Consolidated Report of Various Non-Events

I find myself writing less and less these days.

Not because the days at work or home have grown more dreary but because I feel spread a little thin, like someone being stingy with the butter on my toast.

I don’t think I can manage both drawing and blogging.

That being said I have now accumulated a decent backlog of fascinating non-events to report

1. I lost a piece of chocolate fudge cake the other day at work.
I bought it for lunch.
Then I ate lunch.
Then I went back upstairs.
Much later I realised I had left the cake downstairs.
I went downstairs to check. It was gone.
I was devastated.
There is no pain greater than losing a piece of moist cake.
That is also the only acceptable use of the word ‘moist’ in a sentence.

2. A client bought in a red velvet and buttercream icing cake.
It was a goliath of a cake.
A huge red velvet monster with an inch of buttercream top and middle.
I ate just one slice of this cake and was plunged into a sated, bloated cake depression, butter cream oozing through my pores.
The whole office developed a strange lack luster lethargy after eating this cake.
I started calling it the cake of depression.
Except Lottie, who had a fairly rock hard pice nearly a week later without particularly bad effects.

Side note
It may seem like there is a lot of cake in our office but I just tend to remember events that involve cake far more clearly than any other events.

Cake of Depression

3. I have a lot of spam to report.
The most recent one, which I particularly enjoyed, was an email,
converted into a jpg,
and then that jpg was emailed to me.
The subject title was “THANK YOU!!”
I like this man’s style.

4. Giant Eggs

I’ve been trying really hard to get Emma (Leo’s girlfriend) to cultivate hens that lay giant eggs because of an article I read in the Metro. (A worthy supplement if there ever was one)

I can’t even begin to tell you how much effort I’ve put into emailing her various words of encouragement with no success.

Apparently all you need you just need to feed them lots of broccoli but Emma is worried laying a giant egg will hurt them.

Emma has no scientific curiosity.

But I havent yet despaired. I’m going to try to convince her to invite us down to Cambridge and try feeding Honey, Sugar & Treacle (the hens) broccoli myself surreptitiously.

5. Monty has been sending me emails.
Then sends me texts to check if I’ve received the emails.
On principle I ignore those texts.
When did Monty turn into my great-aunt?
That’s what she does, but then she only just found out about the internet at 70+ something

6a. Regular Lunch

I briefly, sporadically made a huge effort of social skills and went out for lunch with the guys at work for nearly a week.
Shortly afterwards this burst of social energy died as suddenly as it began.
The guys at work eat far too early.
I like my work day split up neatly into 2 relatively equal chunks.

6b. Birthday Lunch

Yesterday the chaps at work all said

“Hey! Where do you want to go for your birthday lunch!?”

I was enthused! Yay! Birthday lunch.

“Yes! Can we go to Pizza East??”

They have the thinnest, yummiest pizzas I’ve ever . Their Margherita is particularly good.

JO & AL, who have lunch notoriously early said they couldn’t even wait until 1:30 pm.

We were in the middle of negotiating them down to a more reasonable time of 1:00 pm when Adam, killed the scheme and said we all had to go at 12:30 for some work related reason.

There is no way in hell I’m having lunch that early in the day. It leaves you with 5 hours of work without a break. The afternoon stretches out interminably.

So I didn’t attend what was presumably my own birthday lunch.

Mark later sent me an email with a photo of them all eating at Pizza East.

I sent him an email back rejecting his photo.

I refuse to acknowledge a birthday lunch for MY birthday when:

1. I’m not present
2. It’s practically breakfast.

They got me back a piece of cake though and a helium balloon. Which was so nice of them.

This post features a heck of a lot of cake.

Now for some photos for flowers I took a couple of days ago in the Canal park, which is exactly where I’m off to today. Its going to be a sunny day! Yay!

Dull stuff but its MY birthday and it’s MY blog.

SO SCREW YOU, REJECTED EARLY BIRTHDAY LUNCH!!

I don’t think anyone uses telephone boxes except sex workers and Trannies anymore.

Green Shoot close up. Very delicate. I looked like an idiot taking these photos.

Green Shoots. I like the way these were scattered.

Kind of cloud like tree

White flowers closeup.

Daffodil Closeup. Riddhi says flowers are phallic and make her horny

Park Shadows. I wish I had a buddy nearby to chill with in the park.

Red Hellebore. Actually I have no idea what this is.

This is a particularly pretty tree. It has no leaves. Just the flowers

Apple Blossoms? I don’t know what these are either.

I’m very fond of this telephone box.

Apple Blossoms Closeup. Well…I assume it’s apple

Yellow Flower Buds

Pink Tree Barbed Wire. See its a metaphor about blah de bloo de yawn

The Strollers Brigade. Angel is full of ‘em.

The King

Grafitti Man Outline. Someone defaced him recently. Sad face.

The Breakfast CLub always has good signs and a long queue.

Milky Way Window

Rock Garden Sunny

I like the shadows in the rock garden

A contrast. You know…

New Banksy Rat At Portobello

A new little Banksy rat has sprung up on Portobello.

I’m almost sure that it’s recent and I could easily check, since I have a photo of this wall, that I had taken a few months ago, but I’m just too fucking lazy to be bothered.

Let’s just assume it’s a new Banksy rat.

The dollar sign eyes and the little saw it’s holding seems to be a cheeky reference to the recent debacle over the Banksy that was ripped out of a wall and was found on sale in LA.

It is totally possible that it could be a fake. (Banksy is easy to fake I should imagine.)

What do you think?

Portobello Banksy Rat. I’m fairly sure this is new.

Home Alone – Captain’s Log, Star Date 09.02.2013

Weekend #1 of partner being away: 

Ate the dokhla the ex kindly made before leaving, slowly over 4-5 days

Went shopping for food last Friday so would be stocked up with ready-meals for the weekend and most of the week.

Increased my intake of plums.

Cleaner cleaned half-heartedly on Saturday morning.

Saturday afternoon sat in front on my drawing for many hours. Occasionally rallied to draw a single line. Promptly sank back into lethargic nearly-end-of-drawing-stupor

Did some laundry.

Stayed up till 4 on the Saturday watching Wonders of the Universe.

No reported psychedelic dreams on this occasion.

Went to bed at a reasonable hour on Sunday.

Didn’t leave the flat until Monday morning.

Weekend #2 of partner being away: 

Dry laundry still in the washing machine.

Run out of underwear.

Am forced to go to the washing machine instead of my clothes drawer.

Didn’t re-stock food supplies all week.

Forgot to defrost food in the freezer.

Went to the pub on Thursday. Ate instant noodles for dinner.

Forgot to defrost food in the freezer again.

Went to the Monty’s on Friday. Ate 1/2 pack of salt and vinegar crisps, 1 dark chocolate bounty & 2 plums for dinner.

Went to bed at a totally unreasonable hour.

Saturday morning no cleaner.

Have very considered plans not to leave the flat at all this weekend.

Need to buy food.

Conflict with earlier resolution not to leave flat.

May need to eat more instant noodles.

End of Captain’s Log.

Boat – Yaoi Kusama exhibition (June 2012)

Dot room – Yaoi Kusama exhibition (June 2012)

Dot room – Yaoi Kusama exhibition (June 2012)

Dot room – Yaoi Kusama exhibition (June 2012)

Mirror Room – Yaoi Kusama exhibition (June 2012)

Paan & Pet Peeve

I was reading a desi food blog about how to make paan so drew this. It’s just a bit of time pass.

If I had a company I’d name it ‘Timepass’.

I posted it on janineshroff.co.uk but forgot to on here.

Paan

I’ve been working on a new big drawing lately.

So trying to blog less because I can’t do both.

I was going to fill the windows up with thousands of tiny people crammed up to the glass, but now I think I’m going to use collages of photos of landfills.

Breeding sketch (A1)

Breeding sketch (A1) – Closeup work in progress

My pet peeve – Work in progress.

 

Mildy Embarrassing Items And Some Penis Pancakes

Some embarrassing things that have happened to me lately.

Embarrassing item #1

One of the loos on my floor at work doesn’t fully lock.

It looks locked but sometimes the thingie hasn’t gone in the hole properly…

That reads a little dirty – But you know what I mean.

This charming quirk about this particular loo door was only revealed to me when a man happened to walk in on me.

I shrieked faintly, in the outraged manner of one seated helpless on a loo.

Now every time he passes me in the corridor I can’t bear to look him in the eyes.

The shame, oh the shame.

Embarrassing item #2

I really can’t spell cubord without a spellchecker.

Cuphoard?

Cubboard?

Mother Hubbard went to her cubbard.

I just can’t.

To be fair, there are a growing variety of things I can’t spell without a spellchecker.

A spellchecker does make you extremely lazy about spelling.

I have learned to spell things purposely wrong so spellchecker will give me a few options for the correct version.

Embarrassing item #3

For ages, when people used air quotations I couldn’t figure out what they were doing.

But I didn’t want them to know that I didn’t know, so I never asked.

I thought they were bunny ears.

There was a point in college where one guy was using ‘bunny ears’ in nearly every sentence. So did Leo as I recall.

Embarrassing item #4

I don’t know if this one is embarrassing for me or the other person: Maybe its just an incident more than an embarrassing item.

While eating lunch in the park a sleeping drunk near by kept farting loudly and repeatedly.

I didn’t bother to move.

Embarrassing item #5

This one is definitely not embarrassing for me but falls under the general category of embarrassing.

Saw a very tall, yet very ordinary man wearing a sober light grey suit at a platform at Kings Cross. He was holding a small light grey poodle on a short leash.

The poodle had been groomed in the traditional ’cartoon’ style: Poofy tail and poofy bits above the paws, shorn legs, and poofy ears tied back with little pink bows. A Penelope Pitstop of a dog in essence.

I saw the eyes of other men on the platform, a smirk in them as they watched this tall grey man walking around publicly with such an animal.

It amazed me too, that this man was walking around so casually without the merest hint of a blush or at the very least, retching constantly.

Embarrassing item #6

I know I must now truly be a Londoner - The mere thought of living in any other city in the UK sickens me to my core.

Penis Pancakes with Whipped Cream – The rather brilliant creation of Anokhi (that’s A4) and King Tha who gave me permission to post this – Because no other photo deserves being posted more than this one. So stick that Pinterest people with your posh food photos!

My rather feral Coriander up close. I can’t seem to find the middle ground between my plants dying or just growing like crazy.

Kitchen Window. How Domestic.

Sprouting Potatoes. I bought a bag from the small veg market stall and forgot them in a dark cubbord. Cuphoard?

Cubard? Cupbard? Roots Closeup. Can you tell that I am in love with this camera?

Liberty Window – Mexican Skulls

Big Moon rising.

Kings Cross at Twilight. I’ve taken the same photo many times but it never gets old.

Kings Cross with streaks and a sickle moon. This is definitely my favourite, of all the ones I’ve ever taken.

Mint & Oranges

I have numerous incomplete drawings lying around.

This is really getting to be a bad habit.

I’m struggling to juggle coming home from work, doing the chores and then trying to make myself draw.

Excuses excuses.

Nearly finished my sketchbook. 

Which at one point I very nearly lost. (Which would have been devastating.)

My agenda for this sketchbook was that I must not tear out any pages,

and all pages one must have a considered drawing (not some half-assed scribble).

So it’s taken ages to fill it up.

Ruined 1 page though. Boo hiss.

Mint & Oranges in the kitchen

Makes me think of summer and Spain

3 Oranges

Orange Skin

My on-going love affair with Rava. Showing no sign of abating. I’ve been making a batch nearly every weekend now.

Raisins are my favourite part.

But nuts are important too.

Kings Cross with star

Kings Cross close up. There’s a moon too.

I think that might be Venus. I don’t think stars are usually that bright or that close.

Borough Market Photos

Took the new camera out last Saturday since it was the hottest weekend of the year. Gloriously sunny and not a cloud in sight.

I still wore a thermal and a coat.

I don’t trust these meteorologists and their optimistic predictions. I especially don’t trust the British weather.

Rule of thumb – always carry a jacket and/or a sweater.

I haven’t been to Borough market since I was a fresh-faced foreigner just off the boat, although there are shots of it on nearly every cooking show – Masterchef and Market Kitchen especially.

I was shamelessly taking photos like a tourist all over the shop. I don’t even look kosher because the camera is so small and clearly not the camera of a professional photographer, but it does the job and 12 Mega Pixels (not just regular big pixels, but ‘Mega’ pixels. I wonder who named it? It’s rather lame.) is a lot of pixels for someone who never prints but likes to imagine she will one day.

A friend bought some Pate and got another one free since the seller was closing for the evening which she then bestowed on to me. So I got some free pate! Better than that Sainsbury’s crap. Smooth, creamy and utterly spreadable on toast. I ate it 2 days in a row.

Anyway here you go, lots of photos. I rarely am able to exercise restraint with a camera in hand.

Market light under dome

Parsley & Blood Orange

Free Taste Girl. The Free taste was way too salty. Horrid stuff. I pretended to like it.

Free Taste Green Curry. They were loudly yelling 'Free Taste' for ages. I don't know who was buying.

Pork & Liver. Mmmmm liver looks so good raw.

Colourful Chalkboard at the Juice Stall

Purple Flower. Not sure what flower this is.

Herbs, Flowers and a Stall Lady

Veg Boxes

Lily at posh Florist

In Season painted board & Lavender

Flowers by wall

Apples, Pears and Pimms. There really couldn't be a better combo.

Walk back via London Bridge southbank walk

Tower Bridge with Tree

Parsi Rava Recipe (Or Look How Domesticated I Am)

Parsi Rava. Ok so I stage managed this photo a little bit. I mean that mint plant isn't really there usually. But I wanted to hide the kettle.

Rava closer. Little auto magnet from Goa.

Parsi rava is like a yummy rice pudding but uses semolina instead of the rice and boiled milk instead of a custard.

So really it isn’t much like a rice pudding at all, but it’s a white-creamy colour and I guess that’s close enough. The semolina has a really lovely texture, that I prefer to a rice pudding anyway.

My Bombay household usually makes this in the morning for special occasions like birthdays, anniversaries and Parsi new year

Parsees must have rava for Parsi New Year and birthdays. It’s crucial. Hell, it’s the crux of our family meal. Parsees everywhere would throw terrible tantrums if there was no breakfast rava… well I’d throw a tantrum.

Eat it for breakfast or as a dessert (or both if you like). Lately I’ve been craving some in chilly ol’ London. Also I felt like procrastinating. I was supposed to scan some drawings over the weekend but I’m being lazy.

So I cajoled the ex into making the first batch. The ex forced me into the role of su chef (read that as ‘lackey’) to help out and then I felt relatively confident about handling it on my own.

I should mention that I’m not much of a chef. I once nearly burned down my flat kitchen. The exhaust above the stove melted, there was charcoal everywhere. We didn’t have a fire alarm or extinguisher. Then the ex came over and fought with me. To say it was a bit of a bad business is an understatement.

The incident was slightly traumatic and I feel nervous around fire and oil now, but this recipe is so simple, even a dolt like me can manage it.

Also all the recipes out there on the internet seem a little odd or convoluted and involve rose-water and all sorts of nonsense so I thought I’d post this pretty straightforward recipe. I’m helpful like that. Sharing and caring.

Parsi Rava for 2 people

Or one greedy person. I’ve finished all of that bowl above. It’s a very moreish pudding.

Total time: 15 mins

• 3 teaspoons melted butter or Ghee (Clarified butter)
• 2 tablespoons semolina
• 2 cups milk with 2 tablespoons sugar mixed in it
• 2 tablespoons soaked raisins (or as many as you like, I like a bit more, soak for 10 mins in hot water)
• 2 tablespoons pistachios (soak with raisins)
• small handful almonds blanched and finely sliced (or add as many as you like)
• a pinch of nutmeg

Optional extras instead of or to go with the nutmeg:

• rosewater
• cardamom (power I think)
• drop or two of vanilla essence

1. Lightly brown the almonds in 1 teaspoon of ghee.

2. Then add the raisins and pistachios to the same ghee.

The soaked raisins look wonderfully plump and luscious in their glistening coat of ghee.

Don’t I sound like Nigella? I’m channelling.

Although unlike the seductive and sensuous Nigella, the first thing that came to my mind when I saw the wrinkled raisins all swelled up was of a engorged tick sucking the blood of some hapless dog. I loved pulling them off and dropping them in kerosene. I hated those ticks but the way they morphed from a paper-thin bug into a swollen monster fascinated me. This memory is probably not something I ought to mention halfway through a recipe. Oh well. Don’t let that put you off.

3. Remove once roasted (about 1 min or so) and keep on the side in a bowl.

You can pop one or two in your mouth. The ghee or butter does something to the raisins. It just makes it better. Ghee makes everything better. Ask any Guju. Go on ask ‘em.

4. Add 2 more teaspoons of ghee + 2 tablespoons semolina & stir until it turns light golden. (It cooks pretty quickly – so don’t let it turn brown, which means it’s been burnt. Apparently. I didn’t get to the burnt stage.)

Ghee ghee ghee! The ex carted a little tub back all the way from the Punj. We’re both such Indians – We’re constantly carting back food and jars of pickle. The ex’s ghee is white, which puzzled me. I always thought ghee was yellow. Drawings of child Krishna always had him grabbing mutkas of yellowish ghee and stuffing his face. Artistic license I suppose.

5. Then pour in the milk bit by bit and keep stirring. Don’t pour all at once, because you’ll lose that rich flavour of the boiled milk.

This is what my mother told me, and what my Great-granny told her. My Great-gran and my mother were at each other’s throats for the better part of 20 years, so she could have lied about the milk. You never know.

6. Once you’ve poured in all the milk, add half the raisins and nuts and keeping stirring. If the mix is too solid add more milk. Should not be too thin or too thick. (Pretend you’re Goldilocks.)

In my combined greed and sloth I doubled all the ingredients (so it was a 4 person batch) when I made a second batch of this and was stirring for a good 10 mins. A 2 person batch is much quicker. (Greed because I’m going to eat all of it, the ex is not a fan. Sloth because I don’t want to make it again so I made a bulk batch.)

7. Add a pinch of nutmeg. You can also add cardamom, rose-water or a drop of vanilla essence if you like.

I don’t add any of those things. Just the nutmeg. I don’t like the idea of rose-water, but I daresay it could be quite fragrant and shit. I’m not exactly sure how much nutmeg goes in. I put in a liberal pinch. It seems alright.

8. Pour into a dish, sprinkle the rest of the almonds and raisins on the top and allow to set.

Try not to stick your finger in yet. Just lick the ladle. That should hold you.

9. Eat warm or cold. (Mmmmmm warm. 30 seconds in a micro. So good.)

Give it a shot. It’s a lovely winter pudding.

Wow I can’t believe I just posted a recipe. That shows how far I’ve come since the days of burning down the kitchen.

Now I need to go lovingly prepare my ready-meal dinner.

Let Us Eat Cake

Had a fight with the ex about cake a couple of days ago.

Birthday cake.

Every year we fight about cake. It is utterly ridiculous.

I’m checking bakeries and then with the ex about the cake, and feeling frustrated. The margin of error is high and the risk of having the cake flung at my head in a temper tantrum equally so. The window within which the cake will be graciously tolerated is small.

The ‘ideal’ cake is difficult. It’s not even just about the flavour. No no, that’s far too simple. No icing, No chocolate, No marzipan, No cream, No cupcakes. It’s basically a long list of ‘don’ts’ and I’m supposed to navigate my way through.

“Look, if you’re going to make this cake thing a big deal, then just forget about it.”,

says the ex to me when I momentarily forget myself (stupid creature!) and hint at my frustration. (Last year I ‘forgot’ about the cake, and let me just say that turned into a big deal.)

That would be a perfectly fair and reasonable statement to make, if it hadn’t immediately followed this rather more tyrannical threat:

“I’m warning you now – If you don’t get me the right kind of cake, I’m going to be really upset…”

Gosh, no pressure then.

But not to worry.

I have ordered the minions to shower the roads generously with rose and hibiscus petals. The ex will then be carried, lounging delicately on a palanquin, about London. The minions will serve the ex haunches of roasted & basted chicken, followed by sweet white grapes that have been gently washed in mountain dew and have had their skin removed. The feasting is capped with a refreshing champagne and baby’s breath sorbet.

A procession of painted and decorated elephants and horses all with bells and cymbals jingling gaily on their feet follow the palanquin. A 100 strong marching band, will accompany them and will be playing a variety of Madonna and Kylie songs loudly and with gusto. After all the day the ex emerged from the womb demands celebration!

After the magnificence of this procession all the way down Angel and through Farringdon, the palanquin will finally reach St. Paul’s where there will be the usual ritual of the burning of incense and the blood-letting of a sacrificial snow-white lamb by a virgin maid. This will promptly be culminated in an orgy of bacchanalian excess of epic proportions.

Also I baked a cake.

My first cake ever. So domesticated of me no? (It was from a packet. Baby steps.)

It rose rather proudly. I’m quite pleased.

I have a singing candle to place on it’s bulging center.

Here, some photos.

I made a right old mess all over. Also I accidentally read 210 ml of water as 120 ml. I wondered why the batter was so difficult to beat. Luckily I caught the error in time.

Look at it rising! All that beating did the trick. And I beat it by hand!!

Not bad for a first attempt, if I do say so myself. The ex was pleased.

Sausage Nipples

Zion The Sausage Queen

We went to a lovely BBQ last sunday.

I brought sausages, mini burgers and Ginger beer.

The ex refuses to eat the ends of sausages – Cutting them off instead, rather delicately with a knife.

I remarked they looked just like nipples and promptly ate them with gusto.

The ex cringed. It’s true they did look like nipples. Not that’s unappetising - Delicious sausages! Fresh off the barbi

I haven’t ever been to a fetish/sexy-party club night.

I’d like to go just to see it maybe once in my life, but the ex said my tolerance level would be 20 mins or so, then I’d be bored and want to leave.

(Quite true. Watching other people have sex is like watching people play tennis. What’s the point? I’m not playing tennis.)

The ex said,

“Of course I would probably stay longer.”

So I don’t understand if you’re willing to watch real people, regular flabby people even having sex in public, then what’s the problem with the sausage nipples?

Headline for May 30, 2011:

Man addicted to sausages seeks help

Best quote:

‘Apparently I just like sausages, plain and simple,’ Mr Harding said, after admitting that therapy hasn’t helped.