Elfing Around and Playing the Culinary Substitution Game, Plus, A Stinking Labrador or a Diabetic Cat Past its Sell-By Date and Working On Sherlock

Haven’t posted in a while, muchos apologios, but some elf I know (not of the gorgeous, flowing gown and shampoo commercial hair variety, a la Liv Tyler in Lord of the Rings, more of the goofy Disney type. Like those Dwarfs… just less kinda… beardy) has been keeping herself so bustlingly busy with Christmassy doings, she’s not found the extra time to blather on about it. As my dress from Bangkok says, less talk, more action. I find wearing said article to teach English quite satisfyingly ironic.

Anyway. Christmassy doings. The tree is up, and trimmed. Thus far, I’ve added a mushroom and a snowflake to my other concoctions, and am currently getting carried away with a snazzy, snow-ball-toting penguin. Because I can no longer purchase ornaments to add to the collection, which used to be an annual tradition with me, I now make them instead. This new, more creative take on the old urge started back in the dark days in China, and gets me right smack in the festive mood.

On the cooking-baking-concocting front, the Mexican Thanksgiving, with chilli chicken and a Pistachio, Pear and Chorizo stuffing seemed to go, quite literally, down well with the boys. I adapted the chicken recipe from something a tad more Indian, swapping out the Garam Masala for Cayenne and the usual heaps of Coriander and Cumin I throw at all things savoury these days.

I have had a go at Nigella’s cranberry mince pies… but let’s be honest, cranberries only became readily available in England in the last decade… the fresh ones ain’t quite made it to Vietnam yet, though the dried ones curiously put in an appearance as a Lunar New Year delicacy. I think it’s the colour; red is lucky, apparently. Ergo, more swapsies. Apple masquerading as cranberries, red wine pretending to be port, in Mary Berry’s sweet shortcrust, livened up with orange zest. The results were passable… I may have to give it another whirl. What a shame.

First, however, I have made a Miso Caramel, which demands cheesecakization. Yes, I’ve been at the Professional Masterchef again, and when I heard the words ‘Miso Caramel Souffle’, I consulted myself, and myself said, ‘Well get on with it! What are you waiting for, woman??’ So my Miso Caramel, made by doctoring Cupcake Jemma’s Salted Caramel with 2 tablespoons of miso, blended with an equal amount of water, is hanging out in the fridge, waiting for me to bung it in a cheesecake. Which I shall do. Just as soon as I can detach myself from my needle and thread.

While I do so, here’s the next snippet of my current murder mystery.

A Stinking Labrador or a Diabetic Cat Past its Sell-By Date and Working On Sherlock

We stand, in silence, surveying the cold-blighted grass, the jutting brown stalks and withered, ankle-high hedges trimming flagstone paths. A sundial like an old astrolabe, if that’s the word, a water-feature, which is most definitely the word in these highfalutin, moneyed parts, where ‘ponds’ cut no ice; far too common.
I wait. Not entirely sure for what. Not thanks. Would only embarrass the both of us. A side-swiped glance at her: she’s perfectly still, eyes fixed on some middle distance, unseeing.
‘The coffin was empty, you know,’ she says at last.
Not what I was expecting.
‘Nothing in it. Not a hair.’ A bitter smile.
‘Europa managed to hush it up, keep it out of the papers. A persuasive word in the right ear. Accompanied by rather more convincing cash, no doubt. I didn’t ask, didn’t want to know. Wouldn’t do, would it, a police investigation crawling about the place, putting the wind up their heavy-weight clients. Journos asking awkward questions, pointing highly publicised fingers. Sickening, really.’
Her delivery, affectless. As if it were some aged pet that’s died, a limping, stinking labrador, past it’s sell-by date, a half-blind Diabetic cat.

‘I’m not sure I understand.’
‘Nate… he didn’t up and have a heart attack out of nowhere. He was murdered.’
Still, I say nothing. What is there to say?
‘The police haven’t the foggiest, obviously. They’ve let on that they’re allowing Europa to keep a lid on it to aid the investigation. Or that’s their story du jour. That lot, in there,’ she wafts a vague hand back towards the house, ‘They all know, of course they know. Bunch of bloody hypocrites, the whole smarmy pack of them.’
Whereupon, the sobs, the tears she must surely have been suppressing all day, had their way with her, broke out of her like some hideous, clown faced Jack, bursting from his box on a spring.
Fortunately, or unfortunately, depending on how you look at it, I’m not one of those blokes who flees the country for parts unknown at the first sign of emotion. Though Nate was.
Odd really, given that if the tear-streaked woman was the girl I think I recollect from uni, well. I could have sworn she was a psych student. Though of course I may well have got that wrong.

I scrounge in my pocket, uproot a tissue. Flecked with lint, but otherwise clean. Offer it. I’m all for putting my arm around her, but given the charming little scene I just broke up, that might be taken the wrong way. Not everyone notices the flashing GAY ALERT sign I apparently wear on my forehead.
I do the next best thing, lay my hands, delicately, gingerly, upon her thin upper arm, clasp her there, lean down, at a slant, trying to look into her face. She mops her cheeks and eyes, snuffles a bit. Finally looks up at me. A bit ashamed, a watery smile.
‘Sorry. It’s just all been a bit much. And then that oaf…’ again, that airy gesture back towards the house, the bankers, all of it.
‘Of course. It would be.’ I feel the furrow in my brow, pressing against the insufficiency of words, platitudes. I want to give her something more. Some kind of reassurance.
Never mind that I’m a perfect stranger. Barely knew her late husband anymore. Her, not at all, except as a kind of figment, an imaginary figure, a composite of Nate’s previous entanglements, what I knew of the man, back at school and at Uni: Nate’s perfect wife. This woman… she’s not what I imagined. Not at all. Oh, the looks fit, but…
Still, the situation, the actual woman, invoke it, some manly gallantry, some deed to make things right, take the burden from her caved-in shoulders.
‘I… I want to help. What can I do?’ It’s not much, and I know it. A limp offer of help. Still, it’s better than nothing, surely?
She sniffs again. ‘Not very much, I imagine. Unless your name happens to be Sherlock Holmes or Poirot.’

Which of course plants the idea in my numbskull head. ‘Well, not exactly. Though I’ve worked on both of them, over the years.’
Puzzlement overtakes fretting at the controls of her expression: the strange man has said an equally strange thing, and what is she to make of it all? ‘Meaning…’ light dawns, ‘You’re in television? Or should that be on?’
‘In, most definitely. Haven’t got the je ne sais quois for the other side of the camera. Probably for the best. Can’t spend one’s entire life making an absolute arse of oneself, just a carefully allotted proportion of it.’
A smile has started to emerge, as on the face of a cautious child still primally attuned to clamp down or scamper for hiding in the face of bulky, grown-up threat, a child’s smile, painstakingly coaxed with all the appearance of artlessness. Appear to notice it, and it will take flight.
‘Would this be one of those times, Mr…’ A quick, bird-like twitch of her head, hair ruffling like feathers, a bird’s piercing eyes on my face. ‘Do you know, I don’t believe I caught your name.’
Polite way of saying I never gave it, dastardly interloper that I am? Or can she honestly not remember?
‘Quentin. Quentin Hassle. TV researcher extraordinaire. At your service,’ stopping myself from swinging into an almighty, foppish Restoration bow, brandishing my flirtatious lacy hanky for all I’m worth. I’d do it though, for another stab at that smile.

Stab. Oh dear. Inappropriate word choice. Talk of murder most horrid must have penetrated the old subconscious.
‘And I’m Harriet. Hat. Management Consultant, as we seem to be going in for the whole professional spiel.’
‘Honoured.’ And do you know, for once it’s actually true? Something noble about this woman, something stately and patrician, even down in the dumps. Which brings me back to it. ‘As I said,’ a hesitant pause, unsure whether to bring it all up again, ‘Anything a lowly telly researcher can do to assist, Hat, Management Consultant, I’d be more than happy to oblige.’
‘Happy?’ she queries. Leaving me all the more positive. Hat. Harriet. Psych student. Way back when. ‘I can’t say that’s the word I’d apply to the whole sorry mess.’
‘Quite right. But…’ to push, or not to push? Oh, what the hell. ‘You’re evading the question.’
‘Touché.’
‘What can I do?’
She stares at me. Feels like forever. Says, ‘Maybe you should tell me, Mr TV Researcher. What can you do?’

Bad Shit Comes in Threes, Sanity and the Alternative and Sneakin’ an’ Spyin’ inna Skies

 

They say bad shit always comes in threes. So first there was the out-on-yer-arse, changing rooms like musical chairs, like that tv series wasn’t totally grim in an addictive kinda way (yes, Lewellyn-Bowen of the poncy shirts and girly locks, I’m talking about you). Then, yesterday morning, the loss of a… however I describe her will sound either too sappy, or too complicated. My step-grandmother. A true force for goodness, without ever being forceful, not one jot. Gone. Leaves me with one grandparent out of eight, and that one doesn’t count, for reasons too weird and Catholic to go into. And no, I’m not, nor have I ever been, Catholic. Though in terms of bells, smells, art and architecture, if I were of a religious persuasion, which I’m not, I think that’s the way I’d go.

Anyway, number 3, yesterday evening I pulled up in the joint where I keep my bike, and discovered that the hoodie I bought in India, with the doodly faces up the sleeves was missing. Not in my bag, nor was it to be found on any part of my anatomy. No accidental turban, no bum-warmer. So I raced back over the bridge to the café where I’d been teaching. Nope, nothing. Messaged my students, to see if any of them might have noticed it, picked it up… all the while getting myself more and more worked up, and thinking about bad shit coming in threes, and how the last time someone in my family died (my mother) my motorbike was stolen, and the time before that (my Grandma, on Dad’s side) I was stranded in Beijing airport and kept missing planes because the security guys kept insisting on going through all my stuff… yeah, so all that was swirling around my stupid head, coz that’s just how my stupid head works – or rather, doesn’t, depending which way you look at it – and lo, all three of my students come online and assure me one of them have the dumb, precious hoodie. And I begin to defuse, calm down, stop being quite such an uptight moron.

So now the question remains, am I still on shitty thing 2, or have I had all three?

 

Or maybe I can count the Japanese student I teach online (one of three, what is it with that number?? Am I being stalked by a number? Haunted? Is this my comeuppance for quitting Maths at 16??), as part of my shitty-things tally? Because this guy drives me nuts as part of the natural course of things, by wanting me to do editorial work with him prattling in my ear (my Dad has been an editor all his life, and he wears noise-blocking headphones when he’s working, so maybe you see the difficulty), by insisting on screen-sharing, which means I have to narrate changes to him, rather than adjusting things myself, so sometimes I need to keep a whole, lengthy, technical sentence in my head, while still looking at the incorrect version, by expecting me to change my schedule to accommodate him, but refusing to do the same himself, hello, double-standards much? The list goes on. Infuriating. But where he used to just do that one hour a week, lately it’s been upped to two lessons a week… and this week, three. Which is all very well for my bank balance, less so for my sanity.

Rant over. Steam blown right off. Ehem, and sorry.

Calm. Now I am going to do my calm and collected act, and if I can keep it up for more than 10 minutes, I might even start to believe it.

Tonight, goat take three. I’m going with a greek-style lamb marinade this time, on the premise that the two are quite similar. It’s currently chilling out in a facial of lemon zest and juice, garlic, oil, dried oregano and a bit of salt. Then I’m gonna stuff and roll the bugger, brown it off, chuck it in the oven and see what happens. Roasting, one would hope.

Goat was, in fact, meant to have happened last night, but due to the aforesaid trauma, and after making up a batch of milk tea… an attempt to replicate the rose and honey ambrosia I had in Taiwan, and a bit of moonshine action, aka homemade Baileys, I simply wasn’t up for broaching, roasting, or anything-elsing the goat.

For anyone remotely interested in my fictional drivel, more steampunk.

Feet Onna Ground, Shifty Runty and Sneakin’ an’ Spyin’ inna Skies

Allus onna ground, both feet firm there, an’ nivver onna mech-horses’r ships she done spent ‘er life fixin’. On’y time she ever rid or flew was courtesy o’t’pipe, an’ real as pipe dreams feel, she ain’t such a fool as believes they really is.
‘Ceptin’, now it really is. Real. ‘Ard t’believe, sure, this many airships at dock t’gether, an’ t’whole damn city crawlin’ wi’ marines ‘n masses o’ troops, gettin’ underfoot an’ eatin’ an’ drinkin’ London’s ev’ry larder, cellar, inn an’ tavern dry, under alla colours y’care t’name.
She’s partway frough loadin’ York’s swagged up mech, mainly t’mech-horses, but also them new self-propellin’ guns on wheels, so new they don’ even have a name jus’ yet, plus t’hawk-clock-works anna nasty bits’n pieces wot fit t’gether t’make digger. Round ‘er, other men’s pilin’ in ‘splosives, powder, alla stuff y’need t’make t’wide world go bang.
An’ she’s gonna see it, too. She been promoted, like. She’s got ‘er an insignia, on’er brand new armoured coat, declares she’s t’Master o’ Mech fer York’s contingent.
An’ tha’s all the Ol’ Sod knows. Leastways it better be, or she ain’t just in t’shit soup, she is t’shit soup, a great sloppin’ bowl full. If ‘ee knows. Which ‘ee don’t. An’ best keep it tha’ way.
Means she gotta be watchin’ her back six ways t’Sunday, ev’ry hour, ev’ry day. Ferget shut-eye, an’ don’ dare go so near as sniffin’ distance of no pipe-den.
Though last time she was a deal closer than sniffin’, well, turned out right ad-van-tage-us. For her, that is. Less so fer ol’ Know-All Tommy Clarence. But then, that’ll be one fing as ‘ee don’ know, power t’her.
‘Oi, yous! Yeah, yous!’ bloody li’l sod turnin’ round slow, wi’ his box clutched in ‘is skinny fingers, inna gloom o’t’hold. Damn ignoramus. S’wot ‘appens when y’jus’ get any grunt offa street t’do t’dirty. Not as she complainin’, as such. Awright, yeah, actually, she is. Complainin’. At top o’her voice, so they know who’s boss, right. ‘Not so close’ta them gun part fingamies, right? You wanna ‘splode t’whole darn fleet or wot?’

Dumb kid shakes ‘is ‘ead, not a word in ‘is gap-toof mouf, like ‘ee’s nivver seen a damn girl afore, is wot.
‘They’s loadin’ t’powder n’artill’ry bizniz over there, idjit!’ she points. ‘Ee follows ‘er finger wi’ ‘is runty face, like a new kid inna fact’ry, gawpin’ at’t floor manager an’ t’whoppin’ machine as that there gent’s a-signalin’ to.
‘Right.’ All ‘ee says, on’y it sound more like roight, t’way she sound ‘erself. So she wonders, curious-like. There’s plenty folks as say wot curiosity go round killin’ cats, but she ain’t got where she be t’day wi’out it, an’ she ain’t no cat.
She steps closer. Lasso o’chords still gripped around ‘er fist. ‘Where y’from, Runty? You anuvver one wot t’Ol’ Man done scraped offa street?’
Coz keep yer friends close an’ yer enemies closer. She done learnt that recent-like. From yer man Aerono Hal, is all. Jus’ t’damn infernal big man hisself.
Hauled ‘er in from t’den. Where she’d been entertainin’ yer man Tommy Clarence. Turned out ‘ee couldn’ ‘old ‘is smoke, is all, an’ weren’ tha’ an’ int’restin’ turn o’events. She’d been sat there near on two hours wi’ol’ Tommy boy, ‘im bangin’ on, like a carpenter onna deadline, bout Aerono Hal this an t’Company that, an’ she were startin’ t’see why some people look down on den-hauntin’ scum. Iffin’ she ever done flapped ‘er jaws like that Tommy boy when ‘ee was good an full o’smoke, might as well take ‘er sorry arse down ‘docks an’ jump, an’ ‘ope t’hell nobody don’ get all goody goody an’ drag ‘er good-fer-nuttin’ bones out a jiff too soon. All she’s sayin’.

Turned out as Aerono Hal were more ‘n’passin’ int’rested in wot ‘is gasbag brother ‘ad t’say, an’ say, an’ say. All that dross bout as how Aerono Hal, ‘is brother, weren’t runnin’ t’CoD inna best int’rests o’t’ nation, an’ how this gripe wi’China jus’ hadta end in blood’n’tears, no question, an all coz ‘is brother felt so damned insecure as ‘ee ‘ad to go an’ prove ‘isself t’the entire bliddy world wi’ all guns blazin’.
You’d o’ thunk ‘ee’d a watched ‘is idjit mouf, wot wi’ t’Butcher Engine’s mucky work that fresh in ‘is mind, but then agin, she knows as ‘ow t’pipe do dampen wot’s real, an’ weren’t that jus’ t’very reason she’d done wanted a smoke ‘erself, afore she got ‘erself saddled wi’ that lady’s blouse loud-mouf Tommy Clarence.
‘An she were jus’ fin’ly gettin’ shot o’ ‘im, wot wi’ ‘im driftin’ and sinkin’ under a heavy fog o’ opium-eater dreams, when some scallywag clerk nobbled ‘er. Fin’ly on ‘er way ‘ome, on’y then it seemed as she weren’ goin’ ‘ome after all, on account o’ yer man Aerono done decided wot ‘ee wanted t’pleasure of ‘er comp’ny. ‘An iffin she were a darn sight tired o’ givin’ out ‘er comp’ny t’these highfalutin gents like some skank whore, though come t’think on it, they CoD coves,bet they only let yer top-notch broads in spittin’ distance of their sausages’n’eggs, anyroad, no matter how whorish sick o’t’pack o’em she were, on’y a starin’ simpleton wi’sewer stew f’brains would tell Aerono ‘Tic’ Hal t’take a giant leap where the sun don’ shine.
So she went. Round t’back way, t’goods entrance, yer clerk actin’ all shifty-like, not cut out fer such larks, an’ right uncomf’table in t’shabby clothes wot ‘ee’d got up fer a disguise.

S’gonna be double t’workload, reportin’ t’both swells. An’ that on top o’ duties as Master o’ Mech t’York. Might be she could use a piece o’help. She looks Runty up’n down. Still waitin’ on ‘is answer. ‘Friends close n’enemies closer. Ya ‘eard o’ that in yer life?’ she asks ‘im, length o’ cord slappin’ ‘er thigh as she sticks ‘er fists in ‘er ‘ips. Feelin’ a might like ‘er old Ma now, bless ‘er.
‘Nah. Where I come from, reckon it’s more like, keep ev’ry folk outa pistol range.’
‘Smart mouf on ya, an’ mebbe a smart policy. An’ where that be then, where ya gots t’keep bodies so far off?’
‘T’north.’
‘C’n ‘ear that much from list’nin t’yer stupid gob. Try agin, Runty.’
T’kid looked at ‘is feet. Shuffled ‘em, like ‘ee was stood onna skid o’ice. Then turned up ‘er face an’ looked at ‘er, shifty-like. ‘Wot’s it worth?’
Ed flips ‘er wrist at ‘im. ‘Not much, blatant-like, iffin yous so ashamed you don’ dare say it. Wot, whelped inna Jacks was ya? Ferget I asked. I got me better shit t’do.’

An she goes t’turn away, coz tha’s the way t’win a bargain, any market or street-side seller y’like. Put on yer disint’trest like yous at t’card table, playin’ fer stakes as ‘ould clean ya out good n’proper if ya lost.
‘Awright, awright, Master Mech,’ from behind ‘er inna gloom. She turns. ‘Was unner Rich Cambridge, iffin ya gotta know.’
She raises her brows, less t’shock t’kid was obviously anticipatin’, more a well well well of an expression, jus like ‘er ol’ Ma agin, the thought flits through ‘er ‘ead. Gotta watch that.
‘T’Ol Man scrape you up from ‘is good-fer-nuttin’ brovver’s leavin’s did ‘ee? An’ ‘ow’s we s’posed t’know ya ain’t as bent as that traitor Cam, eh?’
‘Don’ much matter wotcha think, do it?’ Runty gives a shrug, looks like a bunch o’bones shufflin’ theirselves inta a more comf’table position like. ‘Yer ain’t t’bossman, is ya? Leastways, not’ta me.’

‘So says you. Don’ know much, do ya.’ She thrusts ‘er chin at ‘im. ‘An’ mebbe it’s better that way. ’Ear no evil speak no evil, eh Runty? Well, go on then. Bout yer bizniz, an’ keep yer pointy nose clean, eh?’
An’ she turns back t’windin’ an’ stowin them cords, sure she’s gotta hook in ‘im, an’ can jus’ reel ‘im in, nice n’sweet, in ‘er own time. Time there’ll be aplenty, wot with this whole fleet bound fer Canton. Days n’ days n’days. Nuttin’ like a bitta sneakin’ an’ spyin’ to kill alla them dead hours inna sky. An’ given as she won’ be t’on’y one bored outa ‘er skull, she reckons there’s a good chance yer CoD gents’ll be restless, an’ betcher life, up t’enuff no-good to keep ‘er busy. She c’n feel Runty out, get ‘im onside, alla better. Any damn body wot worked fer that Cam might not be the trustworthiest, but sure as ‘ell is ‘ot, they’ll know their way around t’game.

Death Dogs

Death dogs her.

Canines sunk

Beneath her scalp.

Under the kemo-fur,

A cancer-chunk

A tumour-whelp.

 

What to feel

What is left

In the conflicted mud

The unhealed weal

Bereft

Because of tainted blood.