The Delicious Miss Dahl on Escapism

It'd be rude not to review this episode of the Delicious Miss Dahl. Initial, one week, scepticism on the series was promptly washed away by episode two. Now we're over half way so may as well see it to the end. This week's escapism theme may seem a little bit ironic as it coincides so neatly with the abrupt standstill of all airline traffic. But what I find so many of the Delicious Miss Dahl episodes about are dreamscapes and ignoring real life for thirty minutes. The food this week is pushing me to the brink of having to buy the book. I can see myself having far too many cookery books which I mainly look at the pictures in so hopefully I will be fairly rational as to whether or not it would be a good buy.

Sophie Dahl is good egg. I think the food comes from good meaning and she can't help having travelled the world. Probably a few times over. Fortunate enough to be able to try and fail/quit/nonchalantly-move-on from many a glamorous endeavour like acting, modelling, writing etc. I've said it before, and probably will say it again, I like the kitchen of the delicious miss Dahl. It's kitchen aid and le creuset, sure, gastro porn enough, but it's also trinckets and treasures like retro floral stove-top espresso makers and tin bowls. Ebay here I come.

Yes, I realise it's probably a studio or not really hers, but like I say little details and reality don't fathom much with the delicious miss Dahl.
The music in the Delicious Miss Dahl on Escapism was true to form. Very apt. This week took on something of an ethereal theme in keeping with escapism, and mainly featured airy female singer-songwriter. I think this week wasn't as good as the past, and she missed a trick a bit but I still enjoyed it.

My favourite choice was Far Away by Ingrid Michaelson, perfectly summarising East Coast america as I'd imagine it. Yes a little bit Dawson's Creek, but guilty pleasures are surely what escapism is for. Escapism for me is as much the dreaming as the actual doing.

"I will live my life as a lobsterman's wife on an island in the blue bay.
He will take care of me, he will smell like the sea,
And close to my heart he'll always stay.
Far away far away, I want to go far away.
To a new life on a new shore line.
Where the water is blue and the people are new.
To another island, in another life."

Sophie Dahl talked about Martha's Vineyard, quite probably the most bizarre place-name, but somehow it's a part of the world I'd like to go to along with Cape Cod, ever since my Grandma went and brought back pictures of auburn topped trees and rows upon rows of pumpkins.

Sophie cooked up some awesome looking New England-style clam chowder with crunchy thyme breadcrumbs.

Other music featured included Goldfrapp's Little Bird and Aimee Mann's Great Beyond:

"Go, honey go -
Into the ocean
Go, honey go -
Into the great beyond
Til you're good and gone
And you can hide away for
When everything goes wrong
Honey - go"

Aimee Mann, Great Beyond.

Obviously the featured poem excerpt could not be without a mention, Leisure by William Henry Davies. It's a beautiful poem which just takes you away for few blissful moments.

"What is this life if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.

No time to stand beneath the boughs
And stare as long as sheep or cows.

No time to see, when woods we pass,
Where squirrels hide their nuts in grass.

No time to see, in broad daylight,
Streams full of stars, like skies at night.

No time to turn at Beauty's glance,
And watch her feet, how they can dance.

No time to wait till her mouth can
Enrich that smile her eyes began.

A poor life this is if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare."

Leisure, William Henry Davies

Accompanying this audio indulgence is a sensory assault. The Mexican breakfast is fairly safe but looks great. I in fact am going to buy some tortillas right after this. I'm not sure what the mexican's would make of putting Tofu in your quesadillas. Not a lot I should think.

With black beans, an arsenal of spices and roasted pepper alongside a good smultz of guacamole it's pretty damned hot. She also made a veritable panacea for cold drizzly day with spiced hot chocolate and extolled the virtues of chocolate not difficult but also the Mexican's unabashed use of chocolate in savoury meals in a dark and mysterious manner. 

I'll skip over the Greek calamari and Chicory Salad to the Indian Supper of Dahl's Dhal. She was obviously born to make this. Or so named. Anyhoo, the rice was the star attraction for me, delicately fragranced with star anise, cinnamon, saffron and cardamom and cooked together with a good knob of butter. Butter and rice is actually a great thing as a Slovakian flat mate once taught me. I don't agree that rice should not be gloopy, sticky or lumpy. That is just how I like it.  How Sophie Dahl cooks the lentils quite as eloquently as she does is beyond me, mine always look like congealed brown goo akin to Dickensian slops but maybe the recipe will hold the key. And you literally cannot go wrong with sweet potato charred wedges. Distraction enough for any congealed goo.

Ahhh, 'til next time.

A poem by Hugo Williams

A few months ago I heard this poem by Hugo Williams whilst he was in the running for the TS Eliot Prize 2009. I really liked the close observtions he made. It's quite a power to turn the mundane into something so touching like this. The poem is from his collection, West End Final.


Marital Visit ~ Hugo Williams

The odd thing put away
in the wrong place – cups and plates
back in the cupboard
that I always leave out,
curtains open on the street
that I always keep drawn,
remind me of your recent brief
progress through here,
looking for something in the attic.


How could I forget:
butter in the fridge, but never eggs,
burnt matches everywhere,
in spite of the gas lighter,
jam jars soaking in water
to get the labels off.
How typical of you
to give the Chinese teapot a last chance
to prove itself in company.

And look at that tea towel
slung like your signature
over the back of a chair.
I could weep for the small spoons
lying down with the forks,
the corkscrew with the tea strainer.
Leave them where they are forever?
Or harden my heart
and put them back where they belong?

Puedo Escribir los Versos mas Tristes Esta Noche

I really like this poem by Pablo Neruda. I first heard it in the film 'Il Postino' which I equally like and recommend. I'm not sure we can ever fully translate a poem or piece of writing. Learning spanish, I've found that language like culture can never be completely understood just by learning and gaining knowledge (something which, as someone who likes to see results from hard-work, I find quite troubling). But now, I quite like that slight enigmatic quality of other cultures. Nonetheless, I continue to expose myself to spanish and hope that line by line, person by person, place by place I start to understand a little more.

'Puedo Escribir los Versos mas Tristes Esta Noche'

Tonight I can write the saddest lines.

Write, for example: "The night is shattered,
and the blue stars shiver in the distance."

The night wind revolves in the sky and sings.

Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
That I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.

On nights like this one, I held her in my arms.
I kissed her again and again under the endless sky.

She loved me, and sometimes I loved her too.
How could one not not have loved her great, still eyes?

Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
To think that I do not have her. To feel I have lost her.

To hear the immense night, still more immense without her.
And the verse falls to the soul like dew to the pasture.

What does it matter that my love could not keep her.
The night is shattered, and she is not with me.

This is all.
In the distance someone is singing. In the distance.
My soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.

My sight searches for her as though to go to her
My heart looks for her, and she is not with me.

The same night whitening the same the same trees.
We, we who were, are the no longer the same.

I no longer love her, that is certain, but how I loved her.
My voice tried to find the wind to touch her ear.

Another's. She will be another's. Like my kisses before
Her voice, her bright body. Her infinite eyes.

I no longer love her, that is certain, but maybe I love her.
Love is so short, forgetting so long.

Because through nights like this one I held her in my arms,
my soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.

Though this be the last pain that she makes me suffer,
and these the last verses that I write for her.

Out of Kilter but thinking about my Valentine

Valentine- Carol Ann Duffy

Not a red rose or a satin heart.

I give you an onion.

It is a moon wrapped in brown paper.

It promises light

like the careful undressing of love.

Here.

It will blind you with tears

like a lover.

It will make your reflection

a wobbling photo of grief.

I am trying to be truthful.

Not a cute card or a kissogram.

I give you an onion.

Its fierce kiss will stay on your lips,

possessive and faithful

as we are,

for as long as we are.

Take it.

Its platinum loops shrink to a wedding-ring,

if you like.

Lethal.

Its scent will cling to your fingers,

cling to your knife.