Out into nothing

An odd thing struck me at, ooh, about 13,500 feet above Seville. As a self-confessed pudding enthusiast, I wish I could say that I was inspired at this point, by the dusty curvature whistling towards my trainers, to bake some kind of spherical, earthen Heston Blumenthal creation. Or perhaps the correct food blogger response (to the initially feared, but actually giggle-fit-inducing, sky-plummetting situation i found myself in) would be to empathise with the fateful sinking of souffles everywhere. Amongst the ruffling silence and gravity getting all carried away, my mind should have been gloriously awash with the smells and flavours of dinner-times past, flashing before my eyes....
THUD.

Nope. Somehow, all I wanted was 1 x can Diet Coke, fresh from the shop fridge, with all those beads of condensation on the outside, as if it had been making such a (successful) effort to be delicious it had actually begun to perspire. Such drinks might be tins of effervescent murk, chemical-ridden enough to polish a coin to a sheen, but if anyone thinks they can tell me Coca Cola don't know how to market themselves, then I would like to bloody hear it.

'Cafe Cloud 9' -Vendors of the glory drink

You like to think that you're immune to the stuff, oh yeah...

It's fair to say intention is 'honourable'. Except, more often than not, the word is meant in a sidling, Mark Antony way. Despite good intentions, it seems more at home describing the expensive dud firework, the post-Christmas diet, the "We should really do lunch sometime", than anything the dictionary would have you believe. Intention and reality: flippantly dreaming younger brother, dropping far-fetched plans quicker than he can pluck them out of the air, lazes near bluntly discerning older sister, her eyebrows smirkingly doubtful of his frivolities over her spectacles.

If today had gone according to plan, you would currently be perusing evidence of my obsession with GCBMB (Glam Crap Beyond My Budget). For this, read: caligraphy-fine seams, caramel-soft drapes, soirees of sartorial gems fresh and crisp pinned over ambitiously proportioned mannequins. Hours must have passed as I squinted for signs of GCBMB (sleek, slender bags with people to match, the tell-tale iridescent smoke of burning Platinum AmEx's, etc). Not a prima donna Labradoodle in sight.

Until... a distant pink placard caught the light. Peering over my sunnies, it hit me. Cosy reality was welcoming me home. Like a peckish prodigal daughter, I coyly scuttled over, wondering why I had ever strayed. Surely GCBMB could also stand for Gorgeous Cookery ...Baking ...Marvellously..... oh whatever, gimmee the cake.

"Tease", self-proclaimed 'Rock&Roll Bakery of Lisbon', turned out to be more bad-ass 'My Little Pony' than AC/DC, but it was undoubtedly a Nirvana... (I know. Can't be trusted with puns.). Black velveteen skull wallpaper, neon-glass tiered platters, pop-rock radio and faux-WWII "Keep Calm and Eat a Cupcake" poster : highly commended kitsch glitz.

The Aardvark picked a "Kiss Me on the Raspberry" (apparently in Portugal "Rock&Roll" loosely translates as demanding, yet confusingly vague, sluttiness?) cupcake, cooing over the miniature pick'n'mix treats lodged amongst Panda Pop blue frosting. As The Duck scowled testosterone at the 'manly' butterfly cake I suggested ("ooh look, there's a dinky little football on that one!!"), I confessed to my tastebuds- while window-shopping above my station is always relished, and my fascination with ogling snooty boutiques will be a life-long passion, I might as well face it: I'm addicted to... cake. There, I said it. (Oh don't kid yourself Robert Palmer, Valentines Day ain't got nothing on Victoria Sponge).

My slice was every crumb a rockstar, and a diva at that. Basking on lavish napkin layers, in a be-ribboned box, plus an actual fork escort- it found its every need pandered to. Eying the Prestige Pud, i began to feel that the borders defining who was the boss of whom were becoming concerningly hazy. Before things got dramatic, I asserted my authority. Nom nom nom.

And it was word perfect. Lunch didn't even get a look in. I mean, look at the size of the thing. The Aardvark's managed to face-plant the napkins enroute: a streaked blue daub told the story of its gooey demise. Sweet but short-lived, out with a bang ; a rock'n'roll hero till the end.

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Mission Improbable

While the Duck settles in front of the Spain vs. Germany match for the foreseeable future, unblinking over the rim of a Guiness, at a green screen filled with effeminate hairstyles and pain thresholds, I enjoy the sensation of not melting. 40 degrees is one of those things that's always more fun in retrospect, or in the possesion of strawberry daquaris/coastline/a wind tunnel. As I find myself with a freshly solidified brain, and nothing but waiting for the Granada-Madrid nightbus and a gormlessly sport-struck Duck in front of me, I thought I'd do some catching up.

Olhao, Costa de la Luz. Apre beach, the Aardvark and I embarked on a challenge. It's nothing new- up and down the country, all around the globe, anyone with enough time, money and venues attempts it- the contradictory contest in which the harder you try, the harder you lose. The Pub Crawl. Except we didn't have pubs, and as fond as we both are of fun-by-the-pint, it was time for a change. And so the Pastelaria Crawl was born.

Rules: three venues, three 'players', a different cake each in every venue. (Due to the 40 degreesness, the "Hell no H20" rule does not apply.)

1: Cafe Bijou

I coasted through my 'Moxgado', a coconut-rolled marmalade snowball, in minutes. The Aardvark ambitiously started as she meant to go on- a bulbous choux-bun grimly weighed down her napkin, not unlike the glistening contents of a surgeons kidney dish. Its marshmallow centre swelling a jaundice yellow, an optimistic Aardvark peeringly observed it as "like an eclair?". I pictured this particular dessert provoked just moments before purchase, a little bun with a bigger temper- "You don't want to make me angry. You wouldn't like me when I'm angry...".The Duck, gamely prepared to swap his doubles for danishes, embarked on layer after layer of ...what's in it? "...niceness.". I suppose that's what counts. A few minutes later, as the clock ticked round to Cafe 2, the Duck's pace was flagging. Marble icing glistened in defiance. "I can ... barely breathe".

2: Olhao Doco

The Duck lurked at the table while the Aardvark and I picked our poison. "I can't ... why do you DO this to yourself?!". This reminded us of the pub vs. pasteleria comparison- why is excess easier out of a glass that off a plate? The calorie binging, highs and lows and chance of a queezy aftermath drew parallel after parallel. On that note, I offered the Duck a biscuit- "it basically counts as a shot". Unamused, he stalked off to buy a paper.

The Aardvark's fruit slice turned out to be the cream pie's glamourous cousin- a slick rosy gloss daintly graced the fatty brick below. As deep as it was long, my 'Bolo do Noz' clearly favoured the "Less is more!? Don't be such a pussy" school of thought. The Aardvark enthused about the nutritional benefits of walnuts as I doubtfully nursed the syrupy glut, but, to my dismay, I left a few spongey boulders uneaten, and set off for Cafe 3 in shame. Definatly should have gone for one of those cookies iced like a prawn.

3: Cafe del Lightweight Embarrasmento
Our pot of green tea numbed the sugar-shakes, as the Duck raised "I told you so" eyebrows over The Times. The Aardvark tried to tame violent hiccup fits: "Not just normal hiccups- the hiccups of regret". Who knew sleepy village pastries packed such a punch? Only the crosstrainer can save us now. Our Fitness First, who art in the multiplex...

Davey Jones' Dinner Table

The ever ominous, but irritatingly knowledgeable "they" say that the way to a man's heart is through his stomach. "They"'re right again; it seems Portugal is bringing out the bloke in me, because, after only five days, I find myself being gradually seduced, one plate at a time.

And that's how time should be categorized here- not daily but dishly: 5 days translates as minimum 15 full meals, plus drinks, plus snacks plus bites-of-other-peoples-stuff-that-looked-nice. A telling cultural idiosyncrasy: Brits tell the time by how much the sun isn't there, the Portuguese by how close it is to lunch-time.

Here's some of the gastromagic that's been enchanting me over here:


From 3 hot plastic chairs, the Duck ordered us "Bacalhao no chupa", because it sounds fun and it might not be a burger. Maybe fish would turn up? Maybe some veggies? What swiftly, nonchalantly arrived was more: it was Fish. And. Veggies. And some kind of beautifully unnecessary onion-mayo octopus, lurking in the shadow of a stout crown of Lemon.

The day after the night before, it was decided that we would do something nutritious/wholesome- cue "Mariscos Kivos": the kind of fish restaurant where you can adopt the air of a firm but fair ruler, casting a discerning eye over a fish tank, before making your deadly selection....anyway, as this seems creepy/ power-trippy, we took the indirectly carnivorous approach. The Aardvark, the Duck and I blearily ordered, "Arroz do mariso especial", before lolling table-ward, eyes still gilded with a lucid film of Super Bock.

Cue cutlery chimes and a muffled, dense sound, not unlike a hefty object dropped through the waters onto a sandy seabed. Squinting back into focus, we saw a cauldron, billowing brine steam, had landed. It could have casually housed 6 generations of rampant generations of be-pincered seabeast and scampering aqua-critter....coincidence? Trust the Portuguese to whack in a saucepan what we put on a pedestal- amid saturated, aptly sand grain shaped, rice grains, we dredged three lobster halves (does the remaining half still battle out its days, teetering round in inevitable circles, featuring in rubber-necking Channel 4 documentaries; "Extraordinary Bodies: Severed Stew Survivor"?).

3/4 of an hour later, the Aadvark could be found star-fished on her mattress, a sign groggily pinned nearby, "Please wake me up when I don't have all of the sea in me? xx".

Cerebral Breeze

(rather sizeable flag by the Duoro river in Porto)


(my pasty knees appreciating a beaching at Povoa De Varzim)

It came to my consentingly ultra-violated attention this afternoon, as I positioned myself spine-to-sand and space-to-face, that I'm not sure why beaches haven't completely ousted spas from the luxury leisure market. It's not as if beaches haven't got economies of scale on their side (given that there are roughly 356,000 km of coastline in the world, at least 2/3 of that must be deck-chair friendly). Although not all of them are accompanied by a glossy minimalist pamphlet or satisfyingly gravelly circular driveway, the beach rivals the spa in all the core credentials - simply trade fluffy bathrobes for charmingly frayed beach towels, flannel slippers for skinny dippers, candles and Perrier for Cornettos and pier-jumps; suddenly spas start to look like a primitive prototype for their sandy counterparts. Especially considering the luxury spa claim of the "all inclusive" notably excludes the smooth, cream-crested cerulean depths, freezer fresh Magnums and invitingly tanned locals called Pedro or something- it's a wonder tourists haven't thrown in their cucumber slices for sunglasses years ago.

A brisk sea wind rolls a soft jostle across my towel, through my toes. Tousling loose hairs, like the reassuring hand of a relative, it insistantly hustles out the pedantic strains and petulent stresses that, drainingly unwelcome, bustle and stagnate in every nerve ending, naggingly sensitive to every touch.

I'm relieved to feel them dusted away; those dredges and bundles of frantic fret that silently leeched from an otherwise sunny dispostion. The seaside is medicinal, purifying in its granular swerves, its blunt unhuman denial of repitition, disregarding of habit and the practical. Not one shore the same, not even the same stretch matches from second to second; but like James Bond's varying but inevitable successes, or Jordan's perennial demises, each more reliably and predictably embarassing than the last , the coastline reassuringly supplies a fret-draining fix at each and every port. Except Weston-Super-Mare, which remains life re-affirming solely for Jeremy Kyle's producer.

Harrow, Goodbye

"How lucky I am to have something that makes saying goodbye so hard."
— A.A. Milne

Blustered and mingling whorls of heeled up, tanned up, tanked up shadows ebb and flow. Road to road, house to taxi, they lace the wet air with the evenings jokes, amplified by lambrini. Looking out from my attic window, I'm about to go out and be one of them, all sparkles and picture-posing and quid-each-to-Broad-Street-yeah?. I can't wait. But, after tonight, I'll have to wait. The year abroad is so near now I can smell the gelato on its breath; the thrill of change so close, its almost tangible. Glancing back at my old, and someone else's new, room, I remember how it's quietly held it's own this past year.

The blue tack blemishes, pin pockmarks: evidence that it, fleetingly, held up posters, treasured photos, cards, decorations- flimsy projections of a personality that worked, rested, played and shortly stayed in these four walls. Housemates joined me here for the lows and the highs:

There's the high-flying Landan Gal, with a faff here and a Gallo there, she'll make the headlines (literally).
Our forever-birthday Performer Princess is the fun and glamorous star of the show, and the boss of it, naturally.
The Fresher's Choice and all-round bloke's bloke (but don't forget, Cameron's HIS main man) is always there to supply logic, reason and advice, fuelled by Coco Shreddies and Pot Noodle (that is unless it's Forrest'O'Clock).
There's the Main Mod, whose media technology, music knowledge, love of Smiley Faces and upholding of personal style remain unsurpassed.
And who could forget Chef Celtic: he's your man for football, films, cooking up hilarious disaster out on the town, and always for a hug and a glass of Papa Murdie's finest.
Last but not least, honorary member Top Tough Cookie, which I now know is a soft cookie really: together we should make bipolar opposing mayhem, but instead, I'm glad to know that her brusque, stylish self is always on the end of that award-winning phone.

So I turn and teeter downstairs to join them all for a drink and a party, altogether, once more with feeling. See you soon 53, you'll be missed.

xxx

Chocolate Marble Cheesecake- patience is a virtue

So I had a balmy afternoon, a newly spangly-clean kitchen (thanks Shires) and the end of a terms loan dawdling in my debit card. What's a girl to do?

Each marbled segment a glistening portal to a peaceful 3 minutes or so- it was worth the wait, worth nearly buying blue food colouring instead of vanilla essence, worth actually waiting the proper time for it to chill instead of just shoving it in the bottom of the freezer. Cheesecake, an enigmatic delight: no matter how much double cream, creamy chocolate, sour cream and cream cheese you cream together and ladle onto butter biscuits, it inevitably results in fresh, soothing forkfuls, like clouds condensed. Oh goody, I can use my cake stand .... but why are there a pair of diamente grills and a stack of frat-party style cups living on it? Selly Oak, how I'll miss you...