VICTORY DRINK

 The elixir of life; the celebratory tonic; the Greek’s love potion; the seduction of bubbles leads to no other than Champagne.  Mention of the word offers many emotions, from conquering love to applauding victory.

From the first sip of Moët, victorious over the loss of my virginity; Charles Heidsieck Brut Réserve drunk atop Tehran Hilton’s bar, celebrating Pahlavi’s now forgotten dynasty; Pierrer Jouët sipped at my wedding; Veuve Clicquot over dinner under the Paris night sky after a romantic meandering through Pont Neuf crossing Jardin des Tuileries back to an inviting four poster bed at the George V;  GH Mumm at the Christening of our first born in an English countryside;  Tattenger imbibed at the no-longer Windows of World, now Ground-Zero as we glided down Trump Tower from a helicopter ride touring Manhattan; Nicolas Feuillatte Brut Rosé bubbled our lips when daughter was born in Micronesia; and back to Moët for our baby boy’s Christening in quaint and quirky Cheshire.

Seduction, sexual adventures leading up to procreation unashamedly points to my life’s journey with Champagne but do try to focus not on my sexual overtures but the brilliant Champagne propaganda evoking these emotions so that the victory over love, the toppling of empires and the enslaving of great minds do so by having these bubbles dance on your tongue, tantalizing your taste buds, promising and fantasizing those unreachable goals magically landing at your feet.

Bubble in coupe glasses or flute glasses.  Which one shows your lack of style or your chic elegance?  Champagne glasses of old known as the ‘coupe’ has a wide and shallow bowl.  Legend has it that the ‘coupe’ glass was molded from Marie Antoinette’s left breast, as she wanted her court to toast her health by drinking from glasses shaped like her bosom.   Sex and champagne seems always to go hand in hand even from ‘let them it cake’ days.

The Champagne Flute is tall, thin bowl with a long sophisticated stem encapsulating those fizzy bubbles with elegance.  It allows the bubbles to congregate and quickly rise to the top of the glass.  The first sip explodes and as it washes down, magical fantasies slowly conjure the mind and so many desires readily unfold.

With your next drop of Champagne celebrating whatever victory, remember it gulp by gulp as the sophistication and luxurious moment takes you wantonly into another realm.

                                                                  Saluté

BEAVER'S BUTT

Brucie the Blondie challenging Bernois with Braces and Bernie the Bagel.  

Anything refereeing to the ANUS emits a disgusting  “eeww” or a crinkling of the nostril affecting a malodorous pong.  But I can assure you that in the the course of a your daily food intake, you  have probably ingested the anus glands of a beaver on a daily basis; be it breakfast lunch or dinner.

The glands are milked to extract this fluid, and squirts out an annual collection of roughly 292 lbs per year.   This googey dark liquid is  FDA approved but it is not required to be listed as an ingredient on food items and instead is listed as “natural flavorings” instead.

What could this be, you may ask nervously, unsure whether to google this new factoid – it really isn’t new, humanoids have used this for as long as 80 years.   …… Let me not keep you in the dark, this anal gland of beavers is Castoreum.  It is either in Liquid form or  Extract used

“mainly in foods and beverages as part of a substitute vanilla flavoring”  quoted from Wikipedia.  

Vanilla is our stairway to the taste of paradise.  In a roundabout way, the scented vanilla swirling up your nostrils  as you bend down to have a morsel of pastry; the taste and aroma can transport you to many unremembered corners of your life.

Heavenly or not the only way to judge is to taste several brands of “default flavor” ice cream.   The “default flavor” is naturally Vanilla, hence we return to the “back-end” of the Beaver which doubtless for some will  produce wanton thoughts or  an immediate reaction of revulsion.    By way of gluttony, I have selected the world’s three top brands.

Dutch-sounding by name, but American by nature is Häagen-Dazs; the American know-how in diary products surpassing many other brands in the high-end stakes.  Jewish founder, Reuben Mattus from the Bronx, NY made a tribute to Denmark’s exemplary treatment of its Jews during the Second World War –  and  invented the "Danish-sounding" "Häagen-Dazs".  Sixty years in the making, they have begun phasing out  GMO  (Genetically modified Organism) and Castoreum is NOT one of them.

 

Swiss precision in watches can translate into ice cream believe it or not.  Known for Switzerland’s reputation as the birthplace of hospitality for over a hundred years, where the first palace-style hotels were built.  These grand hotels catered to an exclusive clientele of royalty, aristocrats and wealthy individuals lured by the Alps and alpine tourism.   Restaurants at these grand hotels dinning room offered delectable cuisine and  Mövenpick were suppliers of  ice cream  and other delectable delicacies. Making the ordinary into something extraordinary was and is their policy.  So Movenpicks incredible Vanilla is on the table to be judged.

 Coming from farm land, pastures green and pollution free, New Zealand’s Natural   is known for dairy superiority bringing the freshest and best ingredients.   It all began with a chance meeting in 1984…     While on a flight crossing the Tasman Sea, Rael Polivnick, founder of the company, met a New Zealander whose wife loved ice cream but was allergic to any artificial colourings or flavourings. As he sought for ways that could allow his wife to indulge in her favourite frozen treat, the distraught New Zealander eventually came up with his own recipe using only the finest and freshest ingredients to make the ice cream.  

The challenge is on.  Australasia contending with the Alpine vs the Bronx;  getting you in the mood for fun it is like the equivalent of:

Brucie the Blondie challenging Bernois with Braces and Bernie the Bagel.  

Blind folded by my trusted friend, each spoonful was placed in my mouth savouring the texture, sensation, sweetness, vanilla  flavor,  and the aroma wafting through the icy cold vapour.

The first sensation not unlike shaving cream – although never eaten shaving cream, but I did once kissed a man while he was shaving - the morning after the ecstatic night before.  The  cream and sugar beaten with all the universal-oxygen - left a very foamy emptiness sweetened unnaturally sending a clacky feeling at the back of the throat.  A ring of disappointment.   Vanilla yes, aromatic not so much.  Although it did send memories of that special morning; shaving cream and all…… 

My second spoonful was a definite improvement,   Very creamy and rich, it did fall heavily on the thick diary side imparting much sugary sweetness,  A reminder this time of my first Paris experience of eating a phallic shaped ice-cream without a spoon.  Dexterity, experience and hunger allowed me to devour every drop without  dribbling as evidence of  a satiated diner.     Although chocolate; inside was vanilla - I swear.


The third sinful spoonful managed to take me to the seventh layer of heaven.  The combination of cream sugar and eggs and the beaver butt made me realize all along that this was the taste I was haunted by since that very sinful day in Blackpool, Lancashire in the United Kingdom many summers ago.   Although I don't have to fly to UK, when urgings rumble, I can honestly say Haagen Dazs imitates Nostriani's extremely well and cravings abated.
 
 
We shared and devoured the third  ice-cream, both knowing which one came up tops.  As I have always thought, expensive never guarantees the best; cheap is always cheap for a reason but dollar for dollar, my Jewish –Danish concoction Bernie from the Bronx, alias Haagen Dazs took the prize.  

The meter in which to judge comes from Nostriani’s Ice Cream In Blackpool.  They only make Vanilla Ice-cream; no other flavors and now into their third and fourth  generation,  the granddaughter is  running this superb ice cream parlour.   If you venture to the North West of the United Kingdom; take a detour to Blackpool seaside and visit Notriani.   Since 1937, through WWII, with its sugar ration, losing their men to Hitler’s dominance, Luigi Notriani, an Italian immigrant has managed to keep his recipe intact and produce the most devastating Vanilla Ice Cream, beaver or no beaver.

Bubble Chucks, a satisfied customers says it all:  There is ice-cream and then there is Notarianni's ice-cream. We visited earlier this week during a trip to the north of England. We chose to have it unencumbered by sprinkles and sauces. It is creamy, flavoursome and oh so unctuous and moreish.

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THE KING OF CURRIES - That make men swoon for love

Despite the sensitive subject of Muslims and Islam in todays chaotic turmoil, that any fatal incident involving explosions, get smeared with abject hate for them.  Seemingly those using little or no intellectual analytical thought process; let us leave those with twisted turmoil behind, and talk about a wondrous Islamic dish that the Thais brought over and now call it their own.  

The  King of Curries, as CNN.Go calls Massaman  Curry,  made its mark of the best 50 dishes of the world and ranked it No. 1 – every Thai restaurant in Thailand has made it on their “special” menu.   Living here made it easy to sample these different versions of the King of Curries.

Massaman or matsaman is not a native Thai word. It is generally thought to refer to the Muslims, with earlier writers from the mid-19th century calling the dish "Mussulman curry"; Mussulman being an archaic form of the word Muslim.   This dish originated in the 17^th Century at the cosmopolitan court of Ayuthaya.   The Persian Merchant by name of  Sheik Ahmad Qomi, was thought to have brought this dish; from whose decedents were the Thai noble family of Bunnag.

Such was its mouthwatering, exquisite mixture of tastes, a poem was written at the end of the 18^th Century crediting its author, Prince Itsarasunthon of Siam, later became King Rama II. Dedicated to the beautiful Princess Bunrot, who later became Queen Sri Suriyendra,  his wife, the poems extolls its delectable dish for those who merely swallow a soup-son yearn for her love.

Massaman curry made by my beloved, is fragrant of cumin and pungent spices. 

 Any man who has savored the curry is compelled to yearn for her.

มัสมั่นแกงแก้วตา หอมยี่หร่ารสร้อนแรง    ชายใดได้กลืนแกง แรงอยากให้ใฝ่ฝันหา

So smack your lips, salivate the spicey, coconutty, sweet and savory that wake up the taste buds; the combination of flavors has a distinctive personality of its own and the quest to find the perfect Massamun curry became a mission.  The flavors of the massaman curry paste come from spices that are not frequently used in other Thai curries.  The family’s cook, an aged aunt,  famous restaurants, although being grateful for their tips and secret recipes, their wondrous dish was overtaken when the chance to join  an epic culinary master class of the Department of Thai Gastronomy at Dusit Thani School; famous for the expertise in this field, jumping at the chance, for I love curries; and the possibility of making my man swoon with love, like the poem suggests; there was no hesitation.

A prepared tray with 15 ingredients, peeled and ready to chop, julienned, and sliced, I attentively focused on the star Chef, whose priority was to teach me every nuance, every instruction carefully memorized in my brain.  Using all my olfactory and gustatory senses, I am starting the journey of learning how to emulsify and bind paste made from many herbal plants.

First ingredient in the tray, dried red chillies cut-up thrown in a boiling wok of oil. Fried to crisp, the capsaicin seeds floating out plunging into the pungent smoke, sending molecules flying into the air immediately irritating and sensitizing  the lungs leading to coughing fits. While succumbing to this involuntary reaction,  and waiting for me to regain myself, the Chef  introduced a new quirky knowledge “that animals can run away from harm but plants have no way to protect themselves so they have evolved with irritating chemicals to keep hungry herbivores away.”   New facto for my frontal lobe.


Chillies cooked and drained, the sliced shallots, diced coriander roots, chopped lemon grass, julienned galangal and garlic are next in the frying pan.  Once the aroma spins you into hallucination, of perhaps a Marrakesh-souk mirage, the whole concoction placed in a blender with a bowl of roasted spices of mace, cardamom, cloves, cinnamon, pepper corn coriander seeds and cumin.  The liquidifying component to emulsify in the processor to a puree  is a cup of coconut milk, resulting in a paste ready to be stir fried in more oil blending it into a cream of heaven.

This is only the paste part, the curry is yet to be lovingly prepared.   Now’s the part I can pretend to be the voluptuous Nigella, pouring out cheeky flirtatious double-entendres, after all I am doing this with a purpose.  The poem stirs me on.

The sticky gooey paste, still warm and glistening from the whirring blades sends particles of aroma wafting the spacious stainless steel kitchen, made NOT to absorb smells but nevertheless settles in the air as the blender lid is prized open. 

By now into my second hour of instruction, I am intrigued that only phase one of three phases has passed.   The slow anticipation mounts.

In another pan, some smoke already emanating from hot oil when the paste is added to allow the infusion to amalgamate itself.  The sous-chef stirs and stirs; watching him almost dislocating his shoulder joints, the paste slowly darkens, stickier than before.  One sees his right bicep bulging as he stirs counter-clockwise. This eliminates the pain from the left bicep that had been going strong as if it was an all-nighter.

Second phase starts with a rousing, mounting tension when coconut milk is poured into a pot. Waiting for the oil within the milk to rise, it now can infuse better with the paste.  As soon as heavenly creamy paste hits the coconut milk the colour of orangey yellow hues start to form and while it splatters and boils, the third phase starts.   Chicken legs and thighs are then lowered, together with onions, potatoes, a handful of peanuts, sliced pineapple, palm sugar and smidgen of tamarind juice completes the flavors – all six flavors of salty, sweet, sour, astringent, bitter and pungent assaulted my taste buds and smacking my lips, I knew this was the dish, to ply my lover’s want.

My fruits of labour ready; the Chef agreed that I should take this home and see how I can feed this delectable concoction in many different ways, to keep the man from straying.  Much like The Arabian Nights  a collection of tales from the Islamic Golden Age, My Muslim Massamun , the secret weapon similar to Scheherazade’s storytelling preventing  the Sultan Shahrayar from killing a woman everynight, I feed a mere cupful of beef massamun one night, changing it to chicken, then lamb will keep his staying power at max –  never wanting to leave, so says the poem.

Memories

The sense of smell can unlock a forgotten memory, but the sense of taste evokes a chain of events that can bring an emotional remembrance of people past, stories long ago brought back in a flash.  And that was how my friend unknowingly touched the corners of my soul.

Welsh Rarebit

A cold miserable night in London, creeping downstairs whilst everyone was asleep, in the basement kitchen, my father and I made Welsh Rarebit together and bonded as fathers and daughters do.  He taught me about Lancashire cheese, mixed with mustard and egg yolk, spread on toast and grilled.  I have been fatherless for more years than I can remember, but in a instant I was back in that miserably cold kitchen filled with love, fun and adventure. With a dash of Worcestershire sauce, and a huge amount of advice on how to conduct myself like a lady, Lynda brought those exquisite memories back with one bite.

 Long long ago, a friend whose sole purpose, it seemed, was to connect my partner and I together, never got to see our union, our babies or our undying love for each other for she ended her life tragically.  A burden she carried, the culture she upheld led her to her decision.  On difficult days, my mind wonders to what would have been.  On days like today, the taste of Benedict Mints tells me she hovers around, making sure I stay strong for she loved these Mints.  At 18 trying to be mature with a sip of expresso and a bite of Benedicts captured a certain elegance I was trying to portray; she taught me grace. Lynda’s magic brought a touch of my friend back momentarily.

flapjacks to die for

Living the country life in the Cheshire planes, raising my children on sausage and chips and homemade plum jam; my Georgian house overlooked the cows grazing in the distant.   The kitchen allowed me to perfect my cooking skills and throughout those child-rearing years, I had my bribery drawer for good behavior.  This drawer was filled with English biscuits, toffee, fudge and my prized Flapjacks.  For those not in the know, Flapjacks are a sweet tray-baked oat bar made from rolled oats, butter, brown sugar and Lyle’s golden syrup. A pot of tea with a flapjack was the pick-me-up after running around with three children under 8.  Lynda’s Thomas J. Fudge chocolate covered flap jack snaps a moment in time of how I longed for these kids to grow up; now that they are; the flapjacks are like a magic-wand taking me back to laughing, giggling kids in their PJ’s ready for bed.

How did she know about Lewis & Rose’s hand made Orange & Burnt Almond chocolates – they were my mother’s favorite.  In one sweep of her magical fingers, Lynda enveloped those people that shaped me from my parents to my children, to the angel that hovers over me. 

A chance meeting in a local hair dresser was all it took, my South African friend.

Cheers!

A DATE A DAY keeps you functiong 24 hours

Until the next fix.

Originally from Persia, the desert dry weather tends to wrinkle the dark skin.  Once devoured, vitality is restored, stress relieved, nothing else is needed other than the memory it leaves knowing full well, that the next encounter will be as satisfying as today. 

The prized possession of Moroccan royalty; I will steal beg and borrow to consume one every night. 

Carrifi is who I have to thank for.   

 

Medjool is the name. 


Like honey, the juicy, luscious body sends serotonin to the brain and sufficiently makes me satisfied.  It can and sometimes replaces a man.

In ancient times, Medjool, the date palm fruit was considered God’s fruit; it so captivated Morrocan royalty that they hoarded it and only they and their families knew of its delicate, but satisfying taste.  At the turn of the century, a rare disease killed the beautiful palms of Morocco and only one Medjool producing oasis survived the attack.

Carrifi,  defied his countrymen by relocating eleven healthy palms, and thus the Medjool escaped total extinction. 

Biting through the paper-thin skin of a Medjool to the juicy sweetness of the flesh beneath, it seems impossible that anyone could not appreciate the wonders of dates. One of the "fruits of paradise" in Islamic tradition, mentioned in many Persian and Arabic tales; it was used to seduce men to capitulation with each bite.

Dried dates appeared in the medieval diet often in surprising dishes. From 1660’s, dates were turning up in sauces for meat and even fish, similar to tagines. The model was the Islamic school of cookery and Arab, Persian and Byzantine cookery had a huge impact on the cookery in the royal court.

So while Belgian chocolates do the trick in some areas of life – a little Persian delight emits a trailblazer of wanton imagination.  By way of igniting a super nuclear explosion, find a Morrocan to feed the first bite.

VELOCITY

One earth shattering phobia that has every orifice contract, dry up and curl in its wake, is my fear of heights.  One afternoon, finger pressed on “Buy” and miraculously my Amex Card gave me no alternative but to face my fear.   The trip was a present to myself.  As every psychologist knows, the way to heal yourself is to confront your fears. 

Its Sky diving in Perth, Australia is where my Amex card committed me.  No refund, only everyday until DDay was one anxious level increasing to its crescendo until the very last moment, trembling, I was on the ledge ready to  jump.  To everyone it sounds like a bucket list but in reality I wanted to do something extraordinarily against my will.   

Perth, Western Australia is a community of immigrants from Greeks to Vietnamese. Perth is a beautiful city, the sky is clear, the ocean inviting and the variety of wine choices beckoning.  Travelling  on the spur of the moment, impulsive actions gains spontaneity in life, my inner voice placating my already shaking nerves.  Tearing myself apart from Freemantle market, and the ordinary Perth life, I dabbled with my Maker.

A weekend of freedom, I hasten to add more excitement with the audaciousness of not telling loved ones of where I was going and even what I was doing.  I did look into my life insurance policy, and it did not cover Sky-diving.  Shrugging it off, it seemed in retrospect a very selfish undertaking.

Bruce, none other, picked me up at the airport.  His blond tuff, attractive golden skin came complete with a wash board stomach, only marred by his broad Aussie accent as I strained to understand his colloquialism.   Straight to my hotel with an early start before sunrise.

They talk about wind, about temperature, about velocity.   All of the talks just didn't hold.  I was oblivious.

My adventure was worth every penny spent, spell bounding but yet I still fear heights.  Lost in this thrilling excitement, my breaths were not deep, I had remind myself to take in more oxygen.

My sky diving Advertisement assured me anyone, young old, can experience the exhilaration:

"with the advances in design of the parachute, including HAHO (high altitude, high opening) chutes as well as smoke jumping chutes which open at very low altitudes, people of all ages, sex, size, and skill are jumping out of airplanes."

I opted for a tandem jump which leaves the professional (Bruce) in charge.  I was attached with him on a double harness.

The moment we belly jumped, my world of safe haven, my cocoon-like life did not exist - I was with Bruce and God.  The euphoria that comes about one VERY LONG minute into the ride cannot be described with superior adjectives.  It is your very being angrily fighting gravity, then seemingly floating, then, what does anything matter? The fear left me only momentarily with my heart pounding out of my mouth only to discover, a fatal heart attack mid-air could be a splendid way to depart.

Would I press repeat for annual gratification....the answer is NO.  Did I lose my fear of heights......the answer is NO.  Am I proud of my gungho-ness....the answer is YES.

TIME DILATION

Time dilation  -  Sensory deprivation  -  Gravitational deficit   -  Mind discovery

Cutting off from sound, sight, weightlessness, enveloped by water that doesn't drown; you are left with nothing but self evaluation for an hour. Nothing, but nothing, prepares you for sensory deprivation floating tanks.

For someone like me, nothing is worse than being motionless with no stimuli for sixty minutes in a confined space.  Just sitting still at the beauty salon for the weekly prerequisite grooming; of manicure, pedicure, waxing, hair trimming sends me to paroxysm of angst.

As a work-force product of this millennium of LCD stimuli, whether it be a laptop, smart phone, multi-faceted minutia of instant gratification, I am guilty of all of the above.  How is it possible to go through an hour-long confinement in a tank of Epsom Salt, meditative music and self-introspection?

Allow me to take you through this wondrous moment of time dilation.

 Showered and in my birthday suit, I gingerly lowered my body into the tub, holding on tight to the stainless steel handle as if the whole contraption was going to swallow me whole.  Light switched off, soft meditative music piped-in, I float in this 2ft deep water in total darkness.

Initially a wave of concern washes over me, but hell I’d sky-dived recently so step off the grid of fear and within seconds of the decision to trust this place, my neck muscles loosened, my back fell to the cushion of water and very soon the music stops.

I am alone with my thoughts; it has never been so stark that I even cannot hide behind my own subconscious.  Brainwaves, in and out, flashes of memories that dart backwards and forwards and from nowhere I have an image of a French adventure years ago with my daughter.   The images so real, the happiness welled in my heart.  Another flash of an equally happy time on a rooftop in Rome;  Chianti in one hand and gesturing with the other in my broken Italian under the night sky.

I could hear nothing but my own heartbeat, strong and rhythmic, gurgles of air, running down the tubes.  Aware of one’s own organs functioning is self assuring that all is in working order.  Breathing regular deep breaths, I am able to see the oxygen passing through the lungs, exchanging with the blood vessels and slowly in tune with my body, unafraid of my mortality.

And then the realization of the pulsating heart, the breathing, the gurgling all resembled the nine months I spent in my mother’s womb; so loving, so comforting, I could stay in this state of submerged amphibian life forever.  I was annoyed when the music piped-in again signaling my hour is up – it was only ten minutes ago, so it seemed …..this is time dilation that Annile conveyed.

Sometimes money spent on watches, an expensive and satisfying meal, a visiting international concert, or the essential brand handbag, does wonders for the ego, but surely loving yourself in this way truly gives the soul the glow it needs that can never be acquired elsewhere.

Thanks to Theta Float Centre and Annile who unknowingly gave me back my spiritual oneness.