Ripe London

The Heat is On

I was smart enough to get myself down to one of the sold-out premier screenings of The Age of Stupid today.  The 90-minute film about climate change and why it's in our power to stop it goes on UK-wide release this Friday, March 20th.  You really can't afford to miss it; so buy your tickets now, smarty pants.  Tell everyone you know.  And even people you don't.

Cleaning out their closets?

I knew Ripe London reached far and wide, but this takes the (egg-free) cake.

According to Radio 4 (better than TV – more on that later), Gordon Brown is reportedly upset by the way he is being portrayed in press cartoons.  He apparently thinks they’re making him look extra plump.  Well, one look at this latest Virgin Active poster tells me he must be getting up before dawn for a slimming round of sun salutations.  It also appears that he and Cameron have set aside their differences in pursuit of clean living.   In true British spirit, I say well done...and welcome!

And this just in: Russell Brand is allegedly planning to go vegan and, wait for it: celibate. This from the same man who supposedly does it three times a day. A she-tox, perhaps?  Thanks for reading, Rusty.  I’m really touched...but not there.

Room for Seconds

A few weeks ago I hatched my plan to set up Krista with a fellow gastronome of the male variety.   No experience needed – Krista would take care of that – only a hearty appetite and oh yes, good teeth.  Well, she has just posted about her first date with The Economist; and, even though I am intrigued by this "time and aggravation theory" and am certain they enjoyed a nice banter about maternity benefits over the baby squid, I'm feeling there might yet be room for another hungry gentleman to, as they say, get in there.  In other words, I think Krista is still on the market.  So what's your amuse-bouche waiting for?

Paradise Waiting

Maybe you’ve heard it before, but only last month I came across a theory about heaven and hell that has completely re-framed my view of existence.  The idea goes that this is heaven if we choose to make it or, as my friend Jen said when we were munching on Exmouth market salad the other day, “Everything is right here.”

It’s easy to see the validity in this if you just look around.  I mean really look around.   A perfect cluster of grapes, the beauty of flowers that no painter can improve upon.  Is this not heaven?  And if you want more proof, just travel.  Yesterday I happened to run into someone I met in Thailand.  It took me a few moments to place the face; after all that was a timeless time of sand between my toes and coconut shakes within my grasp.  Now, I was at Canteen in Southbank on a still-wintry day, deciding whether to have smoked mackerel and potato salad or the eggs Florentine – a quite heavenly circumstance in itself.  Still, memories of paradise came in waves.  The bursts of colour, the way the beach turned to liquid silver at sundown.  Was that not heaven?

This is heaven if we choose to make it.

It’s at once an uplifting and terrifying proposition considering the world’s state of affairs.  As for hell, the theory goes that it isn’t a place but rather the inability to experience the heavenly pleasures we have right here.  In other words: death.   But would the scores of oppressed people alive today call this paradise?  As another friend always said, “It’s all relative.”

This is heaven if we choose to make it. 

I chose the mackerel and potato salad that came out of the sea and out of the earth and out of…what?  We don’t know.  What we do know is that we have an amazing creative intelligence to use the mystery and wonder of our existence for the greater good.

The myriad of expressions we can use to love rather than hate. 

This is where we go wrong, and where the theory gains even more strength. This is heaven only if we give up the fruitless struggle for power and treat each other with the kind of reverence you’d reserve for heaven.

Canteen is at Royal Festival Hall, Belvedere Rd, SE1 8XX.  But only if you go see Mark Ravenhill's important short plays first.

Let the Bidding Begin!

This year’s Menu for Hope has officially begun with a phenomenal list of food prizes from around the world.  Here's how to donate to the campaign and place your bid for Ripe London Right on Your Doorstep from yours truly :

1. Go to the Firstgiving donation site to make your donation.  Each $10 you donate will give you one raffle ticket toward a prize of your choice.

3.  You will be asked to confirm your donation.  Please specify which prize(s) you'd like to bid on in the PERSONAL MESSAGE field. The prize code for Ripe London Right on Your Doorstep is UK21.  You must enter how many tickets per prize you’d like and specify the prize code.  This can be for a single prize or combination of prizes.

For example, a donation of $50 could be 3 tickets for UK21 and 2 tickets for UK18. You would then enter 3xUK21, 2xUK18. 

4. If your company matches your charity donation, please check the box and fill in the information so we can claim the corporate match.

5. Please also check the box to allow us to see your email address so that we can contact you if you win.  Your email address will not be shared with anyone.

That’s it.  Check Chez Pim on Wednesday 9 January 2008 for the results of the raffle to see if you're a lucky winner!  I'd love to put your name on that box.

The fine print:  I will send the box as a gift with postage paid. In the event that there are any duties, these will be the responsibility of the recipient.

Cooking for Burma

Just before the protests began, my friend Jennifer Klinec of creative cooking school Eat Drink Talk spent three weeks in Burma getting acquainted with the country's cuisine.  Compelled to help, she is holding a Burmese cuisine class next Tuesday, 16 October. If you’re free, please sign up.  Jen’s not only an amazing cook and teacher, but all profits from the class will be donated to the Burma Campaign UK.

Eat Drink Talk is at Unit 102, 190 St John St, EC1V 4JY.  Telephone:  (020) 7689 6693.  Photo by Jennifer Klinec

48 Hours Later

The sound system outside Mike's Cafe yesterday at Notting Hill Carnival.

Pass the Butter Beer

What:        Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows release   
Where:      Waterstones Kensington
When:       An eerily chilly midsummer night

The queue (that’s “line” to those Stateside) wrapped around the corner bookshop and into the depths of this Americanized West London neighbourhood.  A few witch hats poked above the crowd, but most fans went without costumes. Staff floated about in Hogwarts robes dispensing games and candy to an international mix of young and old.

Two raven-haired girls stood just behind the barriers. They had been waiting since 6:30pm.

Frankie Tobi and Tara Alaka, both 15 from London, sprung from the sidewalk to chat.  Long-time school friends, they spoke in a chorus:

“This is the end of our childhood,” grieved Frankie, who flashed a lightning-bolt ‘scar’ above her brow and was only five years old when her sister started reading the Potter books to her.  “It’s been all through our childhoods,” confirmed Tara, a Smashing Pumpkins fan in a well-worn “Nightmare Before Christmas” tee shirt.

Further down the winding mass of excited fans, a 13-year-old with a heart-swelling French accent was plainly poetic as he praised JK Rowling’s storytelling.  “It’s about love and compassion and death,” said Rafik Lalam, vacationing here from his native Algeria.  Suddenly, a melancholic look crossed his face.  “I think Harry’s gonna die.”

Conspiracy theories abounded, none more developed than Sam McGrath’s, a 12-year-old from Dublin.  Sam’s here for the week with the rest of his Potter-loving clan.  “I think Harry’s scar will be a Horcrux so Harry will have to sacrifice himself and Neville will kill Voldemort.”

Older kids had no qualms about their Potter mania.  “It’s nice to see people not ashamed to read non-adult fiction,” said Jesse Alter, a 26-year-old editor and ex-pat from Washington, DC who had just finished a round of potion roulette.

“I’m a bit frightened about how I’m going to feel,” said Australian Amanda Broderick, 23.  Amanda works in finance for a record label and says the books are a welcome escape from reality.

As midnight drew near, everyone joined in a vociferous countdown.  Finally, the window displays were unveiled as Frankie and Tara rushed through.  Inside, the store’s own Harry Potter looked both content and bemused in what he called a “historic moment.”

“This is the first time we got 1,300 reservations,” said a bespectacled Xavier Aldana, 23.  It was also the first time he had seen adults go wild for something like this.  “People were drinking quite heavily on the street.  Beer and vodka.”

Xavier is from Barcelona.

Frankie & Tara photo by Tiffany Williams

¿Qué Pasa, U.K.?

Well rounded yet immature.  Often disappointing, especially the nice-looking ones.  Why is it so hard to find a good man – I mean mango – in this town?

I’ve been pondering this question with my friend Luis, the only other Cuban American I’ve ever known in London.  We met at rowing, and he alone understands how bizarre it is for a girl from Miami to find herself floating on the Thames.  Having grown up not far from me, he also knows a decent mango when he sees one. 

They say ignorance is bliss, and so it follows that knowledge must be torture.  In Miami we’d pick mangoes off the tree, and if you had one in your house for even a few hours it would fill the air with what must surely be the scent of paradise.  But oh the poor mango that finds itself in England, plucked much too early and shipped across the world to a climate completely unsuited to its nature.  No wonder it refuses to change from a sickly manila shade into the same radiance as the sun.  Can we blame it for keeping its potentially potent perfume away from us who selfishly demand to rip it from its tropical home?  Magnificent mango, thou art rightfully too good for this!

The title of this post is a play on ¿Qué Pasa, U.S.A.?, a bilingual TV sitcom in the 70s which accurately –and hilariously – depicted a Cuban family coming to grips with their new life in Miami.  The Peñas struggled to make sense of everything from citizenship and driving exams to un-chaperoned dating and garage sales.  It became so popular that anybody who lived in Miami can still recite every episode by heart, Luis and myself included.

We are appalled at the sham of these “perfectly ripe” mangoes, I can’t tell you how much – not in Spanish or English or even Spanglish.  It’s a flabbergasted isolation similar to what the Peña family felt. 

Time and distance have done nothing to cheat the tastebuds that woke up in the tropics.

Lunchtime Laughs

I promise a proper post soon, but in the meantime I hope this brings you to tears -- good ones:

Weight Watchers recipe cards, circa 1974

Make sure you read all the captions.