Its the most wonderful time...

And suddenly its that time of the year where everything is all wintery and the streets are crammed with people armed with bags and bags of presents as well as even more determination, pushing past others trying to reach for that last object that would complete the list for the year.

OH and I have taken a pretty relaxed approach to shopping for each other. Internet shopping has made things so much easier, and we can order in advance and have things delivered to the in-laws, all wrapped up so we don't even have to make much of an effort, apart from last weekend when we went shopping for Christmas baubles, and Secret Santa presents for a lunch we were hosting the next day.

The premise was simple: each person would buy 2 gifts of 10 francs each, then there would be a ballot, and then each corresponding number would be given to the person who held said number. Simple! Although, the reality went along the lines of something more like this:

"Draw lots, determine order of person, open a present, then either open another present but then you could 'steal' someone else's present. Said present can only be stolen a maximum of 3 times, and it can be stolen back, but not in the proceeding round. Next person can 'steal' the previous person's present, and the previous person would then have the option to open another present, or wait the next round to open 2."

For my part, I paid scant attention and just kept refilling my glass of wine, lamenting the 2 expensive baubles I suspect OH had broken deliberately because of the Swarovski crystals on them. For not paying attention, I ended up with a pen with a naked man, some magnets and some pretty cool ice shot glasses. OH ended up with some delicious chocolates which everyone finished before the game was over.

The aftermath of that Christmas lunch is still reliving itself through random discoveries of an empty glass here, a greasy tray there. Hopefully, when we go away, the fairy on the top of the tree will wave her wand and make it all disappear. Or, since we couldn't find a fairy, and all Swiss top of the tree ornaments look like minaret covers (ironically), another fairy will be certain to be doing it instead.

Merry Christmas you jolly lot.

Long overdue

Blogging, is dead, according to my secret online hero North Morgan, or more commonly known to those out there as London Preppy. Yet he continues, less for the growing following of those who 'come for the pictures, and stay for the words', but more because he wants to, and does it very well. He seems shy and retiring, but looks like he should be a model, and at the same age as myself, already has a book published, touted to be the next Catcher in the Rye.

He is one of those impossibly good looking people (in the sense of the gay asthete) who you wish you could meet, and dazzle them with your words of wisdom, or your (apparent) weariness in the world, coupled with anecdotes or throwaway comments (and have them adore you in return). Yet you realise that it is all an act, not just because you want someone else to find you interesting, but because you secretly hope to be interesting yourself.

In this case, myself.

Today I have come back from work after a weekend interlude in Venice with OH. It was nothing short of perfect: the scenic approach into Venice, the unstaged drop-off in front of lots of tourists at one of the busiest stops in Venice, the nonchalant strolling off the pier towards the hotel.

Together, OH and I had a wonderful weekend visiting the Biennale, catching exhibitions and dining out sumptuously. Good conversations were had, and laughs aplenty. However, at one point, amongst all the creativity and beauty and love, I felt a bit lost. I'd been carrying on towards my goal of success for such a long time, and now that I felt that I was almost there, I wondered if I'd actually lost focus on what I wanted to do ultimately. That, however, opened another can of worms, in no particular order:

1. Many moons ago I wanted to write, then the blog came along to indulge my fantasies. The vanity accompanying self publication, read by a few of your closest friends, and if perchance, someone else online, was euphoric. I'd sacrificed close friendship developed in the latter years of university with thinly concealed personas of my housemates, which led to some uncomfortable exchanges, especially the description of 'Medusa-like' hair. Words were had, the blog assumed a new form. It's had a few incarnations since, but nevertheless, its never really encapsulated what I really think or feel given those out there who do know me.

2. A restaurant has always been an interesting angle. Being, however, the control freak that I am, does not necessarily translate well. I want full control over front of house, and the dishes I create which, honestly, only my acquaintances know of and despite the exaltations, I am aware that taste is subjective. This leads to a memory of a situation where once I cooked paëlla for an ex, who declared it horrible and proceeded to make himself a ham sandwich. I threw the entire pot, including contents into the bin, and continue to regret throwing a thoroughly practical pot away. It was an indication in hindsight that the pot was a metaphor for the relationship, and that I should have jacked it in a long time ago.

3. I have in my apartment a number of black and white photos which I'd taken with an old manual camera, and developed myself. This was probably the earliest vanity project I'd ever embarked on, and to date has the most lasting presence. The grainy pictures staring back moodily, the subjects staring at me through non-focussing stares, the paper yellowing gently as a reminder of time. A friend once asked me why I'd stopped taking pictures. My reply was 'with a digital camera and photoshop, anyone can do it.'. This is the most defeatist statement to date but I still cannot get myself to combat the apathy surrounding it.

To rectify this dilemma, I have taken a quarter of a Xanax, which will provide me with vivid dreams, and no answer. I feel, however, that I will be lucid enough in the morning to focus on the pile of shite known as work to get me through the day, and the promise of more alcohol to get me through the rest of tomorrow night.

Rinse, and repeat.

Apologies for the disruption in service

It has been quite full of happenings in the Simian realm, but service will resume in the next few days with a post on food and friends.

On micro-scooters

I remember back in 2000 these micro-scooters became all the craze in London. My ex boyfriend suggested that he get one and wheel around on it in the city to get to work so as to be environmentally friendly. That he lived on a hill and would only have to roll down seemed like quite an easy way to get places until I pointed out that he would have to hunch over to grab the handles, and having to lug the thing back up the hill would soon see the contraption consigned to the back of the closet.

A year later, the micro-scooter reached a new pinnacle of cool when it was immortalized in Zoolander as used by Hansel (he's so hot right now). There is a scene where he kicks off on his micro-scooter, and somehow when dismounting manages to snap the whole thing together and slung on his back in one cool, deft movement. Cue: a legion of copycats, few who succeeded, even more failing and breaking fingers, sustaining bruises, taking out anyone in a 30m radius, and generally looking like twats in the process. Thus, the micro-scooter gradually disappeared from the streets of London.

Fast forward to 2007. I arrive in Geneva, and see a whole new legion of micro-scooter users. These range from the children all the way to the 74 year old granny who scooted into the post office on one. I discussed this with OH at the beginning who confidently told me that the Swiss were a bit behind in some trends and fads, and we would soon see the back of these pavement menaces. I sincerely hoped so as it seemed to be an infestation of micro-scooters everywhere, rolling through the parks, by the lake, down the hills, across dog-shit. Even the clientele using these seemed to encompass the whole section of society, from hookers jumping onto one to race after a potential client, to bankers stepping onto one impassively to get to a meeting. It seemed an unstoppable craze.

Now, 4 years later and I'm in Zurich. The micro-scooters are still going strong. There are shops that dedicate themselves to selling these contraptions, as well as a variety of accessories to go along with them. Hot men turn into idiots in my eyes as soon as I see them clutching onto one, elegant women just look stupid in their Louboutins, on a micro-scooter.

Maybe we need a re-release of Zoolander, or a movie that has such cool micro-scooter tricks that will shame anyone owning a scooter to quietly leave them in their basement and carry on as nature intended, to walk.

Oh, wait a minute, there was a movie with some micro-scooters that perfectly describes the legions of micro-scooter fans: Jackass.

Carnivale!

Every year, on the 11th of November, at 11:11 in the morning, the whole world comes to a standstill, and a two minute silence is observed in respect for those who lost their lives in the Second World War. The Swiss chose this moment to begin their Fastnacht celebrations, culminating in multiple parades and street parties to mark the beginning of Lent at the end of winter.

Normally a restrained and discreet people, these celebrations are an excuse to drink on the streets, greet everyone and dress up in gay colours and to get up to mischief, safe in the knowledge that you're hiding behind that macabre mask, intending to 'scare' the winter away.

Sunday Brunch Recipes: Baked Eggs

I am quite frankly, as OH never ceases to point out, obsessed with eggs*. I like all sorts of preparations of the versatile object, and apart from pickled eggs which I will endure, I am on a mission to prepare and/or eat all forms known to man in a bid to gather enough inspiration and recipes for the ultimate brunch place I will launch some day. OH has even come up with some names that have kept us amused for a while until the novelty of making up names with the word 'egg' in it wear off.

Eggs have always had a special place in my heart, as I was being plucked from one continent to another when I was young, eggs remained the most staple food that I could recognise in my young food repertoire. From fish and chips, pies, and stews, I was transported from the bland British offerings at the age of 5 and plonked into foreign surroundings with curries and duck tongues being staples of the daily diet. For the best part of my early days in Asia, my relatives were at a loss to what they should feed me when I went to visit. Sure, I looked similar to them: dark hair, eyes, complexion. However, when I opened my mouth I sounded like the television shows from the UK. Tweak me a little and I'd sing 'Baa Baa Black Sheep' in estuary Cockney, but for the most of it I sounded like a parrot of the BBC, and so they were baffled with me, and consequently assumed that my diet would be different too.

It started off with potatoes. Asians have this assumption that Brits only eat potatoes, just as Brits of yesteryear imagined Asians only ate rice. For three months after I arrived in Asia, my staple breakfast would be a solitary boiled potato, with the Asian influence of a dipping dish of soy on the side. Later, once or twice, out of curiousity, the maids decided to give me raw potatoes to see if I would still eat them: I did (until I had diarrheoa and it was back to boiled potatoes).

One day, instead of a potato (I imagine that the supply had run out) I was given a boiled egg. Words cannot even being to describe the ecstasy I experienced then, but my grandmother must have seen the joy on my face, and started to give me a boiled egg every day instead of a potato. Later, when I went to live with another grandmother who accidentally poured boiling water down my back while attempting to fill up the egg boiler, I took it upon myself to work the stove and so from the age of 5 (nearly 6) I began my lifelong love affair with eggs.

Anyway, while I am proficient in most ovo delights, it has taken me a while to attempt poaching after a few false starts in methods (spinning water vortex, lots of salt, tie in clingfilm etc). OH however makes mean poached eggs, and now, while I am now able to do them well, I still rely on him to be Chief Poacher to spare myself the aggravation.

This weekend just gone however, we'd been for a long run, and while I was waiting for OH to finish in the shower and commence the egg poaching for Eggs Benedict, I looked at the clock and realised we had to be somewhere else in less than 30 mins. Thus, I had to take charge of brunch. What I whipped up was so simple that I intend to do this everytime we have people over for brunch as the eggs can be served all at the same time which is not often the case with poached eggs and large groups. (For some reason I had my friend Hillary in mind when I prepared these, perhaps in anticipation of her upcoming visit.)

The eggs are baked with Hollandaise sauce, which when freshly prepared, fluffs up ever so slightly like a soufflé. This also means you can serve up the bacon/smoked salmon/spinach/anything else on platters for guests to help themselves to, so there's no vegetarian/carnivore aggravation at the table. The sweetness of the paprika lends itself a smokey quality after being in the oven, and poppy seeds gives it a slight crunch and adds texture.


Baked Eggs in Hollandaise

Eggs (2 per person)
Homemade Hollandaise (recipe to be posted soon)
Butter
Sweet paprika
Poppy seeds
Parsley to garnish (optional)

Method

Grease the ramekins slightly with butter, crack an egg into it (or if you have larger ramekins, crack 2 in per portion. Gently spoon the Hollandaise sauce over the egg(s) to cover. Add a sprinkling of paprika on top and a pinch of poppy seeds.

Place the ramekins into a baking tray, and add hot water from the kettle so the water level comes up to a third or half of the ramekin. Place immediately into an oven at 180°c (356°F) and bake for 6-8 minutes. The whites of the egg should be just about to set when removed from the oven. Bear in mind the egg will continue to cook in the ramekin so those who like more thoroughly cooked eggs can wait a couple of minutes for the egg to firm up, or those who like it runny can attack immediately with a fork to break the yolk.

Serve with toasted bread (we use warmed milk bread which is similar to brioche) and platters of smoked salmon, bacon, mushrooms or anything else you fancy.

*(I tried to look up the proper word in latin to be more precise, but 'ovophile' churns up results for some 'egg in mouth breeding Cichlidae' which just sounds wrong).

The countdown begins

Since OH proposed back in December, its taken a while for the news to filter through to friends. It has also taken a while for it to filter into my consciousness, and finally updating my Facebook status to 'engaged' prompted a flurry of messages and well wishers. I'm almost tempted to remove my relationship status just so it shows up as 'Marmoset is no longer in a relationship' just for the drama of it. My family, ie Mother and Father have yet to find out, but my siblings are eagerly picking out colours and dresses for the occasion.

We have now decided that the celebrations will take place in the North of England, around the Scottish borders. We have also decided that it will be in autumn, because frankly, apart from asparagus in the spring, we couldn't really think of anything else that was exciting enough for us to have at the meal. Autumn however, provides us with a variety of exciting things: scallops, truffles, game, and whisky. I know that whisky is not strictly an autumnal product, but for the sake of it, lets go with it.

Immediately following the proposal, OH launched into full planning mode, which with almost 20 months to go, was a bit of an overkill. Since then, we've been speaking about small elements of the big day, and together we're approaching it from very different views, apart from the food angle.

Many years ago I was at an event and speaking to the Chinese Ambassador, who was recounting the way the world works. I remember the analogy of the world climbing the same mountain, and the different views that people had. The closer to the pinnacle, the more the view started to be the same. OH and I have started the climb, but hopefully, we'll have the same view when we get there.

I've been thinking that I'm going to start documenting the events in the lead up to this Big Day. There will be tantrums, and there will be laughs, but there will definitely not be a Bridezilla moment.

I hope.