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4 March 2011

A Taste of Nigella

Guinness, cocoa, butter swirly patterns
The Chocolate Guinness Cake that is currently and beautifully baking in the oven is one that I can verily lay claim to, oh yes, but alas, the same cannot be said of the recipe.  That Aphrodite of a cake belongs to none other than Nigella Lawson and to her I am perpetually grateful.  As for all you anti-Guinness folks out there, and as a non-Guinness drinker myself, I must admit that the only resemblance that this cake has to it is in appearance, since it is designed to reflect the iconic ebony-ivory tipple.  

The first thing to note about this cake is the smell when it's cooking: the first stage involves melting an entire pack butter into half a can of Guinness and mixing in a bucket load of cocoa which produces a heady, rich and slightly metallic smell.  (To find a suitable word to describe the Guinness element of the scene I am sitting here making myself sip the drink like a pungent medicine or vodka shot, screwing up my nose slightly.  All in the line of duty of course.) Whilst stirring all the components into a swirly twirly helix of delight, I wondered whether I'd invented - sorry Nigella had invented - a new variety of hot chocolate: butter, Guinness, cocoa and sugar etc in a perfectly smooth twist on the classic blends. I sampled a little and was pleasantly surprised despite the quantity of Guinness that still remained in a relatively unchanged state.  

Anyway, the next best part of cooking this cake (other than licking clean all used utensils and bowls etc) is making the icing. Now it's not traditional icing solely made from icing sugar and egg whites, but a creamy melange of Philadelphia, icing sugar and double cream.  Once the chocolatey cake mix has been left to cool, the icing can be smoothed over the surface, รก la Guinness 'froth'.  It is delicious if not verging on being criminally rich, but self-restraint is the key to the perfect flavour as a night (or several hours) in the fridge solidifies both cake and icing and creates a cool, moist and succulent consistency.  (This is approved by my whole family, plus the many other families we have shared this cake with...) 

The Morning After...
As per my own advice, I have nestled my prize cake on a shelf in the fridge to mature over night, only to be devoured by hungry little village goers at the fete tomorrow.  My only comfort lies in the fact that so many of them will consider me to be their fairy godmother by this time tomorrow.  Maybe I should lay tribute to the wonderful Nigella in some fashion though, as it's one thing to bake a fantastic cake, but another thing entirely to have the dream to start with...

HAPPY COOKING ALL.  check out the link for the recipe: http://www.nigella.com/recipes/view/chocolate-guinness-cake-3086
 

3 March 2011

Photo(s) of the day - Thursday 3rd March 2011

Alberto Giacometti was an artist I studied in my early days at school. I think I was fourth form, so that would be aged 13-14.  We were doing a clay based project and I remember being fascinated by the elongated and emaciated figures that Giacometti sought to produce. In terms of artistic representation, he didn't seem too tricky an artist to mimic, allowing for finger and thumb rolling of the clay for the long limbs, and small squashed balls for the heads.  Ten or so years later in life, I found a perfect and much more inspired way to recreate Giacometti's work, in a photo-scape that lent itself to the artist's unique style. 

My interpretation of Giacometti art

True Giacometti art at the Tate

Icebound in Russia: a Kremlin tour with Giorg

[The following is a little gem of a memory about a weird and wonderful experience we had in Moscow, whilst on our year abroad out in Russia.  Tash, Alice, Liv, Vicky and I got the 'real' tour of the Kremlin.]        

We stood huddled in the bleak underpass, reluctant to move an inch from our multi-bodied cocoon, for fear of the Russian snow storm of death against the fragility of poor British skin. Time soured past with an urgency that mirrored each gust of the blizzard and we knew that somewhere, in the winter wonderland’s evil counterpart above, a man named Giorg was braving the storm to wait for us. He would no doubt be clad in an impenetrable mass of fur lined layers that not only acted as a barrier from the cold, but also ironically evoked former communist ideas of de-individualisation. Our tour had been orchestrated by Alice’s father, who worked with Giorg’s daughter some fifteen hundred miles or so west-bound and despite some trepidation at the prospect of an afternoon with a complete stranger in a country where we spoke very little of the language, we had all agreed to accompany Alice for a trip around the capital. In reality, we had quickly appreciated that our ‘little trip’ would most likely become a serious expedition, possibly requiring some amount of apparatus to propel us through feet of fresh snow and flare guns to signal distress.

One of us let out a shudder that may have been an attempt to thaw the vocal chords, which like every other surface and extremity of our bodies had become rigid with cold. A puff of frozen air lingered above our heads for a few seconds like a cigarette cloud and then faded into nothing. She tried again. “What…tttt…time…..mmeeeting……?” I suspected that everyone had understood her disjointed question but as with true mob mentality, they, like I waited expectantly for someone else to bother answering. It was a futile waste of energy.

One of the Cathedrals in the Kremlin
Several prolonged minutes later we had somehow managed to surface out to the blinding white terrain, and with eyes scarcely open in resistance against the blizzard, we spotted the only other living being in sight. Awkwardly, like a Roman army shuffling its flanks forward in unison, we trudged across the snowy bog towards our shapeless stranger. A pair of twinkling eyes composed most of his Grandpa-like face and he surveyed us with what I could only describe as amusement. “Let’s go” he said in gravelly Russian, with no hint of a stammer. This weather was clearly nothing new to him.

At the entrance to the Kremlin there was finally quiet. Out of the wind and snow we heard, really for the first time, Giorg’s voice, which oddly was lyrical and light. He told the attendant the five of us girls were his ‘detee’ or children. Beneath the furry Chapka that buried most of her head, she raised a barely visible eyebrow but didn’t comment. She looked bored. It was with trepidation that we entered the home of the mighty and notorious Russian Government, where once had lived rulers whose names all expanded into titles such as, The Terrible, The Conqueror, The Liberator, The Great, The Proud and The Moneybag. I tried to drag up details from Russian history class, about revolutions and triumphs and tsars long since buried underground and I kicked myself for not having paid enough attention to now pose educated questions to our guide.

Giorg playing his mouth organ through Moscow

Once on the inside of the towering walls, we stood anxiously waiting for Giorg to lead the way. This was not a difficult decision to make; the only direction available to us was highlighted by strings of fluorescent rope sourced from pole to pole that directed us like sheep in a bee line towards the centre of the Kremlin. Everywhere we looked were signs ordering strict compliance with all regulations and at every angle in our line of sight stern sentries stood with fixed icy glares that mirrored the weather. I had visions of slipping on ice and inadvertently skidding over the lines, wondering whether I’d be arrested on the spot and sent to Azkaban as a suspected British spy.

The Kremlin, as we had hoped, was indeed worth a visit. ‘Sobornaya Ploshad’, which means ‘Square of Cathedrals’, was literally exactly as it declares itself.  The paved square hemmed in four ornate and exquisitely decorated cathedrals that made me feel woefully disenchanted by our own British edifices.  I briefly considered whether the universal architect was in an especially angular and gothic mood by the time he got to designing England. The cold remained as vicious as it had been in the morning, and not even the beauty of the Kremlin distracted us from the numb sensation of our toes and the painful throb of frozen fingers. We tried to nod enthusiastically as Giorg told us zealous and meticulously detailed historical accounts of this and that, signaling first one direction then another and drawing in the air with bare fingers what I can only imagine were battle strategies. At the height of our insecurity, he inexplicably linked arms and began to serenade us with Russian ditties as we continued on through the ancient fortress.  Surely the centre of all things Russian and governmental was no place for singing?  Surely it merited esteem, silent reverence and awe?  It took all our concentration not to start whimpering. Either that or giggling from the utterly peculiar turn the day had taken.


Tash, Me, Vicky, Liv and Alice

Our incredulity peaked when he suddenly announced, “My son is a famous artist. Next, we will go to his house.”  In a short space of time, we found ourselves standing in an art studio that very much resembled an underground lair with no windows but a mesmerizing display of sculptures covering every inch from floor to flaking ceiling. Giorg introduced a slim, dark haired young man as his son.  There was a table at which we were directed to sit, that held a colourful assortments of cakes, biscuits, breads, teas, chocolates and sweets and we politely were encouraged to eat, drink and be merry, as is traditional in Russia. For the next hour or so we chatted away in disjointed Russian, pointing to particularly intriguing yet striking sculptures which we were then given to hold like prizes, until, estimating a respectable amount of time had passed, we sly lowered them to a space on the table, arms and fingers aching from the immense bronze weight and the lingering effect of the cold. A little later still we were joined by a woman and two tiny children, who were the rest of his family. The children kissed their father and then tottered off to busy themselves in the back room with scraps of clay, molding them like play-dough into charming little figurines and bringing them through to present to the father, who praised their artistic endeavors and encouraged their noticeable budding talent. It was really very endearing to see such a genuine and lovely insight into how affectionate Russian people can be, especially since our reception as foreigners usually encompassed stern frowns of disapproval, and at best, a lukewarm sentiment.

Click on the link to see the published version of this article: http://travelmag.co.uk/?p=3790

27 February 2011

Catching up with the Joneses

I know I'm not a Jones, I'm a Klein.  But I feel I owe a catch up as it has been a little while since I've posted anything and I've noticed just the hint of a decrease in page views on my profile... I won't hold it against you... not this time. 

So there are various things I have considered updating you on.  Firstly, the self indulgence of those high-profile companies who feel it is their right to entirely and unsympathetically disregard candidates (with or without potential for success) without tact and without fear of reprisal.  Secondly, your very own choices and ideas of items to post on my blog, which many of you kindly voted on and which I hope to deliver on a regular basis.  And thirdly, what's new 'en mi vida' ('in my life' for you non-Spaniards out there.)

I shall start by relaying the bad news to you with the understanding that it should always be followed by something more positive to leave you smiling.  The job market is letting me down.  No, it's stronger than that really, it's failing me, it's squashing me with its enormous five inch stilettos. The Guardian and the Independent preach that we should endeavour to make job hunting our 'full time job' and so I have wiled away long days in my Paris Gellar-esque work retreat, pouring out my heart and soul (also personality traits, work experience, previous employment and personal statements) into job application after job application with think-bubbles screaming 'EMPLOY ME EMPLOY ME EMPLOY ME', all I might add, to no current avail.  I have submitted quite literally myself  to not one, not two but twenty six different publishing-related companies and in response, have heard back from six. 

The most exciting possibility was in travel oriented publishing for a company that produces in-flight magazines for big airlines.  I applied for an internship in the editorial department, lured in by the ambitious and challenging array of experiences they offered; I went for interview, but am still waiting for a definitive answer.   

Who else did I apply to? 
  • The BBC to work in research for an Arts Documentary - no luck there, but honestly not especially surprised.  I'm no Simpson or Dimbleby.
  • NOW Magazine - jumped through hoops writing some 'sample' pieces for them but after an initially positive response, was told nothing was available until May and I would need to reapply.  The response read: "Sorry, we are now booked up until April. If you would like to apply for a placement after 6 April 2011, please put your new dates in subject field and reply to this email".  That was it, no 'thank you for your time, efforts, hope, enthusiasm...'
  • Time and Leisure in London were a lot more helpful in their rejection in the sense that they explained the reasoning behind it and offered some alternatives I could look into.  Thanks to them.
  • Time Out gave me the following feedback which at least stopped me from deciding that I have NO talent at writing and applying for a job as a 'leaflet hander-outer' (which at least offers some financial incentive): "Your application was of an extremely high quality so although I can not offer you a work placement at this time, I would like to keep your details on file."
So, having Googled every single publishing company the gargantuan online encyclopaedia could provide me with and trawled through copious magazines, applying to them didn't seem to have benefited me in the slightest.  All I had achieved was a colossal contribution to deforestation and a displacement of several thousand hours of my time. It seems that I must reassess my application technique, try even harder for an internship and in my hopes to reaffirm my true love of writing, put fingers to keypad even more often to substantiate myself as a writer. 

And so onto the good news :) my poem 'Human Expose' won first place in a competition called 'Strictly Shakespeare'. It wasn't a big competition, I entered mostly because the theme was 'Valentines Day' and the entry fee was only a pound. In a knock-out elimination process based on daily votes, I somehow managed to beat the final competitor with her brilliant poem 'Worth It' and got a nice little prize of £20. Thanks to everyone who went on the site and voted :-)

Finally, thank you to everyone who voted on the poll I put up on my site asking what you would all like to see more of.  First place, quite surprisingly, was Photo of the Day.  So I'll be keeping my eyes skimmed for interesting things to snap! Secondly, tied, were The Alabama Chronicles and My own little Hogwarts. I get so excited delving into the vast expanse that is my memory and recollecting the nuggets of quirkisms and peculiarities that accompanied those years of my life.  Some people suggested more travel and culture related pieces, which I have some ideas for so I'll keep you posted on those and I might even do some little insights into things that I personally find engaging / exciting / noteworthy, whether it be books, films, cooking or whatever! Wait and see!