Now that we are twenty-three

Terrifying, and yet strangely reassuring. Bars have stopped carding me, possibly because I live in Europe. Phil is somewhere in foreign parts, which is also pretty par for the last few years. Last year involved Cambridge and a lost application, and buckets of tears; this year- well, I am at Oxford, and if there were any tears, it was my party, eh?

At midnight there was a call! A mysterious ring; strange voices. And to the clamor I ran, sans shoes; sans coat.

To find cake, and sparklers, and a bevy of singing flatmates! Additionally, an alarm and post-cakial sparkling wine, because really, what is one a.m. on your birthday without sparkling wine? (Do not answer this.)

Or, you know, breakfast on your birthday without cake.

Really, recuse yourself from answering all that. Let’s call the day instead a dedication to Our Lady of Pashmina, who ensured that nothing extraneous caught on fire during the great Cake Dedormestration of 2010.

Somewhere in the haze of the next couple of days, which involved Roman coins, Celtic depictions of men with spirals for cheeks and the retreat of Britain into Bronze Age cow pastures, because apparently, innovations like “plumbing” and “walls” were declasse after the Romans chucked down their woolen socks and splashed back to the motherland, Hilary Term ceased to be. It slipped back into the dull and dark reaches of the Sackler, eight weeks of intermittent rain and economic theory later.

In order to forget that there was a Manhattan, sweet and neat, and cheers and toasts all around. Also several hours spent melting butter, melting chocolate (85%, 100%, a soft, crumbling 72%) into the pot, sprinkling salt, pouring wine. Could there be a more auspicious beginning to a cake? “Melt butter. Find the most perfect chocolate in the world, and add the crisp bite of salt; sip a dark red that will taste of late nights and tangos and pour that cup in too”. Take another cup; at this point, the cake is still molten, it is a deep, perfect roil, the chocolate slicks onto the spoon, and it begs to be licked.

(Additionally, there are eggs, and bourbon vanilla, and sugar, because what the hell, it’s cake. (Or heaven, or hell, or  a random collection of letters your tongue shouldn’t be saying, because it should be enthralled by the power of a pound of chocolate, avec amis.) Then you pour truffle ganache over the outside; it was dusted with Maldon sea salt flakes, because I believe in pretentions and perversion of whatever the fudge the New York government is trying to pass off as legal code.)

Although I don’t believe one should extol ones’ friends in the same vein (i.e. melting, licking, cake, dipping in sea salt) it behooves me to note that the lads and lasses of Flat G, St X and the Department of Archaeology that lent their laughter, poetry recitals, crisp white wines and political commentary to the evening are some of the finest folk ever.

What? What’s that? Sap and drivel? Nonsense! Rubbish! No cake for you!

Alchemy

French toast. In chocolate form. Lime, salt, crunchy chips: in chocolate form. Salt. Chocolate. There is no reason for this product to not be on my tongue, except that my mouth is located in ye oldie England, and this newfangled, palette-slaking thing appears to be for purchase on Amazon.americawhereyoucanalsobuycheappeanutbutterhahahaha.

It’s the secret, black card entrance to their website, right there.

And yes, if you’re thinking, is this archaeological chocolate, is this cultural? Those are bad questions, as you are on my blog, and this thing involves salt and appropriate percentages of cocoa mass, and really? This will, one day, be a sign that the human race turned to hedonism and gluttony and o Bacchus, was it good.

Ah, luxury.

Because sometimes even I find potsherds to be slightly less than enthralling, the material culture of more recent eras mysteriously creeps before my eyes.

Good idea:

I mean, awesome. Quill pen? Rum? Mythological sea creature?!

Bad idea:

They’re out of stock at Harrod’s. I’m not going to say that one couldn’t spend a couple hundred pounds on fishing lures for your eyes, I’m just going to say that if a Luna moth attempts to woo your face, you have only your bedazzled lids to blame.

Tea and cakes and snow, oh my

Belated ciao

Oops so Iàm in Rome. In the haste of last minute papers and citations and the hell that was Gatwick airport, that was forgotten. Rome is rain-slicked but warm, and honestly, late night walks in the rain after parfait alle mandorle amare are nothing to scoff at. Now composed of 36% flaky pastry by volume. Took 150 photographs of a cistern/latrine/hole in the ground made by the Romans which is really all the incentive I needed to wander through tunnels for half an hour.

Also have drunken at least two shots of espresso. oh Italy you are glorious.

Oh, Britannia!

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Dear Santa: Please Gads No.

Plaid is a common dessert defense mechanism.

Once upon a time, fashion designers made frocks of toile and tutus of frills; they called it “couture” and it was magical. Few could buy such baubles of silk but then again, few people ever owned a Masaccio, either. Now, it has come to this.

Regarding that cheesecake, dressed in tartan no less, it hails from Junior’s and will feature a Mizrahi-mandated chocolate cookie crust…And pardon the designer if, when asked about the credibility of his gastronomic selections, he turns a bit defensive. “To me, they’re very important, wonderful things”

.

Oh, really? I mean, I think chocolate is an important, wonderful thing. Cheesecake is a genre of cakes, the greater sphere of which I am a notable fan. My vaguely Scottish blood thrills at the tartan, except that this kind of looks like a pun on schoolgirls in jumpers. Nothing, I repeat nothing, should remind me of Holton’s hallways en route to mastication. Oh boy! It tastes of rejected play auditions and generic pudding!

The point is, I own much of Mizrahi’s work for Target, aimed at those of us without actual clan crests and castles. It is structured, it is sensible, it didn’t appear to be leaking chocolate goo from the seams.

Unlike this:

Now, I’m not opposed to gowns for charity. It’s just that the model herself looks so shamefaced over this that her neck cannot support the weight of it all. Also, NPR reports this chilling morsel:

But perhaps the most exciting news of all this season is that the NFL’s latest merchandising partner is none other than Victoria’s Secret. Now, female fans will have more support than ever on Game Day.

Personally, the family Tin Can Man, with his earnest grin and cheer for the Steelers is a beloved reminder of the wackiness of home. That’s grit! That’s determination! I could live in a world with pre-chilled beer mugs, Pittsburgh Steelers Propane Tank Covers and Pittsburgh Steelers Bobble Football Air Fresheners. (Mainly because, hilarious! Now your whole car can smell fresh, like the locker room, and the wind rolling off the field during game day!) But Steelers lingerie is something the world should never, ever see.

Wait, wait, nalgenes aren’t classy?

Box wine, guys. Box wine. Alternatively: water? Is this somehow passe? Besides, if you’re traipsing down that path, the woods require real spirits. Real, 276 proof, the kind of booze that nullifies livers, that melts mere glass, that gets you arrested in five countries and fifteen counties….you clearly need the real deal.

Aww, yeah. Oh, wait…

Oh, baby. That’s right: namby-pamby wine flasks can in no way compete with German hunting lodge regalia. Besides, if you wake up next to the chewing, gnashing version of this:

(Via Boingboing)

…you have something to actually throw. Or at least toast Thanatos.

Every village has one

And not an idiot, either. I mean instead the crazy old lady or two, who banter and patter through the whole day. If you speak their language there is no escape but you get in return a series of sitcom-ready punchlines and riddles for fortune cookies. Our set sits between the dig house and the dormitory, just before the street with the tangerine and lime facade. A goodnight is mandatory, even for those of us with a vocabulary limited to “kebab” and they’ll still spill out the good stuff just in case we magically learned the mother tongue during the day.

Hos geldiniz to Tarsus, by the way. Tarsus is much like Tilisca in that it has dust, sunshine and bewildered roosters. Unlike Transylvania, it also has solar powered heated brand spanking new showers, electricity, cooks, tea all the time, wireless internet, Roman terracottas…although it does have blue Dacias. Odd. Also we’re supposed to start work, i.e. up on top of the giant Gozlukule mound, at daybreak, meaning breakfast served at 4:30. That would be A.M.

Indiana Jones, this ain’t. On the other hand people had a tendency to die around him. Bullwhip, sure death….bullwhip, death by paper work…this never ends well.

How do you tell time here? My own little technologically advanced watch requires the addition of eight hours, minus seven minutes, which is totally not helpful. Instead, look up. Bright, scorching sun. But in the morning at daybreak is the first call to prayer; five times a day the loudspeakers come on and the calls echo throughout the mountains. A rooster gets terrified by the proud German clock tower that bongs every hour and half past, so usually midnight is a heap of sqwacks. Possibly he was eaten yesterday though. At one there is a reputed breeze that sweeps the streets and even up on the hill where there is no shade. If the sun goes down, it’s dinner time and then if it is dark it’s time for all good archaeologists to be tucked up in bed.

Speaking of which the exodus to the roof terrace informs me that perhaps I owe a visit to the dinner table.

gule gule