Who's That Girl?

In an attempt to silence the incessant clamour and ballyhoo of the chattering classes of Blogville with regards to my girlfriend, I have decided to relent and post some photos of her.

Well okay, perhaps the clamour and the ballyhoo has not been incessant, but at least some of you have asked, and my good neighbour Robyn emailed me, curious as to whether my girl lives in Blogville and what her name is.

Anyhoo … Here are a few photos to help clear matters up.

Hokay, so maybe that's not the best-composed photo I've ever taken.

This is her right hand.
Like this foal, creatures great and small flock to her (much to mum's annoyance … Having tried unsuccessfully for years to stop Fern running away from her, she was somewhat miffed to hear that the very first time my girlfriend visited the Divery and opened the car door, Fern came running up to nuzzle her … hee hee).

These are her feet. Mmmmmmm …

And here they are again, climbing Ranworth Church tower.

And all of her at Wells-Next-The-Sea.

Here she is admiring the houses in Blythburgh.

And wandering through the village of Happisburgh.

Taking photos in Happisburgh churchyard.

Sitting on a bench in my back garden … er …

At Blickling Hall.

And here are the two of us relaxing on the pier after a hard day's promenading around Southwold.

So now you know.

What's Cooking With Dive? Gourmet USA

So we've cooked some of the finest dishes from all around the world and now it's time for the US of Ay to give up its culinary secrets.

Last time out we made an utterly glorious, deliciously fatty cream-fest clam chowder; this time we shall be concentrating more on simple US health food.

The reputation of the US in the rest of the world has suffered appallingly (and rightly so) at the filthy hands of McD, KFC, Pizza Hut et al. and even last week's yummy recipe took that most healthy of foods - shellfish - and added around four million calories per serving.

So let's get simple.

Let's get healthy.

Of all the gifts the New World has given to the Old - jazz (yay), Garrison Keillor (yay, aussi), great cheesy movies, jello, fizzy drinks made almost entirely from burnt sugar, Cheez-Whiz™, Hostess Twinkies™, marshmallow Fluff™, Krispy Kremes™ … we're talking about one of the few that deserve our heartfelt thanks:

Maize.

"Indian corn".

It bears no resemblance to "corn" as we know it in the rest of the world, yet this mouthwateringly delicious, golden, sun-kissed kernel has become the basis for a myriad of healthy, nutritious dishes.

And … er …

Popcorn.

We cannot get proper popcorn in this benighted country.
For decades all we knew of "popcorn" was the horror of those repulsive chunks of polystyrene packaging smothered in "toffee" that were obtainable in cinemas for the cost of a small car.

In the past few years, "microwave popcorn" of sorts has arrived on our shores, but alas and alack - as I found to my cost - it comes in US-sized bags that are too large for my European-sized microwave and simply wedge themselves in there, distressingly unable to turn and thereby produce an unappetising mix of sticky, black, fused charcoal lumps and uncooked kernels with the added attraction when I opened the bag of causing my smoke alarm to throw a shit-fit.

Quite apart from being cuter than a basket of kittens with a ribbon on top, my yummy new girlfriend has provided the answer:
Orville Redenbacher's Gourmet Popping Corn in a "SINGLE SERVING MINI BAG"!

Woohoo!

We emaciated Brits had heard whispered rumour of the legendary Mister Redenbacher but he has proved as elusive over here as Bigfoot, the Loch Ness Monster and an edible American cheese.

Now I have some in my kitchen!
And being a single serving mini bag, it fits (just) inside my microwave … though it's still a bit like trying to get a Hummer into an English car park.

So … Let's don our pinnies and get cooking.

Here are the ingredients we will need.

First up, carefully peel the transparent outer skin from the bag.

Once it is skinned (you can discard the skin unless you're planning to make a particularly nasty stock), you will find all manner of exciting writing.

The generous Mister Redenbacher - resplendent in a peculiarly fetching polka-dot bow tie - has thoughtfully provided the means for both Englishmen and Spaniards to read about his marvellous product.

Note the helpful little picture explaining how best to listen to your corn popping by cupping one hand to your ear.

And the sensible advice that "Children should not prepare without adult supervision".

On the reverse we learn:
"Do not use the popcorn button."
Which is just as well as my microwave lacks such luxuries.

Also: "Contains Hot Oil and Steam!"
Wow! Two of my favourite ingredients!

So let's pop it in the microwave (taking care to observe and obey the "THIS SIDE UP" label), set the timer for one-and-a-half minutes at full power and let it rip.

Woohoo! The joyful sound of distant machine-gun fire fills the kitchen, gradually lessening in intensity as the combatants succumb to slaughter until by the time it is finished there is only the occasional, desultory shot from the last of the wounded survivors.

Open the door …
And … Golly! What magic is this?
The bag is suddenly as fat as an American!
This really must be the genuine article.

Mmm … The tasty aroma of hot oil and steam.
Be careful as you open the bag, unless you want your fingerprints seared off.

I was not entirely sure what to serve this with, but it mattered not as it is quite delicious on its own (it's the low-salt variety).

As for wine; the enticing "hot corn" taste is perfectly complimented by a robust red. I enjoyed this gourmet repast with a ludicrously expensive 1995 Barolo.

As it says on the packet: Enjoy!

Oh, and please note:
The phrase, "Single Serving Mini Bag" is a US term; it takes this greedy Englishman the best part of a day to get through one of these.

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Apart from being one of the most truly wonderful people on the planet, our Katherine is that rarest of poets, the Real Thing.

More details as soon as they become available.

Dress Up Dive

Hmm … Decisions, decisions …

For the first time since the cretaceous period I actually find myself with a girlfriend.
If we're going to be walking out together it's about time I started looking after my own appearance.

I'm no longer svelte, but balding and saggy in places where saggy should never be seen, and I have the dress sense of of a Goth tramp, whereas my girlfriend is five-ten, willowy, graceful and drop-dead gorgeous, with that long, beautiful auburn hair and glasses 'sexy librarian' thang going on.
I've got my work cut out, dammit!

Realistically, without resorting to plastic surgery and liposuction (though I am regularly torturing myself in the gym and eating ludicrously healthy food … like er … chowder and cookies) I'm going to have to think seriously about my hair and my clothes.

Fortunately for me, my girl is also arty and smarty and has generously left a gallimaufry of miscellaneous arcana all over my house, including a magazine from her neck of the woods that is chock full of splendid fashion advice.

I can take a hint, honeypie.

Right … Let's deal with my distinct lack of hair:

Holy crap! $164 for a full head of "hair and scalp"?
That's a real bargain!
I'm sorely tempted, but do I really want to look that mad-eyed and psychopathic?
That guy is seriously scary!
Brr …

Hokay; so I'll stay balding, but at least I can do something about my clothes.

I've selected a few choice items from the magazine and now I'm asking your advice.

Which of these is "me"?
(Click on 'em for bigger, readable versions).

Which look is guaranteed to impress my new girl?

I trust your opinions implicitly, so do let me know.

There is much more like this in the magazine. If you're lucky I'll post some more another day.

What's Cooking With Dive? Down East Anglia Clam Chowder

Chowdah! Yay!
Time once again to put on your pinnies and join me in the kitchen for another item on our menu of international cuisine.

This time we're heading over the pond to prove that the good ol' US of Ay has given more to the gastronomic world than the vomitous excrescences of viral junk-food, McD, KFC et al.

They've also given us cheez-whiz and Paula Deen's awesomely Elvis-licious "hamburger served between two Krispy-Kreme Do-nuts with a fried egg on top".

And of course the irresistibly creamy lush-fest that is clam chowder.

Just feast your greedy eyes on that!
Yummy!

And yes, Mme, those are your Adelaide coasters we are using. Yay!

So … being a total US cookery virgin, I am basing this on a recipe from "Yankee" magazine, where they call it Down East Clam Chowder.

Dive? Using a recipe? Is the world ending?
Very probably …
But not before we've eaten, so let's get cooking.

To make this more of a transatlantic dish I'm using Italian pancetta instead of the "cubed salt pork" the recipe calls for and some deliciously creamy Jersey Royal potatoes.
As always, all ingredients are organic (except the crackers, dammit).
Plus, we're making it in Brundall from fresh, local clams so I'm changing the title to Down East Anglia Clam Chowder.
Yes, I said "we"; we're cooking for two now. Woohoo!

Right!
Clams!

Pretty little critturs, ain't they?
I love the clattery sound clams make when I stir fry them, but we won't be doing that today.
Today they're going to die of cream poisoning.
The recipe says to watch out for sediment in the bottom of the pan, but that's only if you cook clams without letting them wash themselves first; these guys have been left in clean, slightly salty water overnight so they've spat out any sand they may have had left inside their tummies.

Jersey Royal potatoes. I know they're expensive, especially the organic ones, but this is a creamy dish and these are the creamiest potatoes on the planet.
So duh!

And yes, I do know the one in the middle is an onion, thank you.

Hokay … Let's rattle those clams into a nice pot and give them a cup full of filtered water to bathe in.
Then pop the lid on, nice and tight, bring the water to the boil and cook 'em for a few minutes.

The recipe says ten minutes but these local clams are fresh as fresh and were all done in four minutes.
Perfect.
Discard any that are still closed; antisocial clams don't deserve to come to the party.

Pour off and retain the clam liquor (okay, let's get rid of all those "clam licker" schoolboy jokes here. Anyone still giggling gets no dinner).

Aww shucks! … Sorry, I couldn't resist …
Yup … Shuck the little buggers. Or, better still, get your pretty girlfriend to do it for you while you photograph her. Yay!

Okey-dokey …
So we've got the clams cooked and the bowl of clam liquor all ready; now we shall toss a chopped onion and a handful of diced pancetta into some hot olive oil and sweat the whole mess down to release all of that lovely fat.

Mmmmmmmmm … Fat …
I've said it before and I'll say it again: lean meat is simply an exercise in chewing; the flavour is in the fat. And this dish is so full of flavour.

Once the onion is transparent and the pancetta has sweated out, decant the lot into the big pot , add the clam liquor and the rough chopped potatoes and bring to the boil, adding just enough (not too much) water to cover the potatoes, and simmer until the potatoes are tender.

Now you want to add two cups of milk and two cups of cream (single cream - what the Yanquis call "haff'n'haff" - or evaporated milk)
Let that settle into a nice comfortable simmer.

Add the clams and a big ol' wodge of unsalted Irish butter and simmer for a couple more minutes until the butter is melted and the clams achieve perfection.

Do NOT bring to the boil unless you like tough, chewy clams and do NOT add salt unless you like everything to taste of salt and then die of a heart attack.
Believe me, there is sufficient cream and fat in this dish to bring on a good heart attack without spoiling the flavour with salt.

Dish it up! Woohoo!
Serve with genuine Westminster all natural Oyster Crackers and a chilled white wine - we used a chardonnay-chenin blend to cut through the fat.

This is simply awesomely creamy and delicious. We made enough for four and ate the lot.

Enjoy!

What I Did On My Blog Holiday

Got sunburn

Learned how to make eggs over easy

Ate stuff

Drank beer

And tea

Acted my shoe-size

Made chowdah! (post coming soon)

Baked cookies (ditto)

Fell in love

Quitter™

Welcome to Quitter™, a wonderful new anti-social messaging service where you can keep friends and family really annoyed with irritating little messages about what you're doing.

"I'm typing this".

Whoop di doo!

Actually, I'm having a great time. Thanks to those who asked.
I hope you're all having an utterly splendid time, too.
If you're not, you should try switching off your TV and your computer.
It works for me.

Toodle-pip.

A Quitter Writes

It has been brought to my attention that I probably owe you guys some sort of an explanation as to where I have been this past week or so and indeed where I will be for a while yet.

I have not completely given up on Small Glass Planet and shall probably continue it in some shape or other, but not just yet.

As you know, commuting as I do for at least seven hours a day leaves me with very little free time.
I realised that at least an hour of every day was taken up with cruising around Blogville, checking everyone's posts and commenting; and that's without all of the time I spent writing my own posts, the better examples of which took many hours to put together.

Sheesh!

This past week, rather than blogging I have got so much done at home, been out and about with friends and generally found myself with real quality time to relax, and I must confess I am thoroughly enjoying it.

The reason I started blogging was as a kind of free version of vanity publishing; I could write something or record some music and then send it out to whoever might read or listen.
My favourite posts have all been of that type.
Over the years, however, my little corner of the virtual world grew and mutated into Blogville with you guys and most of the time things were just fine and dandy.

Lately, however, my blog feels like it has become infected with a particularly tedious virus. A lot of the joy has seeped out of it and it has got very samey.

First up, there's the Facebook thing, then there's my own writing.

I noticed a while back that some of us were getting sucked in to the Facebook/Twatter (sic) mentality where creative writing and original thought has been gradually replaced by tedious, diary-style drivel and the kind of imbecile, "lowest-common-denominator" trash that those Godawful social networking sites are awash with.
If you're happy doing that kind of thing then by all means feel free to do it, but please not in my comments box.

Sorry, but that's not for me.
I have neither the time nor the inclination to spend what very few leisure hours I have telling people when I blow my nose or go to the bathroom or what type of tree I am; still less to read their own versions of the same.

I just got a little tired of the daily blog-grind.
It reached the stage where it was either get my life back or get sucked in to the Facebook/Twatter mentality of:
"02:18AM … I am sitting in front of my computer reading and writing utter drivel … What the fuck happened to my life? … Oh, and by the way, I am now about to walk into the kitchen to make another cup of coffee and hey! You have GOT to do this quiz! It turns out I am a larch … LOL."

Blech …

It reached the stage where blogging was becoming a chore.

It almost reached the stage where visiting my lovely Blogville neighbours became a chore, and that is not somewhere I want to be.
I like you guys way too much for that to happen.

Then there's my own writing.
With the exception of Germaine Greer, I never read any newpaper article where the writer's name is bigger than what they are writing about.
I've been a local paper features writer and I know how hard it is to continually come up with something good; that all writers have probably half a dozen good pieces in them and what comes after that is hack-work; worthless drivel written because they have to write it to keep their job, rather than anything worth reading.
Sure, they might feel inspired once in a while but most of it is just typed out on the grind and close to deadlines.

My blogging has felt like that for quite a while, now.
I used to come out with decent enough posts (or at least posts that I was pleased with) quite often, but lately it's been down to about one readable post a month and the rest has been filler.

I felt obliged to come up with a ranty post, a cookery post, a photopost, a non-dating post, a comedy post, a Gobothering post, yadda yadda even if I wasn't in the mood to write one.
It just became hack-work, as tedious to read as it was to write.
It was painfully obvious that the quality was suffering …

So I decided to stop for a day, just to see if it was possible …

And it was completely painless.
I switched off the email notification widget in my "comments" settings and changed my homepage to BBC Radio 3.
I have not checked my blog since and have no idea what - if anything - any of you might have written to me, and - quite unexpectedly - have not yet felt the temptation to go take a look.

I will no doubt start visiting your blogs again before too much longer (though of course I will never visit your Facebook sites or Twatters; you're welcome to those, but please don't expect me to join in), so don't be surprised if I start commenting again in a week or three, but I wanted to go cold turkey for a bit just to see if I could.

I can, and it is great.

If I do start posting again it will not be in my old manner of doing a post every day; I shall only write when I have something worth saying.

And I won't be checking everybody's blogs every day like I used to; I may well pop over once a week or so and then I'll only comment if I have something worthwhile to say …

And of course if you've written anything worth commenting on.

So that's where I've been: happily enjoying life in a social-network-free zone called the real world.
I have plans for the next couple of weekends so don't expect me back just yet.

In the meantime, I hope you are all well and send my warmest regards from the land of the living.

Your old neighbour,
Dive.

Taking A Break

I'm taking a break.
I'm not sure how long for; maybe forever, maybe just until tomorrow.
In case I'm not back, thanks for listening.
D.

An Architect Writes

… or rather reads …

Hoorah for The Guardian!
A far more balanced and less sweary opinion than my own on the latest architectural row.