Those Who Cannot Remember the Past..
.. are condemned to repeat it.
Or, in other words, try reading this news article about Switzerland banning minarets, replace the words "minaret" with "synagogue" and "Muslim" with "Jewish" and then ask yourself what it reminds you of? A simple semantic trick, but a very useful one.
Meanwhile, I have become slightly addicted to Galaxy Zoo. When Earth becomes a bit too much, it's nice to disappear into space. Literally.
A Strong Brown God (And Soup)
I do not know much about gods; but I think that the river
Is a strong brown god—sullen, untamed and intractable,
Patient to some degree, at first recognised as a frontier;
Useful, untrustworthy, as a conveyor of commerce;
Then only a problem confronting the builder of bridges.
The problem once solved, the brown god is almost forgotten
By the dwellers in cities—ever, however, implacable.
Keeping his seasons and rages, destroyer, reminder
Of what men choose to forget. Unhonoured, unpropitiated
By worshippers of the machine, but waiting, watching and waiting.- TS Eliot; from "Dry Salvages"; Four Quartets.*
The flood season has begun, in other words. Just south of the Scottish border, a policeman is currently missing as a bridge collapses in the floods. Early this morning I went for a walk along our nearby river, The Kelvin. I have never never seen it this high, although I know one of its bridges was swept away in a flood years back.
On the second photo you can see a bench where I sometimes sit knitting on sunny weekend afternoons. Not much chance of that happening right now! If we get any more rain, I think the pathways around the Kelvin are likely to be closed off. Luckily the river runs in a gorge, so there are no immediate threats to buildings in this area.
As you can imagine it has really been dreich lately so last night I made a warm, delicious soup:
Sweet Potato & Chilli Soup (serves an army of six)
1 red onion, roughly chopped
1 red chilli, de-seeded and roughly chopped
2 large carrots, diced
3 garlic cloves, peeled and roughly chopped
2 big sweet potatoes, peeled and cut into walnut-sized chunks
2 cups of veg stock (or more, see instructions)
½ tin of coconut milk
½ tsp of cayenne pepper
1 tsp of ground cumin
salt to taste (amount really depends upon the type of stock you use)
1 tbsp of olive oil
optional extras: handful of shredded cheese and dash of paprika
1. Heat the oil and add onion, garlic, chilli, cayenne pepper and cumin. Cook for about 5 min. at medium heat. Add carrots and cook until onion softened. Add sweet potato chunks. Add as much stock as will cover the veg. Put lid and cook until all veg have softened. This will take about 25-30 minutes.
2. Blend the soup - try to aim for a consistency between super-smooth and chunky. Take care you do not splash any of the hot soup on yourself (she says looking at her left hand). Add coconut milk and stir until well-mixed. Serve in bowls with some good rustic bread on the side. I put some shredded (lacto-free) cheese on top and dressed it with a dash of paprika, but I can be a bit poncy at times.
Substitutions etc: I used coconut milk because I'm lactose intolerant. You could easily use double cream, natural yoghurt or regular milk instead. If using milk/cream, you could also add a tin of chopped tomatoes and use basil and marjoram instead for a slightly more Mediterranean taste. Instead of sweet potato you could use butternut squash or even pumpkin. The sky's the limit.
(*Or, as someone said earlier this week: "water is patient".)
The Connection Is Made
Sitting here in dark, rainy Scotland does not feel so bad, when I look at the Danish Budget for 2010. Among all the talk about a new super-hospital and whatnot, the government is now going to offer non-Western immigrants up to £12,000 for giving up their legal residency and returning "home". The Budget also includes £500,000 to mark overseas Danish cultural heritage - particularly the former slave colonies of Ghana and The West Indies. At the risk of sounding cryptic: Denmark is now what the Daily Mail wants Britain to become.
In more personal news, my aunt died this week and my family attended her funeral in rural Denmark today. Although she was a distant relative of mine - I think I met her four or five times - I am very sad on behalf of her siblings, her daughter and her grandson. Rest in peace.
And while I was pondering writing about my life and how it has changed these past ten years, I have decided against doing so. I am amused to note, though, that the Noughties are bookended by me sitting in a dreich Scottish city during November lamenting the lack of double-glazing and proper heating. In 2000 I sat in Stirling (also known as "Hellmouth" - after living there I swore I'd never return to Scotland) and here in 2009 I am sitting in Glasgow. I hope to finish the next decade sitting somewhere warm and sunny. Ha.
Finally, Other Half and I watched a snippet of a BBC programme last night about the Orient Express. We decided that a jolly little train trip would be good fun at some point in the not-too-distant future and today I checked just how much such a jolly little train trip would set us back. £3,700 for the both of us for a jolly little train trip lasting maybe 36 hours and not including any extra frills. I think we may need to rethink that holiday idea.
Twenty Years Ago Today
Twenty years ago today my mother woke me up early. She was crying. Last time she woke me up crying, Olof Palme had just been assassinated. This time, though, my mother's tears were not angry, horrified and sad tears. She was crying with joy. The Berlin Wall had fallen.
I went to school that day. My teachers cancelled all our scheduled classes and were bust talking amongst themselves. My German teacher - the great-grandson of Paul Gauguin, by the way - sat us down to watch news reports coming in from West Germany. I still recall another teacher crying in the school yard. She was part-German. Today I suspect her German family might have fled here from the East as they never visited any of their relatives until the early 1990s.
Today it is difficult to explain what life were like before the end of the Cold War. I lived in Denmark, a small country just north of both East and West Germany. Occasionally you'd hear stories about people escaping from East Germany across the southernmost Baltic Sea to southern Denmark. Occasionally you'd also hear about people travelling the opposite direction. Swedes were paranoid about Soviet submarines and Danes were paranoid about East German spies within Danish political ranks. I was just a child when it all changed but I could definitely tell something had changed. At school they stopped teaching us how to react in event of a nuclear war, for instance.
Twenty years ago today.
Mad, Bad & Orange To Know
Being ill has its benefits. Last time I was stuck in bed for more than two days in a row, I ploughed through Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell which I had previously failed to get into (the plot starts unfolding one-third through the novel). This time around I am knitting whilst listening to podcasts on John Milton (interesting) and Ezra Pound (dull and I even mouthed 'WRONG' at my ipod at one point).
I'm knitting with my bright orange 2-ply baby alpaca (yes, the colour is accurate in the photo). It is underspun, rather fragile and almost angora-like soft. And I'm knitting Percy, a pattern which I have previously attempted to knit. I'm now halfway through my second repeat of the dastardly Chart B and I might add in another repeat before doing the edging chart, just to make the shawl a bit bigger. It almost seems a shame to knit an intricate pattern in fuzzy yarn, but the process knitter in me actually Does Not Care. It'll be a mad, colourful and warm shawl - and I will have conquered Chart B. That is all that matters.
I am still ill, alas, but I think today I will actually get dressed!
And here's a little news story which may cheer you up:
Rumors of a city of 25,000 lesbians have led hordes of men to contact Swedish tourist authorities and swamp the nation's Internet providers. Chinese media especially have spread the tale of “Chako Paul City,” supposedly founded in 1820 in northern Sweden by a man-hating widow who banned males, reports Australia's Daily Telegraph. Inhabitants then turned to lesbianism “because they could not suppress their sexual needs,” goes one recent account in China’s Harbin News service. Swedish tourist authorities are baffled. “I've no idea where this came from, but it's not true," said a spokesman. “At 25,000 residents, the town would be one of the largest in northern Sweden, and I find it hard to believe that you could keep something like that a secret for more than 150 years.”
(I cannot remember how I came across it - if it's via you, please let me know so I can credit)
I Am An Immigrant
Last night the leader of the British National Party was part of the panel on a BBC politics programme. I was glad he got the chance to be on the panel. Last time I checked Britain was a democracy with free speech and I thought it just that the leader of the BNP got a chance to speak his mind.
I am an immigrant. I have been thinking of getting a t-shirt going "This Is What an Immigrant Looks Like". Maybe if I start wearing it, people will tell me why I’m wrong to be in the UK, why my presence is destroying Britain, just how I'm shattering social cohesion and in what way I'm inciting hatred. Also, I'd like to know why people want me to leave the man I love and thus ruin the life we have built together. If I wear my t-shirt, maybe the leader of the British National Party could tell me how my genetic make-up differs from his and why this alleged genetic difference makes me unwelcome in Britain in his eyes.
Earlier this month I was speaking with Anna about immigration and British politics. Our conversation made me wonder about the people who choose to become immigrants - that is, people like me - and whether we share a certain mentality or set of characteristics?
It takes a lot to uproot yourself from where you grew up and go live another country. It is not easy; it is not something you 'just do'. Once you are in that other country, you have to learn everything a-new. When do the banks open? Where do you go to buy electric bulbs? How do you get a library card? What is the difference between the various supermarkets? What's my clothes size? All this assumes that you are already fluent in the local language - if not, then you have to start learning that language or, in my case, get to grips with a particular local dialect.
I love living in Britain but it has been a long, labourious process getting to this stage. I love the beautiful landscapes with mountains and glens. I love being able to buy the books and records I want straight off the shelves rather than having to order them from abroad. I love tiny, unexpected things like bunting, rich tea biscuits, finding Roman coins, and Christmas stockings. But I still miss aspects of Denmark and I suspect I always will.
Ah, that reminds me of something which caused a kerfluffle among Danes yesterday (most people did not know whether to laugh or cry): Oprah Tours a Typical Danish Home. Because ALL Danes live like that. Uh huh. Absolutely. Yup.
Now I'm off to make myself some milky tea and some toast (how utterly radical of me!). I hope you have a lovely day no matter who you are and where you live. And be nice to your fellow human beings.
And They Lived Happily Ever After
.. and they lived happily ever after - they being the knitter and her own Liesl.
I frogged a scarf I knitted last year but only wore twice and miraculously I got an entire top out of my three re-purposed skeins of Noro Iro. Liesl is a magical pattern, I think.
Right now I'm really using knitting as means of escape from a very, very busy life. I cannot write about the things that are happening as I have vowed to keep certain aspects of my life separate from this blog, but I am currently facing a workload which is causing me to a) freak out slightly, b) stress and worry a lot and c) have brain-freezes. I wish I could pick up a book and escape, but my head is not in that sort of space at the moment.
So I knit. I knit a lot.
Earlier this year I was told to relax by watching trashy TV and reading crap books. I've finally taken those words on board and so I'm watching a lot more TV - whilst knitting, of course - than I usually do. This has lead me to conclude that FlashForward is very bad; that True Blood is very interesting; that Merlin is very silly, has pretty art direction and occasionally sports hidden depths; and that I have very little patience for reality TV (bar BBC's MasterChef which Other Half watches religiously).
In other news, the most despicable "newspaper" in the UK - the Daily Mail which does not deserve a link - has published a poisonous article on the death of boyband singer Stephen Gately of Boyzone (BBC link). I read the homophobic article itself earlier today before the Daily Mail found it necessary to edit it. In the words of the Guardian's Charlie Brooker (and his entire column is magnificent):
The funeral of Stephen Gately has not yet taken place. The man hasn't been buried yet. Nevertheless, Jan Moir of the Daily Mail has already managed to dance on his grave. For money.
It has been 20 minutes since I've read her now-notorious column, and I'm still struggling to absorb the sheer scope of its hateful idiocy. It's like gazing through a horrid little window into an awesome universe of pure blockheaded spite. Spiralling galaxies of ignorance roll majestically against a backdrop of what looks like dark prejudice, dotted hither and thither with winking stars of snide innuendo.
I hope Gately's husband and family sues the hell of Daily Mail. And I hope that other advertisers follow Marks & Spencer's example and withdraw their advertising money from the Mail. It is not the first time the Daily Mail angers me (in fact, you could set your clock by how often I feel personally insulted) but this is truly gobsmacking vicious.
Ah, a blog entry which is all over the place. And all I meant to say was that I really do love my new top and that I'm knitting a lot at the moment. The fact that this turned into a bit of a rant should give you a clue as to how stressed I am.
Pax.
If It’s Saturday, It Must Be Random
You take approximately 750g of ripe elderberries (rinsed and de-stalked, natch), 200g of granulated sugar, two table spoons of lemon juice, two diced cooking apples and about 2 pints of water. Stick 'em in a pan and boil until you've squeezed every last drop of goodness from the elderberries. This should take about ten minutes.
(Remember to remove the pink foam that will form on top of the boiling goodness.)
Then strain your elderberry juice through a clean tea towel (it will stain your tea towel!), dice another three cooking apples and put them into the elderberry juice, boil until apples are cooked (and add sugar and lemon juice to taste - usually I don't see the need, though).
Serve hot in a mug with a spoon to fish out those delicious apple bits. It's toe-curlingly wonderful stuff.
Meanwhile, on the knitting front, I have been working on a pair of fair-isle fingerless gloves to match my autumnal hat. I'm two rows away from finishing one glove and I think I will leave it at that.
It is not that it is not pretty. It is not that it is not a quick knit (each glove takes less than two evenings worth of knitting time). It is not that I do not have enough yarn. I am just not feeling it, baby.
Granted, the fit is awkward (slouchy where I'd prefer snug) and I have issues with the pattern (such as increases not fitting with the colourwork). But I could deal with that - ripping out the excess fabric and adjusting the increases - if I knew I'd wear the finished gloves. But I'm pretty sure I won't. The hunt is still on for autumnal gloves, then.
Finally, a few links:
- I want this bathroom.
- I want one of these hats (and generally want more people to wear hats!)
- Scientists draw squid using its fossilised ink. Amazingly cool.
- Scotland's oldest robbers are, of course, local boys.
- While the UK condemns ring-wing groups, something is still rotten in the state of Denmark.
- Finally, if you are able to use BBC's iPlayer, I recommend Peter Capaldi on Scottish portrait painting and the first episode of Tweed, a docu-soap about Harris Tweed. For someone who claims not to watch much TV, I have been watching quite a bit lately..
The Best Little Country in the World?
What happened to churches as places of sanctuary, Denmark? Was it really necessary to get combat-clad police to raid a church at 2am in the morning? Are leading politicians serious when they say "it was a lot more gentle to do the raid at night; imagine what a scene it would've caused by day" because being dragged from your bed at night by SWAT teams attacking you with batons does not strike me as being particularly gentle.
I'm disgusted, I'm angry and I'm deeply, deeply ashamed of being Danish. Yet again.
PS. I'm also very interested in learning where these people will end up as it has been made abundantly clear by the Iraqi government that they will not be admitting the refugees. For shame, Denmark, for shame.
It’s Friday, Isn’t It?
I appear to be having one of those days when coffee is keeping me upright. I'm working, let there be no doubt about that, but I'm also clutching my coffee cup like there is no tomorrow.
First, though, there is the Booker longlist. After a few years where the prize appeared to be a tiny bit lost, the year's longlist reads like the Hay Literature Festival programme: Sarah Waters, JM Coetzee, Hilary Mantel, AS Byatt, Colm Toíbin, William Trevor and Sarah Hall. Respectable, safe and commercially viable authors.
I used to rant against how the Man Booker Prize was held up as promoting the best and most exciting literary fiction around and how big a sham this notion was - but I think that nowadays the public has seen through the "best and most exciting" hype and expect solid, slightly conservative literary fiction from their Man Booker nominees (and the Man Booker seal of approval has certainly turned into something of a canonisation tool, hasn't it?). At any rate, I should get back to Byatt's novel and pick up Toíbin's Brooklyn - and promptly forget that I may have picked up another three Georgette Heyers..
Oh help me shopping gods, for I have fallen in love with this skirt at the same time as I suddenly have to find an extra £850 in my budget. I have also found Totally Buttons - a site feeding my button obsession (I do not need any more. I have just acquired even more vintage buttons).
Finally, on a very pleasant note: yesterday David and I celebrated four years together. The four years have been rollercoasterish, filled with adventures both good and bad, but we've always been very good together even if Life kept throwing us curve balls for a wee while. Here's to far more years together and hopefully they'll be a tiny bit more .. staid.
(Photo? Our local foxes and their cubs playing in the sunshine..)