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Entries from November 2007

11
26
2007

Poulet aux 40 gousses d'ail

Mission briefing:

  • 1 chicken, rinsed, patted dry (you can also use chicken pieces)
  • Olive oil, about 3 Tbsp (tablespoons)
  • 2 heads of garlic, all the cloves separated. You can keep their skins on, but rub off extra-papery skins.
  • 2 cups white wine if you are rich, plus 1 cup water. Otherwise all water (it works fine - even better if you add chicken stock cube) - a cup is 250ml. Otherwise use a wine glass, full.
  • juice of 2 limes
  • salt and pepper
Heat oven to 350’F/180’C. In pot (...) heat the olive oil. Put the whole chicken in the pot and brown on all sides: keep on each side about 20 seconds. It will sizzle a lot. The browning is to colour it a little. It should not take longer than about 2 minutes. Add the garlic cloves to the pot. Stir and let them heat up a little, about 30 seconds. Add the white wine and water or 3 cups water. Add lime juice. Crack black pepper over, and add about 1 tsp of salt. Add a small bunch of thyme (about 4 sprigs/branches) and put the lid on. Allow it to come to the bubble/boil. Put pot in the oven, covered with its lid. Cook for 2 hours. Every half hour or so look at it and spoon some juice over chicken. Also taste to see if you need more salt. If you have made it too salty a trick is to add some pieces of potato - they suck it up.... If the juice is drying add more wine or water... The idea is to have lots of delicious juice... For the last 30 minutes I take the lid off and let it brown. The chicken should be very tender at the end, falling off the bone, not like a typical roast chicken which is cooked au point, and firm.

Marie

Well, first of all, not having received the second mail until I came home, I didn’t have any white wine. So I used a cup of vermouth instead, and water. One less martini. Oh well, I’ll make it Vodka only. The most important remains my special garlic-stuffed olives, and that I have...

Speaking of garlic. After se-pa-ra-ting all the cloves, I decided that they looked too tightly wrapped in their outer shells, so I skinned them all of that extra-papery skin. The problem is, after two complete heads, my fingers were so sticky - yes, garlic sticks - and covered with that bloody skin that they looked like they had feathers. So I skipped the smallest cloves and ended up with probably less than 25. I’m ashamed.

Then there was the issue of the lime juice. ‘Them limes were a bit tough, to say the least, and I don’t own a fancy little juice extractor. I cut my limes in half, squeezed and squeezed, but without getting much more than a few drops. Pause. Thinking. Corrective action found. Taken. I opened a drawer, grabbed a pair of rusted pliers, adjusted them to the bigger gap, and went for round two. Much better. I now had what I thought was the juice of two limes.

The oven was pre-heated, the Le Creuset pot (an amazing gift from Marie) was warmed up and the camera set on the tripod. For the record. I chopped up an onion discovered abandoned behind coffee cans. Then I threw myself in the water. Well, the oil. The first step was pretty scary. The oil indeed sizzled a lot as I attempted to brown the chicken. For a fleeting moment, I was tempted to run to mama and switched to making hot-dogs. But I resisted and stuck my hands closer than wanted to turn the beast over. The results were shy. A slight change in color, maybe, on both main faces. Sides unchanged. Hmm.

I threw in the garlic. That’s the part I like. Throwing stuff in. I’m good at it. You can’t mess up, you can’t miss. Waited for a while and then threw more stuff in. The pot filled up a bit with liquid. I was afraid the chicken would drown. They don’t swim too well. Water, vermouth, onions, pepper, salt, hope. Lots of that last ingredient. I brought to a boil as instructed, then covered and transferred to the oven.

Religiously checking on my chicken every 30 minutes on the dot and pouring juice over it caringly, I let my two hours pass, then added another 20 minutes to brown it better. There was a moment of panic about half way though when I suddenly got stage fright; I couldn’t get myself to open the oven. Evil grinning faces were hovering above me, distorted by the oven’s heat and laughing out loud in bursts of painful sarcasm, their voices echoing between the walls of my narrow kitchen. You can pilot a plane, they were joking, but you can’t even cook a chicken without ATC guidance. You’re a VFR cook, you need a visible horizon and a long runway...

But eventually, it was ready. The smell was divine and my chicken’s skin had turned a very nice brown. I fished the nicest garlic cloves out of the pot and arranged them around the nicest piece. Then as I attempted to transfer the rest of the chicken to a plate to reduce the sauce, it fell apart on me. Marie wasn’t kidding about it falling off the bone!

It was simply delicious! I don’t think I had ever tasted such juicy and tender poultry. It literally melted in my mouth - and I don’t even pretend to have done it very well. But I had masterful guidance. ;-)

The kitchen is all cleaned up now, the Le Creuset is spotless and the dishes done. But for a while, it was as though I could feel a presence, gliding over the stove, guiding my hands, pushing right, pulling left, adding here, taking there, lovingly.

 

Come here I think you’re beautiful
I think you’re beautiful, beautiful
Some kind of angel come inside

[The Sisters of Mercy - Some Kind of Stranger]

I wonder what people will think of my 40-cloves breath in the morning...

 

 Posted at 12:02 AM in Other: & Photoblogs: 11 Comments » Toggle display • Reply
11
25
2007

The mission

This afternoon, I went on a mission. Multiple targets, time sensitive, low profile. I needed ink, paper, and chicken. The first part went as planned, after the bus had done a slight detour around the end of Burrard Street where the Santa Claus parade was going to end. I infiltrated Staples on Seymour, on time, zoomed in on my objective in a tight formation, grabbed two boxes of card paper, proceeded to the ink section in stealth mode and... realized I didn’t remember my printer’s model number. So much for stealth. I’d have to involve the local population. This could get messy. A first clerk didn’t really know what the hell this was all about and bailed. I glanced at my watch nervously; mission-critical time was lapsing. Then a second contact proved to be much better informed, her intell’ was fresh, we narrowed down the mark and I had my ink.

So I vacated the scene and headed on foot towards the next operational bus stop that would lead me to my point of entry into the chicken zone. On my way there, I had to fight with slow and probably hostile crowds of thousands of local gathered along Burrard to watch the parade. I had my weapon handy and shot a few rounds, part of my daily recon’ into Vancouver, which are posted below.

Finally, I was on site, Safeway on Davie. Two blocks from home. Mission almost completed. I reviewed my orders briefly, grabbed some limes, thyme, garlic and steered towards the meat section. Arrived. Scouted it. Scouted it again. Rubbed my eyes. Scanned the entire section once more. There were no chickens. Chicken legs, chicken breasts, chicken wings, chicken parts, chicken soup, but no chickens. As in « whole chicken », which was part of the mission brief received by email earlier.

I must admit I might have flinched for a second. A warrior has moments of weakness too, or even fear. In fact there is no such thing as fearless people, only fearless moments. The thought of a failed mission flashed through my mind. But I stayed in control. I’ve seen worse. I’m used to being on my own behind enemy lines. I’m resourceful and well trained.

So I soon came up with an alternative plan. We’ll call it plan B. The crappy grocery store up the hill. I broke into a controlled field run, designed to be extremely fast but still appear as a simple walk to enemy sentinels. I didn’t even look crossing the two streets, relying on my peripheral vision, and even jay-walked once. It’s called a means to an end.

Once at the store, there was no time to be subtle. I rushed in, took a left, panned the area for competition, found none, and stopped in front of the meat counter. On site. I spotted it immediately. It was right in front of me. The package. I snatched it. Panned again, still no unfriendlies. Then just as a precaution, I scanned the counter better, to ensure the accuracy of my lift. I scanned again. There were no other packages. The chicken I had in my hand, was the last one. I looked at it closer, noticed the mention organic - score - scrolled down to the price and read: $14.35. Swallowed. The only bloody chicken available for me to buy in a radius of 10 blocks was a fourteen dollars organic chicken. And not even that big, on top of that. I guess they feed them good stuff, so they don’t inflate.

I completed the mission and returned home. There a new, more detailed mission order sent by email shortly after the initial one, stated: « 1 chicken, rinsed, patted dry (you can also use chicken pieces) ».

Oh well. Maybe I’ll get a medal...

 [To be continued]

 

 Posted at 9:11 PM in ICMOL: & Photoblogs: 6 Comments » Toggle display • Reply
11
24
2007

Morning fog

7:00 am. The coffee shop is busy, filled with people on missions, leaving a trail behind them like on a slow exposure. I catch glimpses of agendas, snapshots of the day to come, goals in the making. By the time they make it to the counter, most customers seem to have already awaken. They order with a vengeance. Ten adjectives and a please. Five dollars worth of ingredients in a tight, complicated sequence in which coffee almost loses the focus. Then they collect their reward and most move on to the next port of call. There is little time to spare. The door swings open and closed conti- nuously. Most coffees stay in their cup at that critical station but once or twice, I am gripped by fear at the sight of a dangerous angle, the absence of a lid and an obvious lack of a third arm to handle the exit maneuver.

I settle deeper into my comfortable chair, take a long breath and let the smell soothe me. The drawing in front of me is coming along nicely. I’ve switched from my regular mechanical HB pencil to a plain wood 6B and discovered we liked each other. If only I could draw... A few eyes stare sideways as they glide by my table, trying to see what is brewing, but they don’t really care; the nine o’clock meeting has taken control of their brain.

A man is reading the 24 Hours attentively, crouched forward in his seat - I think he’s on the taser story page. If he leans any further he will tilt and fall on his face. Nobody would mind in Vancouver, they’d just look, mildly amused and then get back to their own thoughts. I remember coffee shops in Montreal that felt like war zones, under a coffee shop jungle law. There, you didn’t get up to go add cream to a black coffee once you’d sat down. If you forgot the sugar, you’d wince and tough it out. If the hot liquid was burning your tongue, you’d do without a stirring stick and try to be patient. Standing up meant creating an opening and another lion would jump in and claim the space.

The milk and sugar counter is like a church. Most people line up to confess, orderly, patiently. - I’ll take four sugars, father. And cream. - My son, say two « I will skip sugar tomorrow » and be on your way. - Father, today I switch from milk to low fat because I had ice cream last. - Very well my child, bless you and be good. Some are uneasy, though. They seem to wish they could hide their recipe, either because it’s outrageously sweet, or because they consider it unique. They skip confession, glance nervously sideways and hurry the ritual, annoyed by the wait and the fact that someone behind them will turn the operation into a feast with the manners and ego of a great chef in his restaurant.

The only patch of sky visible between the corners of two adjacent buildings suddenly melts open and goes from a milky grey to a pale hue of pink. There is fog in the air but the sun will be rising soon. I snap my drawing pad closed, pack up and leave hurriedly with my coffee. The tower is a couple of blocks away. I go straight up to the observation deck on the inside elevator, no cheating, no preview. And then I’m there. I’m in a plane, flying over an ocean of clouds at 35,000 feet.

Towards the west on the horizon, Metrotown and Mt Baker are clearly defined by the yellow sky behind them. The fog bank starts closer to downtown, triggered by the humidity of Burrard Inlet which it entirely covers. The North Shore mountains are clear too all the way down to the waterfront. The fog is moving by rather fast, away from its source and towards the hill of Vancouver West where it will dissipate. A few downtown buildings emerge from the low blur like giant sea monsters poking their head through the surface to spot their pray. Then they dive in a again.

And I have space for no more than 6 RAW pictures on my ridiculous 64 MB card. The Gigs are at home with Abe. I’ve only got the G3 and it will have to do. Here we go.

« You float like a feather
In a beautiful world »

Radiohead - Creep

 

 Posted at 12:55 AM in Photoblogs: & Vancouver: 3 Comments » Toggle display • Reply
11
20
2007

Fire!

A few weeks ago, I was attending an emergency preparedness session at work. Most of the talk was about our building’s emergency plans and everybody’s role in case of a major disaster. When the time came to cover the topic of fire, the speaker began with our work place but eventually ended up talking about our very homes. His point was clear and simple: smo-ke-de-tec-tors. Of course, I thought, I knew that. Mine had just been officially inspected a few weeks before, I felt confident.

Then I forgot about it all.

R. however, hadn’t attended the meeting. He hadn’t even been invited. But a few nights ago, when he got up in the early hours of dawn to go to the bathroom, he still immediately sensed something was wrong. There was smoke everywhere. Barefoot, he got out of his room and headed for the exit where he ran into fire. He must have tried to get through, then realized he couldn’t and turned around towards the backdoor. That probably saved his life. He got out and called 9-1-1 from another house.

I visited him the same day at the Vancouver General Hospital. He was still in the ER, parked on a bed in a semi-secluded area, hooked up to an IV, in great pain and still in shock. Large first and second degree burns hurt like hell, they say. He was lucky. He got out alive. His face was black, swollen to twice its normal size and his hair was half gone, yellowish and curled up close to the scalp. His hands and feet were still mostly bare, a few gauze compresses, the burns half exposed, large patches of skin dangling down. I guess he was barely out of triage.

By now, I’ve been told he’s been transferred to the burn unit and has disappeared under heavy bandaging. One can still visit him but they have to wash their hands seriously. Burns are very susceptible to infection.

Bottom line is, it seems there was no smoke detector, or if there was one, it didn’t work. Like I said, he was lucky.

So here’s the point of my story. GET A SMOKE DETECTOR! ALREADY HAVE ONE? GET ANOTHER! HAVE MULTIPLE? TEST THEM! They aren’t just for fun, they are critical!

And on top of that, you should know the basics! Once you realize there is a fire, you have no more than a few seconds to get out, at best a few minutes. Don’t think, don’t hesitate, don’t question, just get out. Fire is evil, but smoke is the real killer, and it rises. Drop to the floor and stay low! That, again, can mean life or death. The temperature difference between knee level and eye level is in the many hundreds of degrees. Check doors for heat, don’t just throw them open because they lead to where you want to go. Once out, stay out. Don’t go back in! Have an agreed meeting point outside so that you know where everybody is. Have a plan and rehearse it.

These are simple steps. But they save lives. How much do you value yours? And that of your loved ones? And how much do YOU think YOU mean to me or to someone ELSE who loves YOU?

 

 Posted at 12:55 AM in Schtroumpfissime: 4 Comments » Toggle display • Reply
11
19
2007

The Seawall reopens

Two days ago, almost a year after an unprecedented storm devastated Stanley Park, the entire Seawall was reopened to the public. It will have taken all this time to restore the northwestern section of the path after hurricane strength winds downed 10,000 trees in December 2006 and caused major landslides that forced the closure.

Today, a little before sunset, I went for my first run around the park - and I mean literally around, not through it like I have been doing for the last year. The Seawall was packed; strollers, bikers, runners, rollerbladers, everyone was rediscovering their long lost love. Siwash Rock stood proudly in a shy sunset, the path was clean and the cliffs shone in the ever-present water dripping down their face.

It was a tough run, the right leg refusing to adjust and hovering just short of a cramp for the entire time. But my heart was light. I have never seen a more beautiful run anywhere. Welcome back all, to the Seawall!

 

 Posted at 12:19 AM in Cool: 3 Comments » Toggle display • Reply
11
17
2007

A matter of size

Uh.... Just wondering if there’s something I should know about South Africa... Sure, it’s a very nice pineapple, but click on it to understand my concern...

 

 Posted at 11:13 PM in ICMOL: 2 Comments » Toggle display • Reply
11
16
2007

A shopping afternoon

« Watch out for that puddle! » yells the observer, perched on my left shoulder as usual. It’s been raining all day and if the sky is now considering clearing towards the west, the Vancouver streets won’t let us forget about the deluge quite yet. They are shinny and clean and the air smells of autumn leaves.

I step around said puddle and almost bump into a hurried old lady who is comically attempting to beat a speed record back home, her arms loaded with heavy grocery bags and her legs barely strong enough for the task. I am tempted to offer help but she looks so proud that I fear I would insult her.

« You wimp! » snorts the observer. He’s always prompt to help when the need has walked past.

Robson street is bustling with activity on this Saturday afternoon, people seem happy and busy, as always when shopping. The story never shows their faces when they have to pay the bills.

We stop at the bookstore. Temptation irrupts into my head and the observer jumps in like a raging pitbull, determined to keep me safe. We are on a mission, let’s not deviate. But today is not my lucky day. Nobody in Vancouver carries the book I want, even though it’s about Vancouver gardens. WTF!?

« Then buy a paragliging magazine! » says the voice on my left shoulder. « They don’t have those here, as you know very well, » I tell him. « We could try Sofia Books, they carry many European editions... » he says, hopeful. « No rush, I reply, there will be time for flying in January in South Africa; in the meantime, priorities. »

He snorts. He likes magazines. I do too. But the heat inside the store soon drives me back to the street. 50 avid shoppers greedily close the gap left in front of book shelves by my departure.

So we head towards London Drugs, then the BC liquor store. « Now you’re talking, says the observer, go wild! » He likes it when I drink because he is allowed to take a break, replaced by his brother, little devil, right shoulder.

« Shut up, I reply, this is a critical mission. We’re getting a special wine for a very special guest. And other things too. » So we walk in and he starts pulling in all directions, disorganised and reacting to the color and shape of bottles, to the thought of a taste, to memories long gone. I follow, or rather lead him where I know I’ll find what I’m looking for; Oyster bay, Sauvignon Blanc. The prices of liquor in Canada are just astonishing. Where are the good old days of just picking up something duty free at the Grand Cayman airport?

Then I’m in a department store, fighting dearly for my life which I intend to preserve from the assault of a hord of shopping megeres. They corner me into a cleaning supplies isle but I dudge and escape to a better section. The observer is holding my invisible hair and steering me like a horse, pulling right and left, away from obstacles, when he suddenly stops us dead in our tracks. Someone bumps into me from behind and I apologize. I get a smile back. People aren’t too stressed in Vancouver. What stopped us is the sight of an dual espresso machine, shinny and pretty.

« We want it, my precious, whispers the observer in a raspy voice, yes, my precious... » « You’re just silly, I say, I don’t even drink coffee any more, or not often enough for THIS. »

Later, a store on Robson has a huge window display in orange tones.

« Marie would love it, I say out loud. » For a change, he has nothing more to say than a pensive « Yeah... » Sometimes I like my little observer, we get along pretty well. But then he snaps out of his reverie and suggests: « Hey, why don’t you get her this beautiful... uh, thing? »

« Because it’s... useless, I say, orange is nice but who needs a thing like this? I’m not even sure what it is. » « Yeah, he says, but the color is so perfect. I think you must squeeze here and then push there. » « Impossible, I reply, that part is soft. I think it’s meant to be shaken and then laid flat for decoration. »

We’ll never know. Our eyes got caught by opals. It’s October. There’s no backing out. Fingers crossed.

[Written almost a month ago, put aside, and forgotten...]

 

 Posted at 12:29 AM in Schtroumpfissime: 4 Comments » Toggle display • Reply
11
15
2007

Lonely Seawall

A modest sunset on the Seawall, a few nights ago. Nothing to write home about - West Coast sunsets can be so stunning at times - but Abe was getting restless and I was nostalgic. Next, I’ll go after trees and their moss...

 

 Posted at 10:31 AM in Photoblogs: & Vancouver: 3 Comments » Toggle display • Reply
11
12
2007

Remembrance day or the ostrich attitude

Today, 11th of November, was Canada’s Remembrance Day. People wore red poppies. Why? Because. Because others do it. Because it’s fashionable. Because it’s a way of saying « Look, I am a special sheep among ordinary sheep. » But who cared, really? Did the papers make a big fuss about war? The radio? The news? Were there any manifestations? Maybe, I just didn’t notice them. Nothing in my ride through the city screamed at me about the atrocities of war. Nobody mentionned them. People shopped, and drank coffee, and laughed, and I did too. We live in a hypocritical world. We ignore what is too hard to face. And then we go watch movies about it.

I was initially going to post war pictures along with this text. I decided against it. I don’t want this blog to become morbid and be linked to because of war. The pictures are gruesome. They are probably heavily censored by the authorities involved but manage to emerge nonetheless. At this very moment, people are fighting somewhere and innocents are dying. Innocents always die. We must get rid of the monsters waging those wars once and for all. Otherwise we are nothing, as a race, but animals.

 

 Posted at 12:16 AM in Schtroumpfissime: 5 Comments » Toggle display • Reply
11
11
2007

Putting my foot where only the dentist goes

For Marie

It makes me… me. It’s been with me as long as I can remember. It drew me irresistibly to the mountains, and the sea, and the sky. It made me write compulsively and take pictures like a maniac. It still keeps me at the computer for hours, editing, retouching, adjusting, tweaking a pixel at a time, patiently frantic. It makes my life nothing but extraordinary, it colours the world around me in pastel tones mixed with tongues of fire and tears of lightening. It increases my vibration level, it makes me rise, and sometimes sink. It has made my words spur out faster than the brain could sensor them. It makes me live impulsively, on the edge. It pushes me to take chances and be a dreamer. It once in a while keeps me awake at night, worried and concerned. It leaves me breathless and unable to discard threats disguised as artistic innocence. It must have to do with the French blood flowing through my veins. My dad had it, until the end. A big mouth, strong opinions, intense views of the world, never neutral, major parti pris, always ready for something crazy. And here I am. His portrait. And now it has found a new focus. Its power has been multiplied by a thousand. Its effects are rippling through my body and my soul, its symptoms clear; I don’t eat much, sleep poorly and daydream all the time. My mouth still at times accepts my foot. But in the end, it’s the essence of who I am.

It’s called passion.

And I intend to use it well. I will not wait and see. I will not be reasonable. I will never settle for less. I would not let go. I could not let go. And as someone so aptly - if ever rudely - said it recently, fuck the day, seize the girl. ;-)

 

 Posted at 3:53 PM in Always: & Schtroumpfissime: 3 Comments » Toggle display • Reply
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