly so – they just don’t make films like that any more. And Colin Firth… what can I say. Making an uptight, repressed inarticulate royal seem realistic, vulnerable and sympathetic deserves an Oscar – and he could give Prince Charles a few tips.
Helena Bonham Carter seemed to have the quirky dialed right down, going back to her Merchant Ivory roots but letting just enough feist peek through to make her Elizabeth delicious.
But Geoffrey Rush – oh Geoffrey Rush was ROBBED of Best Supporting Actor (and I do not use capital letters lightly). What a beautifully judged performance as the goad against Bertie’s stuffiness and repression. Funny, touching – when the movie was over I wanted to stand up and cheer.
The next movie I saw provoked no such reaction… when No Strings Attached finished, all I wanted to do was slink out of the cinema and soap my brain. NSA, released here under the unprepossessing title ‘Sex Friends’, wanted to be a sexy, raunchy romp, but really it was just a glossy idealistic romantic comedy with period jokes. Shudder.
But at least NSA was aspirational – young romance sponsored by Apple and Audi. In Requiem Pour Une Tueuse, no-one can afford an iPhone (except for one ill-fated character) or a classic car. Instead it’s all clunky, functional dumb-phones and driving Renault hatchbacks.
[Warning, mild spoilers – but really, you won’t care]
Requiem Pour Une Tueuse is like someone decided to remake La Femme Nikita (why bother?) but this time with opera (again, why bother?) and forgot to call Luc Besson. So at the last minute they dragged in a poor young film director who has only ever done relationship dramas. And instead of a thrilling action movie in a beautiful setting, we get moody introspection (signaled by meaningful looks) and inner turmoil (signaled by pouting), and existential dilemmas (signaled by meaningful looks and pouting), plus a barely-articulated love triangle and a most unsatisfactory ending.
I expected better from Melanie Laurent, who has done better things with less (Le Concert) and also done fantastic feisty, complex women (Inglorious Basterds, Paris). But I should have seen trouble on the horizon when Clovis Cornillac turned up as the best soldier the French equivalent of the SAS has ever seen. Oh jeez. Clovis Cornillac is the guy you call when you need puppy-dog eyes, not when you need a hired killer. So he mopes around the screen watching Melanie Laurent fail to kill anyone, while he himself fails to kill anyone, except accidentally.
I need to go and watch La Femme Nikita again – and the director of this rubbish should be strapped in a chair and forced to watch Luc Besson’s entire oeuvre over and over again until he gets it.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)