I Microwave A Curry

I felt lunchtime hungry at 11.12am today, despite having porridge for breakfast.  I usually try to hold out until noon, but I'd brought some of last night's leftover chicken curry and rice into work and whilst I was answering emails, I saw the plastic box out of the corner of my eye, and it winked at me.   


I put the curry, with rice, onto a paper plate into the microwave in my office, and set the timer.  I ate it with a plastic fork at my desk, looking at my inbox.  The plate and fork are part of a never-ending stock which someone extremely optimistic brought to the 2012 Christmas party.  I burnt the roof of my mouth, slightly.


In my experience, the heat of food heated up in a microwave tastes different from the heat of food heated up on a pan or oven.  But I often mistrust my experience, so I searched, 'Is food heated up in microwaves differently hot?' on the internet. 


According to Yahoo Answers, in microwave cooking, the outside of the food gets heated by direct radiation, whereas the inside has to be heated by conduction. Conduction is a much slower process, and so the few minutes my curry was in the microwave was long enough to make the surface of the rice grains and sauce very hot, without the whole meal having an integrated sense of heat.  In future, I will leave microwaved food to stand for a few minutes and conduct itself properly.


Lunch, for me, was over by 11.32am.  In my experience, I'll be hungry again before home time.

I Resemble My Mother

People who remember her tell me that when I have my hair up, I look like my mother.  I put my hair up yesterday, which is maybe why I roasted the potatoes under the chicken.

Sometime in the early 1980s, Delia Smith told us, in her Complete Cookery Course, how to make roast potatoes crispy on the outside and fluffy inside.  Following her instructions, I have occasionally managed this. I parboil the potatoes for ten minutes, shake the pan to roughen their surfaces, then roast them at a very high temperature.  

My mother cooked a roast lunch - shoulder of lamb or chicken - every Sunday of my childhood.  She'd prepare it before we went to church at 11 o'clock.  Just before leaving the house, she would put the potatoes into the roasting tin around the meat. When we got back, she'd make thick gravy, and boil the peas and carrots.  The meal would be on the table by 1 o'clock, whatever the length of my father's sermon.  It was always the same, always delicious.

One thing I make differently from the way my mother made it is crumble mix.  I include oats, nuts and cinnamon with the flour, butter and sugar.  Sometimes, I add ginger or pine nuts.

Some days, I put my hair up; some days, I leave it loose.  I've never been able to decide which I prefer.

I Acquire A Plastic Bag

My new year's resolution was simple: a year without any  new bags, plastic ones.  I mean the ones that are handed out freely in shops in England, and which you have to pay for in Wales.  So far, I've acquired five new bags.  I can explain them all, but not satisfactorily.

Yesterday, I was looking for a bookcase for my books. I bought a pair of boots.

It's not that I hadn't been thinking of new boots - I think of new boots every time my old boots leak. I've been thinking of dark brown slip-on ones, something subtle and refined. I've been thinking of getting by till next autumn without them.

Within thirty minutes of setting off to find a bookcase, I was halfway down the high street carrying a plastic bag containing a pair of black lace-up boots which could pass for army surplus.  I met a friend in the shoe shop, and had been chatting to her so intently, that when I paid for them, I forgot to use the cotton bag I'd brought with me.

"Why is it," I asked my son later, "that I set off to buy a bookcase, and found myself instead with half price boots and an enormous plastic bag, and not even the boots I'd been thinking of buying?"

He looked at me, shrugged.  "Because you shop like a girl, mum."

I Manage My Emotions

I read somewhere today that managing one's emotions means hiding them.  I disagree. In my experience, managing emotions mainly involves taking them seriously, eating risotto, and getting enough sleep.

At a point I can't identify, my sons' bedtime became later than mine.  What is difficult about this transition  is that, even though they both regularly put their arms around my waist and lift me off the floor, I am reluctant to go to bed before they are safely tucked up.

When I was five years old, my parents imposed a bedtime of 6.30pm.  I'm sure I had a bedtime before this, but I can't remember what it was.  From this point,  it increased with my age by half-hourly intervals, until they lost track.  On that basis, I have probably circled the clock several times now, which explains the inclination I sometimes have to go to bed at two-thirty in the afternoon.  Once, this desire came upon me so strongly that I had to lie on the floor just where I was and sleep for ten minutes.  (It may have been longer, but the sign I put on the door said 'Back in 10 minutes'.)   I lay under my desk to be sure no one trod on me.

No one sets my bedtime these days, but I know when I have gone to bed after it.

I Check My Emails

My account with Barclays Bank has been suspended due to irregular activity, though I'm fairly certain I don't have an account with Barclays Bank.  This is also true of my accounts with Santander and NatWest. I know this because I check my emails from time to time.

One of the irregular activities with which I'm involved is running.  In general, I get my exercise from changing washers, swilling out mugs, stirring risotto and walking.  I combined three of these activities on the Pembrokeshire Coast Path last June.

The path is 186 miles long and runs from St Dogmaels in the north to Amroth in the south.  I have walked the section from Dinas Head to Solva.  It was one of the best weeks of my life.  Or rather, as I've walked it three times, they were three of the best weeks of my life.

Last year, my longest-serving friend, Helen, walked with me.  She showed me how to improve risotto with porcini mushrooms bought from the delicatessen in St David's.

It's useful that the Barclays email is signed 'Helpful Banking', or I may not have smelt a rat.

I Heat Up Some Leftovers

A current advert on Classic FM advises listeners to store their leftovers in clear plastic boxes so they can see them.  This evening I tipped the remains of last night's risotto out of a blue mug and heated them up in a non-stick saucepan.

Arborio rice is grown in the Po valley. I found this out from Wikipedia.  I also found out that its high starch content  makes it particularly good for absorbing flavours.

I tell my students never to cite Wikipedia in their assignments.

I first read of the Po valley in the Don Camillo books by Giovannino Guareschi.  The hotheaded and muscular priest, Don Camillo, spends his time and emotional energy trying to outwit the Communist mayor, Peppone.  And all this under the scrutiny of the never-to-be-fooled Christ who looks down on him from a cross above the altar in the village church: a wonderful characterisation of conscience.

As long as I have rice, and an inch of leftover white wine, I can usually find the wherewithal - however empty the fridge - to make risotto.  This one included mushrooms.

I Wash Out My Mug

This morning, I brushed my teeth in cold water.  It was 6.30am.  I brushed them again at 8.00am.

At work, I wash my tea mug in the sink in the toilets.  I have been doing this ever since the staff kitchen was made into a corridor four or so years ago.

I say that, but I did go through a  phase when I'd march up the sweep of the main staircase with a bowl full of mugs, a bottle of washing up liquid, a scourer and a 'My Kitchen is for Dancing' tea towel.  I washed up in the hot, soapy water of the kitchen on the executive corridor, to the hiss and suck of percolating coffee, hoping to be thrown out.

If I want hot water, I have to press the tap down.  One shot lasts long enough for a quick swill around.