Tuesday, 25 January 2011

The Best Chicken Soup Recipe Ever!

An ex-boyfriend's mum once told me that you can judge whether someone can cook by the quality of their chicken soup. No, she wasn't Jewish, but she was a great cook. I've tried a hundred different recipes for said benchmark dish but then today, just when I was messing about, I made the best chicken soup I have ever made. Here it is. If anyone can tell me which is the step that makes it so good, I'll be all agog to hear. (If you hate it, just keep your gob shut, would you?)

You'll need:

500g chicken wings
2 large leeks chopped into 1cm rings
1 large onion, coarsely chopped
4 medium carrots chopped into 1cm rings
1 large potato chopped into 1cm cubes
1 hot chilli finely chopped
2 cloves of garlic finely chopped
3cm piece of fresh ginger finely grated
300g jar/tin of cooked chick peas
2 tbsp chopped, dried thyme
50g salted butter
juice of 1 lemon
250ml full cream milk

Method:

  1. Place the chicken wings in a large pan and cover with water. Bring to the boil and skim off the scummy foam on top of the water. Remove the wings immediately and run under a cold tap to cool them them pat them dry with kitchen paper. Keep the water to one side.
  2. In another large soup pan melt the butter and add the leeks, onion, garlic, carrots, ginger and chilli. Cook gently until the onion goes transparent then add the chicken wings, thyme and the water from step 1. Bring the pan to the boil and cook vigorously for 15 mins or until the liquid has reduced in volume by half.
  3. Turn down the heat and add the chick peas and potato and then add more boiling water to double the volume. Cover and simmer for 30 mins.
  4. Take the pan off the heat and remove the chicken wings and around a third of the vegetables. Place these on one side and then use a hand blender to whiz the soup down until it's completely smooth.
  5. When they're cool enough to handle, remove all the meat and skin from the chicken wings and return it to the soup along with the vegetables you removed at the same time.
  6. Add salt to taste and the lemon juice and milk. Serve straight away with a bit of crusty bread.
I promise you that this is one of the best chicken soups you'll ever taste...and cheap? Ni hablar, as they say round here.

Tuesday, 14 December 2010

Days Nine to Thirteen

Well, I’ve no idea what that was all about. I think it’s the intrinsic boredom of a long cruise that drives the crew to invent curious rituals that make no sense to anyone. Crossing the Line ceremonies are a bit like family tartans – a completely fabricated piece of pseudo-tradition that allows for a lot of shouting, getting dirty, throwing gunge and pushing people into the swimming pool, and none the worse for that!

Now, despite having crossed the equator three days ago, and having been in the tropics for a week, the weather is still cool and cloudy. We’ve had a total of about 4 days of sunshine in fourteen! I blame the cruise line, I know that this is not their fault, but they certainly don’t go out of their way to be loved. Here’s just 5 things they do that put everyone’s backs up:
1. They charge for all drinking water except at mealtimes, yes, even for water to brush your teeth! Tap water tastes foul and is never cold, just in case you wanted to try to drink it.
2. The internet connection is just a smidge faster than dial-up but costs €18 per hour!
3. The ship has its own cinema, but for this 17-day cruise they appear to have brought just 5 movies to show in it. What could have been a real treat is now just a bore and no one bothers to go to see the fourth screening of The A-Team.
4. The standard of food can be described as variable at best. Lunchtime and breakfast buffets haven’t changed in a fortnight. I think we’re all really looking forward to getting ashore in Namibia and eating something different.
5. No TV. The satellite system seemed to go down 9 days ago and hasn’t been fixed since. I’m no news junkie, but I am pretty curious to find out what’s been happening in the World.

And that’s the weirdest sensation of all. For the past 5 days we have been chugging steadily south-southeast across the Atlantic, way beyond sight of land and we haven’t spotted a single other vessel in all that time. I tend to spend at least an hour or two every day on the forward observation deck just gazing out to sea, watching the flying fish jump out of our way and playing Midshipman Hornblower on the Dog Watch, scouring the horizon with my binoculars for signs of French Men-o-War or Somali pirates. Nada.

I started off by seeing if I could meditate on the distant expanse of water, but discovered I couldn’t, so I gaze and think, and think and gaze. I think a lot. A lot of shit, to be honest, but occasionally something interesting pops up.

On a cruise like this I, and everyone else it seems, clicks into major, rabid book readin’. I’ve got through half-a-dozen, which is a lot, even for me. I seem to be less discriminatory too. Please, please believe me when I tell you to avoid 7 Seconds by Jack Harrison. That is some kind of path-fouling, dog poo! Do try Rain Gods by James Lee Burke and the QI Book of General Ignorance. By all means have a go at The Savage Detectives by Roberto Bolaño, but don’t expect to finish it all in one go; no one’s that patient! I’m just about to open up The Year of the Flood by the magnificent Attwood. I’ll get back to you on that one.

The day after tomorrow we arrive in Walvis Bay and Milord and I are debarking to grab a cab and head up the coast to Swakopmund, where the recent remake of the Prisoner was filmed. The architecture sounds odd and impressive and a blast up the Skeleton Coast could be fun.

Now, important matters. The World Champion’s Quiz (please don’t point out the redundant apostrophe, we did that on Day One) concludes tomorrow with Team Mephisto a nail-biting 4 points in the lead going into the final round. Despite expectations, I’m finding that my competitive streak is as nothing compared to several other teams’ attitudes. Poor Question Master Cobus is obviously not as familiar with the dog-eat-dog world of British pub quizzers as he should be. I don’t see him coming out of it with many bollocks left.

Right, time to upload and then head up on deck for a bit more wave watching. If anyone on this boat is going to spot a whale or a Great White shark, it’s gonna be me, dammit!

The next instalment will be coming to you from Namibia. Woo-hoo! Does that sound exotic, or what?

Friday, 10 December 2010

Days Six, Seven and Eight

Sorry for the delay in posting. We did indeed visit Tenerife and it was closed. Last Monday was the Spanish Constitution Day holiday, so all the shops and tourist attractions were shut. Had you not booked an official excursion the only thing to do was wander the deserted streets of Santa Cruz in search if a wi-fi hotspot and take a long lunch. I decided to take a long lunch and then search for a wi-fi hotspot. What I found, on one of the very few, lovely colonial-style streets of the old town, was the best meal I’d eaten since the brother’s Sunday roast eight days previously. From this you’ll deduce that I’m not much enamoured of the ship’s catering services. I’ll go into detail later; I promised you a more upbeat entry this time.

We’ve made a few friends, particularly Amanda and Malcolm from Bodmin Moor who form the other 50% of MEPHISTO, the baddest-ass quiz team this side of Tristan Da Cunha. We’ve taken 7 out of 9 daily prizes between us so far. On the outside I try to display the graciousness of the Queen Mum on being presented with yet another photo of her and hubby on the site of an East End Luftwaffe raid. On the inside I’m torn between cringing embarrassment at my own pathetic competitiveness, and a sneaking pride at making all these cruisers my trivia bitches.

The morning after Tenerife, frustrated for a second time in serious beach apparel shopping, I am looking forward to Cape Verde tomorrow when Maddy (multi-lingual but totally unintelligible cruise director) comes over the tannoy and informs us that owing to high teas and adverse feathers we will not be stopping in Mindelo, nor indeed any other port within the Cape Verde archipelago. We all swear a lot and grumble even more at the way the poor quality Earl Grey has stolen away one of our days of shore leave. We now face nine straight days at sea without setting a foot on dry land. There are three compensations to this: firstly, I’m no longer feeling nauseous the entire time, big plus; secondly, we’ve been offered 100€ compensation for missing our Mindelo landfall, that’s going on cocktails; and thirdly, we are being tended to by the lovely Monique and Roger, chambermaid and cabin boy, both from Madagascar. These two could not be doing more to make us happy and comfy. Well, they could do more, but that might get them decommissioned.

Now, a little more about life on board, this is how the average day looks: wake around 7.30 and do 15 minutes on the treadmill in the ship’s gym or around the jogging track on the uppermost sun deck. Breakfast is taken around 8.30, and I have learned from unsettling experience to avoid the sausages and bacon, so it’s fruit and cereal and juice and something with which they shame their Italian heritage by calling coffee.

Morning quiz time is 10.30. Many people have already done pilates and mad crepe paper flowers and origami boxes by this time, but I’ve never been an early-adopter. After winning the quiz, Milord, MandyMalc and I take out leave of one another and I tend to head for the forward observation bridge to watch the waves for half-an-hour or so. I find that despite there being virtually nothing to look at, I never get bored just alternating my gaze between the swell and the bow-wave, and the far horizon, trying to catch sight of points of land that are clearly too distant to be visible. I try meditating this way and it works for a while, but then a flying fish bursts from the surface and blows the concentration.

If the weather is clement, I’ll then take a book and do a little sunbathing. I am the World’s Worst Sunbather. My joints these days are so creaky that there’s no way I can apply cream to all the necessaries and I’m not about to request a stranger discover the full blubberiness of my abused physique, so I’m resigned to burning a patch of skin pink within 20 minutes. Equally awkwardly, I only really have one comfortable reading position: on my back, slightly reclined, book vertically above my face almost at arm’s length. This too guarantees no even-all-over bronzing.

After lunch I’ll take a siesta and recharge the batteries after all that matinal activity and that’s usually when I’ll try to find a quiet spot to write the kind of drivel you’re reading right now. I’ll then log onto the (World’s most expensive ever at €18/hour) Internet to post such blather, so not only is all this codswallop, it’s really pricey codswallop too.

In the late afternoon, another 15 minutes of jogging or static cycling might assuage my guilt sufficiently to allow me the temerity to order cocktails before dinner. Let’s draw a veil over dinner; I’m storing up my epithets and hyperbole to produce a suggestion box submission that would have made Emile Zola appear non-committal.

After “dining”, we might take in a “show”. I do hope you’re reading as much into these quotation marks as I’m writing into them. We may be offered Maddy’s Karaoke Night; I’ll Name That Elvis (Impersonator’s) Tune Night; or an evening of Italian variety with the multi-lingual ventriloquist (that’s Maddy again, btw), the contortionist (who doesn’t speak Italian and comes from Moldova!) and the Modern Beat Trio who do sing in Italian, even when they think they are doing so in English.

I repair to my cabin well before midnight to wrestle once more in the embrace of Margaret Attwood and Monique’s very tightly tucked bed linen. I just know that you are all battling valiantly with conflicting feelings of jealousy and schadenfreude. I’ll leave you to it and wish you goodnight.

The next entry will be shipped to you from the Equator. Bom noite.

Monday, 6 December 2010

Soon after completing the previous entry I was summoned to the first Gala Dinner and Captain’s Cocktail Party. It was a grand and luxurious affair with many wonderful ball-gowns and tuxedos on display and lashings of champoo, but unfortunately this is only second-hand reportage via Milord. I spent approximately seven minutes at the dinner table before legging it for my cabin and spray-painting the bathroom with my lunch. This has been the pattern thereafter. Sea-sickness tablets have helped but heavy seas and gusty sou-westerlies have not.

Cadiz was quite a relief. Stepping ashore and hearing the familiar tones of andaluz voices was a real tonic, and I’d completely forgotten how much I love that city. We disembarked just after ten and the place was still deserted. The city sticks out into the Atlantic, the shape of a light bulb on a shadeless lamp and is circumnavigated by a road with wide pavements lovely for promenading. It must be 15 years or more since I last visited and those years have been good to the place. It has lost the crumbling, down-at-heel and slightly forgotten-about feel that it had back then. Many houses and most public buildings appear to have had major renovations and yet retained their original appeal.

We did nothing very much, apart from breakfasting and wandering and (me at least) waiting for the nausea to subside. Back on board again, the toll of all that inactivity sent me to bed without supper.

Sunday dawns warm(ish) but blustery. I manage a breakfast of fruit and muesli and succeed in keeping it.

Morning quiz time is becoming a little embarrassing. Milord and I have now accumulated the following: an MSC Cruises tape measure, tie-pin, mouse mat, bandanna and an object that would have been better employed as a prop in a ‘What Is It?’ quiz round. It’s stumped us. Here’s the dilemma. Should we stop entering and give everyone else a chance? But, God knows, quizzes are the only entertainment activities on board that I have any desire to participate in. I’m not keen on quoits, bingo, musical hats or learning the capoeira and I have no desire to brush up my origami skills. Should we enter but get things deliberately wrong? Or do what I did this morning, do the quiz but leg it before they announce who’s won? Is that very cowardly?

Returning to my cabin I discover that in rough seas the sole porthole is not watertight. No, not at all, by no means. After hanging my books up to dry in the bathroom, I mop up the shelf below the window with a hand towel and enjoy (!) visions of being trapped in a sinking ship with the sea gushing in at my leaky porthole, slowly, slowly filling the cabin with deadly brine while I jam my head up to the ceiling and gasp a last lungful of air, desperate to live and yet certain of an oxygen-starved, watery death.

I believe that the anti-sea-sickness pills may provoke vivid dreams.

The next, and more cheery, I hope, instalment will be coming to you from Santa Cruz de Tenerife. Stay warm!

Saturday, 4 December 2010

Days Two and Three

I am now the owner of a very exclusive MSC Cruise Lines-embossed tape measure that will make a very fine Christmas gift for some unsuspecting family member (Note to self: check that person hasn’t been reading the blog). How did I come about such prestigious merchandise? Please refer to yesterday’s entry. The theme of the first quiz was ‘Capital Cities’. I ask you! Fish? Barrel?

After such a white-knuckle, adrenalin rush I had to disembark and allow lunchtime rush hour in central Barcelona act to calm my nerves. Little to report from ashore (as we seasoned sailors like to call it) except for my promised smuggling experiment. This is going to be my little protest at the €7 on-board pint and the sneakiness of adding so much chlorine to the tap-water that you turn green about ten minutes after brushing your teeth. The only drinking water available comes in at €2 a bottle. So, can I circumvent the very explicit prohibition of bringing any kind of beverage on board after shore leave? Before I recruit my team of camels (those with the roomiest colons, please form a line) I need to conduct a test run. Think of this like the paper dart launched through the bars of the cell window in Colditz. You just knew that Kenneth More had a bigger plan in mind, didn’t you?

So purchased, one 44cl can of Fuller’s London Pride bitter, price €1.29 from Carrefour on Las Ramblas; a careful selection for two reasons: a) because it’s just one beverage, how big a sin can that be? And b) the ship’s extensive list of international beers contains nothing darker than a Heineken three months past its sell-by date. I also purchased beer snacks and slabs of quality chocolate. These you can purchase at exorbitant prices at the on-board duty free shop, but are not specifically outlawed; this is my double-blind control test.

Anyway, it appears that the doom-laden warnings are a bluff: no intimate body search, no sniffer Spaniel and a very pleasant pre-dinner pint. Cádiz here I come! Break out the fine old sherries, because Captain Rummy’s got a thirst on.

Now, a word on our shipmates. Suffice it to say, there’s a lot of Afrikaans being spoken hereabouts. The cruise line, MSC is one of the few lines that operates heavily to-, from- and around Syth Efrican waters and hence about 500 of the 900 aboard are actually heading homewards. There are an awful lot of gold and green rugby shirts on display, so I’m keeping shtum. There’s also something particularly intimidating in the tone of voice of middle-aged, white South Africans that makes you fearful for your liberty. I’m sooo minding my Ps and Qs. No offence entendud, ma frind.

Tomorrow’s entry will be coming to you from Cádiz, where we would be singeing the King of Spain’s beard, were he not clean shaven. ¡Hasta entonces!

Thursday, 2 December 2010


Three hours out from Barcelona and blog entry number one. Welcome aboard! The MSC Melody is your vessel and I am your vassal and scribe as we begin 17 days of sailing from Genoa to Cape Town and many points between. Andalublue takes a shocking photo, so don’t expect too many, but you may be regaled with the occasional vid clip, provided the two of us - 45 years of TV industry experience between us – manage to work out how to download from Milord’s new Panasonic minicam onto Anda’s creaky PowerBook. An hour or so of unsuccessful fiddling last night convinced me to rename it the ImpotencePamphlet. Not to worry. You’ll get what you get and either lump it or log off; we’re very far from the embrace of IT Support.

We got out of the UK in the nick of time, on the proverbial helicopter from the roof of the American embassy, also known as North Terminal, Gatwick. Just 20 hours after we took off the snow closed down the entire airport. Phew! That was my travelling companion Milord’s good judgement combining with great good fortune.

The downside was a full twenty-four in a grimy, town-planner-abused Genoa, backed by the Peaks of Mordor and blasted by three different directions of wind chill. I have a feeling Genoa in late spring is probably a lovely place to be. It certainly sports some pretty gorgeous architecture in a surprising variety of styles, but much of any favourable impression wears off when you’re blinded by sea fret travelling at 60kph. Never mind, this is December after all and in just a few days we’ll be casting our clouts as the North Atlantic becomes mid- and then South.

I can’t write very much about life on board yet as we’ve had just 2 meals, one big sleep, and a minor tragedy with an order for Frangelico; much too early to call. All one can say is that the Balinese waiting crew are very sweet and the coffee at breakfast is very bad. In any case, in forty minutes there will be the real test of the ship’s metal – the first of the daily quizzes! Those who know me best will have just cringed a little. I will attempt to keep Mr Competitive Pedant in check. Promise. Fat chance.

In four hours from now we’ll all pile off in Barcelona. Those on board who’ve never before visited the Catalan capital will be taking in Sagrada Familia, Camp Nou and Parc Güell. Milord will be heading for a 3pm dental appointment and Andalublue will be grabbing a taxi for the nearest Carrefour Superstore to stock up on flip-flops, cheap t-shirts and as many beverages as he can smuggle past the Booze Brigade sentries who promise to confiscate anything you couldn’t buy on board for four times the price. This may shape up into a battle of wills, cunning and ingenuity. No one keeps a Yorkshireman from his cheap sup… no one!

Tomorrow’s entry will be coming to you from somewhere in the Med, south of Ibiza. Moltes gracies!

Thursday, 22 October 2009

Freedom of speech and other liberal myths


Tonight the BBC's flagship programme of political debate, Question Time will welcome onto its panel the leader of the British National Party, an as yet small but growing party of white supremicists who recently won two seats in the European parliament. Should he be allowed to appear or shouldn't he? Do overt authoritarian racists have the right to a platform or don't they? Is that the issue here, or is this debate a clever ploy to fool us all into believing that we in Europe live in societies where anyone really can express themselves freely? Have we really created a civilisation that is so comfortable with itself that it is not threatened in any way by individuals saying exactly what they think and having access to the means of spreading those beliefs?

To those whose vested interests lie in the maintenance of the liberal capitalist status quo, debating the question of free speech is an exercise in linguistic gymnastics. A couple of centuries of political liberalisation, driven principally by under-represented and disenfranchised groups, have created a loose concensus in favour of everyone having the right to express themselves, free from state control.

This concensus is not just a feature of western civilisation either. You can see evidence of this assumption of free speech as a basic right amongst large sections of every society, whether or not the powers controlling that society allow dissenting voices to be heard. Witness Tiananmen Square 20 years ago; or the anti-electoral fraud movement in Iran; or the opposition to the Chavez take-over of all mass media in Venezuela. That these three countries have severe state limitations on the exercise of popular opinion highlights that a strong belief in unfettered expression does indeed exist amongst large sections of their populations.

In societies where state control of media and political gatherings are most extreme it is in fact quite easy to see the issue. The forces seeking to control what people hear, see and read and what they say, write and show are unsophisticated and often brutal and violent. The battleground is clear and obvious. It's like looking at those diagrams in military history books where opposing forces are represented by variously coloured rectangles with arrows showing how the massed regiments are deployed, contronting one another across No Man's Land. Here are the state-controlled media, the army and the judiciary (with religious authorities/party ideologues in reserve) and confronting them are the numerically inferior, less drilled battalions of pioneers, opposition organisations and "subversive" artists and intellectuals. The World looks on, ostensibly cheering on the plucky Carthaginians but secretly admiring the majesty of the organised Roman legions.

Things become much less clear in ostensibly liberal societies where the responsibility for controlling the behaviour of the citizen has been partially privatised. This privatisation has happened because, in the globalised economy, it is not "The State" that is being defended but the supra-national entities on which the national economies depend. It is thirty years now since the British political establishment decided to base the national economy not on industry or manufacturing but on the service sector, specifically the financial service sector. Since that sector is neither nationally based nor British owned it ceases to depend on the British state to protect its activities, it merely requires that the organs of state regulation get out of its global face. It requires that capital can flow freely between whichever markets show best returns regardless of the social and economic impact of the insertion and withdrawal of that capital in the various markets it uses. Insertion and withdrawal, insertion and withdrawal. What does that suggest about what the corporations are doing to national economies?

Britain is far from alone in suffering at the hands of global capital. Every national economy can and does get f***ed it's just that Britain, having seen its future as the hoe of the financial markets, gets f***ed far more often and far more willingly.

Now, before I'm accused of deviating from the theme of freedom of speech, let's introduce the forces that the supra-national state employs to control dissent. Supra-national organisation clearly requires supra-national means to protect itself. It requires control over expression, the ability to suborn local and regional judiciaries, and the ability to requisition military assistance if and when necessary. I'll leave the latter two for future posts but deal with the former as it is THE way in which the modern, supra-national establishment maintains its claim to legitimacy in the popular mind; it's the way it ensures that the natives don't become restive. It's the way in which it is possible to twist the public debate away from corporate fraud and money-laundering that costs the British economy £39 billion a year and towards a drive to eliminate benefit fraud that costs (at worst estimate) £3.5 billion.

I don't think I need to make much of an argument to claim that most media in western societies (and plenty of non-western and developing societies too) is owned by multi-national corporations. And not that many of them. Here's an example, all Australian national newspapers and every daily newspaper in each of it's seven state or territorial capitals are owned by just two corporations, News International and Fairfax Holdings, one is based in Australia, the other in Delaware, USA.

The big difference between ownership of the means of communication by the state or by global corporation is in constituency. For whom does the media work? Globally-owned media commentators would have us believe that state-owned media is always bad and that state-owned is effectively synonymous with state-controlled. Give 'em their dues, it often is, but not always. They would also have us believe that privately-owned media, by its very nature, ensures plurality of opinion. Well, tell that to the Australian newspaper-buying public. Tell it to those who, in the aftermath of the financial meltdown last year looked in vain for anyone proposing a new economic system not based on unregulated financial markets and the free flow of global capital.

Privately-owned media in developed countries works on behalf of those who own it and will work to maintain the system on which it depends for its profit. State-owned media works on behalf of the state and that state may be authoritarian and undemocratic, or it may be pluralistic and accountable to its electorate. The latter case may have its faults and idiosyncrasies but it does have a basis in the assumption of democratic accountability. Neither privately-owned nor authoritarian state-controlled media make that assumption, whatever they might try to argue.

So, getting back to the BNP. If you agree with me that freedom of expression is as tightly-controlled by private corporations as it is by dictatorial state machines, you might agree with me that the mark of an accountable and pluralistic media is the ability to permit the expression of views that not only go against the majority concensus, but which might actually challenge the very assumption of that plurality and accountability.

We can allow discussion and even the propounding of the ideas of implementing Sharia law; repatriating immigrants; imposing military rule or the overthrow of the monarchy because we can have confidence in the inferiority of the arguments. We should put trust in the fundamental commitment of the majority, freely permitted and able to understand and digest the basic issues, to a lightly governed, pluralistic democracy. We might fear the manipulation of public opinion by religious leaders, authoritarian ideologues and potty demagogues but our only protection from the most extreme views is to fight to free up the access to the means of communication to more plural views. At the same time, surely someone is prepared to stick their head over the parapet, challenge the control of media outlets by commercial vested interests, and supply some much-needed reserve forces to the beleaguered Carthaginians.