Snapshots from a Latin American country (v)

There is a fast food chain here that sells spiced breaded chicken.  Everyone loves it.  Whenever people travel, they travel with huge boxes of these chicken pieces.

Checking in for my flight home, the check-in clerk asked me all the usual security questions:

CIC: [ususal blurb, including  are these bags yours, did you pack them, etc.] Are you taking any breaded chicken?

Me: Um, no.

CIC:  Why not?  What about tamales?

Me:  No.

CIC:  And tortillas?

Me:  No.

CIC:  Wait, so what are you going to eat on the plane?

Me:  Well, I think I might have some chocolates…

CIC:  Oh, that’s all right then.  Have a good flight.

He was right though.  The plane smelled of tamales and breaded chicken and my mouth was watering the whole journey.

–IP

Snapshots from a Latin American country (iv)

We made dulce de chocolate. That’s chocolate. From scratch. Also known in Spanish as “tableta”, when it is used for melting into hot milk or water for making hot chocolate. S., who works for my Abuela knows how to make it, so my Abuela asked her to show her, my Tía, and me.

We started with semillas de cacao. S. toasted them, then tipped them into a large heatproof bowl and set us to shelling the the cacao beans.

S. then mixed the shelled cacao with sugar to taste (there was much discussion of how much sugar constituted “to taste”. S. clearly thinks we are nuts for liking our chocolate on the bitter side) cinnamon bark broken into small pieces, and a wee sprinkle of water.

Then it needs to be ground very finely, she explained, so that the grains of sugar are no longer visible. Abuela produced the food processor, much to S’s skepticism — S. does not believe in food processors. She does believe in el molino — the neighbourhood mill where people take their corn to be ground for tortillas, or their cacao mixtures for dulce de chocolate. S. turned out to be right — the food processor didn’t grind it finely enough, so it was taken to the molino where it was ground to a paste. My Tía and I have speculated as to whether using honey or disolved panela (aka jagree) instead of sugar would eliminate the need for very fine grinding, but we didn’t get a chance to test this theory. When we asked S. what she thought of the idea she only said indignantly “No me vayan a cambiar la receta!”

Once the paste is made, S. showed us how to spoon the paste onto greasproof paper and shape rectangular bars, which we then put into the fridge to harden.

S. took some of them home for herself and her family. I am quite certain that the first thing she did with them upon getting home was to melt them into milk with at least as much sugar again as they already contained. What sloppy and ungrateful students she must think we are, wanting less sugar in unevenly ground chocolate. She was nevertheless thanked profusely for her teaching. We’ve been eating masses of delicious chocolate since. And the house smells all of toasted cacao.

–IP

Snapshots from a Latin American country (iii)

During the rainy season here, there are two kinds of rain — the mild but extended rain, and the more common brief but profuse downpours, accompanied by thunder and lightening. A few years ago, the power would fail frequently during such storms but that’s no longer the case in the cities, although it’s still the case in rural areas.

A few days ago, we spent a while away from the city, when one such storm began. My Tía, concerned about driving back along an inundated dirt track in a small car sin doble tracción, spoke to a local and asked her if she thought the rain would last long. “No, niña,” the woman replied, “si es pura rayería.”

–IP

Snapshots from a Latin American country

Said of a fool, or a foolish thing, by a Spanish-speaking Arab: “Sos una bandeja! Que bandejada!”

Also, I am currently in what is probably the only country in the world where it possible to have a Plaza Palestina on the Avenida Jerusalen without massive civil unrest.

It’s nice to be back to my Spanglish life.

–IP

In which I pretend to camp and consider a new vocation

This weekend just past, the Existentialist and I decided to escape some cotidian nonsense and go camping.  But with it being a bank holiday weekend, everyone and their auntie seemed to have the same plan and there appeared to be no campsites in the land with space to pitch a tent.  So we booked into a B&B in a small village near a big loch, switched off the lights, and read AS Byatt’s Possession to each other by torch light, pretending to be in a particularly sturdy tent.  In the morning we went to sit by the loch.

Wandering back through the village from the loch to the cafe we’d picked to have lunch in,  we passed the village butcher and spent a few minutes gazing admiringly at his chops and homemade haggises (the Existentialist, you may recall, is The Original Carnivore).  It was at this point that it occured to me that being a butcher might not be a bad living.  You’d be surrounded by food, people would come to you for advice on their braising beef, and would ask you to sharpen their kitchen knives*, you get a really big fuck-off meat cleaver as part of the job so no one would try it on with you, and you’d never want for lamb mince.  And some nice lamb mince is not to be sneezed at.

–IP

*Some people are confused by this.  They needn’t be.  You are much more likely to be injured in the kitchen by using a blunt knife which requires more pressure and might slip more easily, than by using a sharp one (unless you’re being an idiot with the knife, in which case it’s the general stupid that is the hazard, not the sharpness of the knife).  Also, chopping onions or meat with a blunt knife requires a lot of effort, and my ol’ dad taught me that one should never take nonsense from an onion, because if you start taking nonsense from onions, there is no knowing where you’ll end up.

The end of an age?

In generations to past, philosophy and logic students have stood outside ugly concrete buildings in the bracing Scottish wind as the night draws in, and arguing furiously because someone is wrong about politics and philosophy of science. (Even though it was definitely only going to be a five-minute-chat, but now that so-and-so has said such-and-such about Karl Popper or Palestine and before you know it, you’ve been huddling in the cold for two and a half hours arguing about whether their premises were sound…)

But future generations of students they won’t be huddling around the Existentialist’s or the Logic Lecturer’s conical roll-up cigs for warmth anymore. They’re both quitting the smokes.  Maybe it will be too cold in Decembers to come, without the cigarettes to huddle around. Maybe in future, the arguing will have to be done in the pub, or via listserve or something.

Reminds me of the old xkcd:

Image description: the cartoon shows someone sitting at a computer. The speech bubbles are transcribed:

Person outside room: Are you coming to bed?
Person at computer: I can’t. This is important.
Person outside room: What?
Person at computer: Someone is wrong on the internet.

–IP

Daily acts of bravery

As you may have gathered, it’s been a rough patch. For some time now, I have been physically unable to carry out a lot of my normal daily tasks. I’m not cooking properly for myself, for example — I just eat “easy” food like fresh fruit or things that can be prepared with minimal time and effort and washing up afterwards. I’m not studying properly either, because I physically cannot sit still, maintain concentratin, or write for long enough. Standing up for long enough to do the dishes the other day made me cry.

I feel pretty useless. I need to study. Dammit, I want to study. That’s why I’m at university; and it frustrates the hell out of me that I’ve done little or no significant work this semester.   And the floors need mopping, my room needs tidying, there’s a stack of Important Adminy Papers I have to deal with. But what I have done this week is to attend four medical appointments, arrange a further three, discuss further medical treatment options, go to hospital out of hours, get repeat prescriptions, hand in medical certificates to academic advisor, make some provisional arrangements about what I’m going to be doing next year at university, find a dentist, and install a landline phone.

So please please please try to understand that I’m on a particularly short fuse right now.  I do not need to be patronised and I do not need my efforts second-guessed.  I need the people in my life to have enough respect for me as to pay attention when I express my needs.  I’m seriously short on energy at the mo and fighting to stay as healthy as possibly is taking up most of that energy right now.  If you don’t understand what I’m talking about, start here.

Sarah wrote a post a while ago I couldn’t stop thinking about, especially this bit (but you should read the whole thing):

But I am still functioning, still handing in work, still finding a way to overcome the horrible things life throws at you, like snooty shop assistants who think they are cooler than thou, and not giving in. Because that is the bravest thing I do, and I do it every single day.

I haven’t been as productive as Sarah, but I have been brave, and it is important for me to remember that fact, and the fact that I’m doing the best I can right now, I’m holding it together as best I can despite the pain and frustration and despite the confusion of being the liaison between several medical professionals who don’t always communicate with each other as well as they could.  Right now, to borrow Sarah’s words, that is the bravest thing I do, and I do it every single day.

–IP

I was a Jethro Tull virgin

They play Bach, monopod, with Dave Pegg.  It was uber cool.  Also, I have an irrationl fondness for rock with organs.

–IP

I wants me a sonic screwdriver

I’m in quite a bit of pain due to arthritis right now, am taking max doses of NSAIDs, and am feeling every bit of 903 Gallifreyan years old.  Blogging may be sparse for a while.

In the meantime, you should all rejoice in the fact that a new season of Doctor Who started last Saturday.  That’s much more exciting than my blog, surely.  You can watch the last episode online for seven days after each show.

–IP

Dreaming of a white tax year

We had four inches of snow in our little corner of England this morning.  When I woke up at 7 am, I couldn’t see at all out of the two slanting windows in the pent roof of my stratosphere bedroom, because of the snow covering the glass.  All morning we watched the snow melt and the scarlet of the tulips emerge.

–IP

Your twenty seconds’ entertainment

My mum sent me this.

Congested and confuzzled

I’m bored. I’m fed up of being ill. It’s been two months now, of post-virus exhaustion and aches, and more recently a sinus issue that caused some unpleasant dizziness. I’ve not done significant academic work for two months.

I’ve always been happiest when I’m productive or active. At the moment, I’m neither productive nor active. I always feel short of a nap, spaced out, forgetful, achey.

I am deeply uncertain and frustrated about my academic options. I have exams this spring, but having missed the better part of a term’s worth of work, and with no sign of getting better yet, it’s not clear that I’ll be caught up in time for my exams in the spring. I can sit some exams in August instead of in spring, but that completely buggers up my summer in a number of ways:

I was planning to work on my article for publication in the early part of the summer, then visit family for a bit, then come back to work on my dissertation and possibly further research (if I get a small research grant), and work a proper paying job until the start of the next academic year. With exams in the summer, the possibility of further research goes out the window due to time constraints; and due to practical considerations, the proper paying job may go out the window or be limited too (I do special needs care work. It’s a highly demanding and tiring job and there is no way I can study and work at the same time. Plus, it’s difficult to get time off, and I don’t get paid for hours I don’t work). I may or may not get to do as much work on my disseration as I would like.

So…I can apply for a hardship fund to help cover the unforseen cost of sitting exams when I would have otherwise been working.

Someone suggested that I consider switching to part-time study given that health issues have impacted my coursework every year that I have been at university. But that opens up a financial minefield — part-time students are not entitled to a council tax exemption, and are only entitled to less than one sixth of the loan that full-time students can receive. So I’d have to navigate a benefits system that assumes (contrary to all sense) that people are either capable of working full time, or incapable of working at all, and I have to “exhaust all other possible source of income” — apparently, you are expected to take out loans, use all overdraft, and max out all credit cards before you get financial support — a policy that is morally repulsive as well as fundamentally stupid. It stops looking like a great option, eh?

Anyway, I’m not sure that part time study is actually what I need. I’m actually reasonably good at managing my chronic health problems — the arthritis and migraines. What messes up my academic work and planning is actually short-term illness that exacerbates my existing medical conditions. I’m reasonably good at looking after myself — I follow medical advice, I eat reasonably well, I rest as much as I can, I do all the sensible stuff. My immune system is still pretty rubbish, though.

I wish there was someone who knew what this was like, and could talk me through my academic and medical options in that light. My GP focuses on short-term medical issues, for the most part. She’s good at her job, but I do have to insist about monitoring for inflammation indicators and other long-term care issues, and she’s not an academic or an academic advisor. My academic advisor and lecturers are good at their jobs, but to my knowledge they don’t have experience of long-term health problems. I’ve had useful advice in the past about pain management and pacing and longer-term management of my health from physiotherapists. But I rather wish there was an academic I could sit down with and chat to about this stuff, and how it impacts my studies, and what I can do about it from the academia side of things.

And all this is throwing up a lot of questions for me, about my ability to continue in postgrad studies or full-time work.

–IP

Sometimes you can tell I’m a geek

Have been watching some Star Trek re-runs, including the episode “Qpid” in which Picard and some of the Enterprise crew end up in Sherwood Forest as Robin Hood’s gang. The episode includes this classic moment, which had me in stiches, and which will no doubt provide me with a reason to continue giggling for the rest of the day:

Image description: Lieutenant Worf dressed as Will Scarlet, exclaiming “Sir, I must protest! I am not a merry man!”.

Image of Worf is courtesy of Alpha Memory, published under the terms stated there.

–IP

Want my kiss!

I’ve had glandular fever.  That’s mononucleosis, for you transatlantic kids.   And I didn’t even kiss anyone!  Waaaaaaaah!  Sob!  Not.  Fair.  Well, I kissed the Existentialist, but he didn’t have glandular fever.  Although he may well have it now, by reason of having kissed me back.  It seems the incubation period prior to symptoms for this deeply annoying virus is 4-6 weeks.   So profuse apologies to any of you out there whom I have not kissed but nevertheless shared the love with, so to speak.

Anyway, I’m shattered.  I mean, I’m used to being tired, but I’m not used to having used up my daily spoon budget by 11 am and needing to go back to bed before I can face, you know, doing anything.

Anyway, my old flat is cleaned, my new kitchen cupboard is stocked, my bills are paid, and all I have to do now is…write a mega Haskell program in two days, catch up on 3 weeks’ worth of reading, and plough through the preparation for my dissertation.  Easy peasy lemon squeezey.

I think I’m going to go inject some caffeine, and in the meantime, you should read Sarah’s excellent post on education, qualifications, and snobbery.

–IP

The Saga continues

The Saga Of My Uterus, that is. My last coil decided that it didn’t want to stay in my nice warm uterus and was later found sitting merrily in my cervix. Call that gratitude? I don’t think so.

Anyway, I had a second coil fitted last week. An ultrasound scan was done to check that this coil was correctly positioned, and it was found that the arms of the coil had not unfolded properly (coils are actually T-shaped, but the arms are folded down during insertion, and they unfold once the coil is inside the uterus), resulting in the arms sticking out at odd angles and causing some pain. The doctor proposes to remove the offending coil next week, and replace it with a shiny new coil. I’m really hoping it’ll be a case of third time lucky because I’ve had it up to here with this gyno stuff. Also, it hurts.

All of this is providing quite a lot of opportunities for observing social attitudes to the responsibility for contraception in straight couples. But maybe more about that when it’s not exhausting me so much.

In other news, Cute Tot now says my name properly.

UPDATE 08/02/08: Having been back to the clinic, it seems that said coil is now correctly positioned. Nobody knows how it got to be in the correct position, or why it was hurting so much before. I still got poked and prodded though. And I never want my cervix dilated, like, ever. But I have a coil that loves me. Perhaps I’ll send it a Valentine.

–IP