This dissertation is getting hectic now. One
month until the big hand-in and I’m getting pretty wound up, constantly
re-writing drafts! My letters from America have finally arrived, so I need to
get analysing them. Summer is lovely, from what I’ve seen looking out of the
window. Apart from a few epic barbeques, no food had been cooked but many
crisps and snacks have been eaten. I’m going to take a little break for a month
until everything’s blown over. Until then, this is what I’ll be up to…
When the going gets tough, I make macaroons. Now, in breaks
from the dissertation madness, recently I’ve been trying out with great success
the Ladurée-type macaroons that they sell everywhere now for a pound a go. Let
me tell you- they are so easy to make.
I made some tiramisu ones, and then some pistachio. But after six or seven, I
did actually get a bit sick of eating them, so offloaded them onto friends and
family. What I class a REAL macaroon are these ones here. I could make them in
my sleep and it’s the go-to recipe for a leftover egg white.
In a moment of madness, I decided to volunteer in a flour
mill at York’s Castle Museum. Wild at the thought of working in a mill, I
underestimated how very cold it was in there and how little time I actually had
to work in the place. Plus, little gripe here: it’s a crime that museum funding
is so low that they have to rely on volunteers to run things. As a student, I’m
not ashamed to admit I really did need money. I am ashamed, however, to admit that as a result of the wallet, I had
to give up volunteering before I’d even begun! One good thing that came out of
this process was that the thought of being able to work in a “demonstration
bread kitchen” got me so excited, that I quickly whipped up some bagels to give
to people in charge to land me the job. Which would have worked, if anyone
cared. Volunteers just need to turn up, they don’t need to bring bribery
bagels, do they? I ate them myself and gave some to my neighbour, Maria.
Dissertation time has begun at last! And I’m feeling it,
rushing off to archives across the country (well, Liverpool and Manchester).
It’s an excellent experience but so exhausting! I feel like I’m cramming the
history of the world in my head. But it’s just cotton brokers. And man, they
are cool. But enough about that. I went to Amsterdam with Roger for a few days
to visit our friend Lawrence, who’s teaching children how to be excellent to
one another. He lives outside of the city, in a little town called s-Hertogenbosch, which was like a continental
version of York! A very cute little place, with a bustling town centre market
and a lovely little Cathedral.
As well as the
little wooden puli dog that I ADORE, one of the things I brought back with me
from Hungary was a few packets of smoked cheese called Karavan. Reka’s mum, on
our arrival at the flat had laid out a magnificent spread of meats, cheeses and
salads but the clear favourite was a pyramid of cheesy puffs. We went wild for
them and crammed them in pretty much every minute we were awake until sadly, we
scoffed them all.
With much excitement during a spare few days of Easter
holiday essay hell, me and three of my MA girlies set off to Hungary, to stay
in Reka’s fab little apartment in the heart of Budapest. Although I was very
excited and had been looking forward to the break for a good long while, I’m
sorry to say that pretty instantly homesickness set in! How annoying!
Basically, the result ended in me angrily huffing and puffing my way around
Budapest zoo with the others before running out of the lion enclosure to put
credit on my phone so I could text my mum and Roger. Zoos and I don’t get on to
begin with, so it was never a good idea. The bear made me especially sad. But I
wasn’t always homesick; once I’d got that credit on my phone I was ok. As long
as I have some form of link to Roger and my mum, I think I’ll survive. Even a
coconut phone or frequent messages in bottles would have sorted me out.
I call this recipe a lazy one because I feel like I’m
betraying some cook’s oath by using a bread maker. It makes me embarrassed when
people ask “did you make this from scratch?” because I don’t feel like I have
done. Just in the same way that I feel guilty when people praise a meal I’ve
made from a recipe. It’s not like I did any work, I just followed instructions.
You couldn’t boast you made a table “from scratch” if you picked up a flat pack
from Ikea. I don’t really think cooking is that
mechanical a process, but whenever I see a chef on TV making a cake in a mixer,
rather than with a spoon, I can’t help but think they’re missing the point.
Anyway, the reason I use a bread maker? Borderline O.C.D. dad. If I’m seen to
be kneading dough on a worktop, with flour going everywhere, my dad freaks out.
So out comes my robot helper, and the only mess is a pan to wash.
