Photography

Yes. So. Edinburgh, if you'd missed that. I've tried to filter thru my camera and find some of the best shots I had to post along your way. I haven't actually taken all that many-- I get too distracted with looking at things to stop and take their pictures. That, and most of the things I'd want to take pictures of are tedious and fleeting and are best enjoyed by actually witnessing them. Some things simply don't suffer being photographed. On the other hand, it turns out I've got a pretty good camera (thanks again to Officer Obie), and a lot of the time it will pick up slack unexpectedly.

For instance...

The following picture of Edinburgh castle, taken from The Meadows below, has some incredible colour to it. The castle, in the centre of Old Edinburgh, is perched at the highest end of a massive volcanic chunk-- the plug, actually, to a once-active volanic cone. The road leading downhill from the castle, towards the Royal Palace, and looking towards the Forth of Firth (or Firth of Forth...truly sorry, but I forget. I've actually heard people say both, tho I know one is wrong.) is known as the Royal Mile, and is itself also a geologic feature. Apparently, in one of the previous Ice Ages, a glacier slid down the top of this volcanic cone and perfectly smoothed off a stretch almost exactly one mile in length. All of this happened off of the left side of the picture. On the near side, and indeed around every other angle but that which the Royal Mile occupies, the castle appears to be a completely impregnable fortress. I've yet to tour the castle (pricey), so I don't know whether this appearance translated to actuality or not. Nor do I know precisely how many different castles and forts have perched themselves on the vacant foundations of others' past, but this is certainly just the newest in a long line of edifices erected on this precipice.



The next picture is taken (on an AMAZING day by any nation's standards) of the structure known as Edinburgh's Disgrace. Wanting to make his city the pride of the North, an overzealous Grecophile attempted to copy Athen's Parthenon atop a hill overlooking the Forth (harbour, essentially). As you can see, he successfully completed the front steps, 12 columns, and a cap to keep them from swaying. There is nothing beyond what you see. I like it, myself. Sure, it's a shame the project was budgeted and carried out so poorly, but it's got so much more character than an exact replica would've had. Katie says that this is the prime place to watch fireworks from, because they fire them off just behind where I was standing to take the photo, as well as multiple other places throughout the city and surrounding hills, all of which this porch commands a view of.



And here's one of Katie, seated atop the steps of the Porch (as I've decided to call it, the Disgrace just seeming like such a slight and insult to an otherwise beautiful monument--finished or no). The street you're looking down just beyond her is Prince's, the main high street. If you can't read the clock, this was taken at about 2.37, last Wednesday, I believe it must've been. Obviously, the film colour confuses things, but the sky was just as blue and magnificient as in the previous photo.



And here's some legendary Scottish fare. Birthed in Glasgow, about 75 miles (give or take, completely guesstimating here) to the west of the capital (Edinburgh), this culinary delight is one of those that you either love or hate. Now, I do enjoy a bit of the local diet. Haggis is, despite its reputation, marvellous, when prepared well. Steak or mince (beef) pies, particularly Katie's mother's, could sustain the average man for days, I suspect. Nips, tatties, scones, and whisky I can take down with the best of them. However, I opted to pass on this one, without even a trial sample. Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeesh.



Welcome to Lent, by the way. I happened to spend Fat Tuesday (Mardi Gras in French, or Shrove Tuesday in traditional English-- the day you do everything you'll be confessing and renouncing to the Shreve at mass the next day-- Ash Wednesday) out at Katie's parents' house, outside the city, in the village of Lasswade. Now, by gosh, Katie's mother can cook. We had mince (ground beef) pies, topped with fluffy, flaky pastry; vegetable soup thick enough to float a spoon on; 4 different veggies; potatoes, both roasted and mashed; scones; sponge cake with cream; apple pie with cream; and I don't know what all, and I put on a half a stone (seven pounds) in food weight alone. I know because I put myself on the scales both before and after dining. I should feel guilty, but my stomach was hurting enough with the strain of streching to go to the trouble of cramping over such a thing as gluttony.

So, in penance, and out of budget and health considerations, Katie and I decided to have a chip and dip night last night, Ash Wednesday, at her flat. Now, her kitchen is roughly the size of the computer you're currently sitting at, but somehow, the 2 of us were able to conduct some sort of culinary dance and only stomp toes (mine) once in the course of the hour we spent in there, making 5 different dips. There was no need for such excess-- you'd've thought there was a housefull expected, not just the two of us, but we were having a really good time, being creative and all that. Here's what we learned last nite: surprising tho it may be, garlic and pineapple are a phenomenal combination; when making salsa, blacken your main ingredients-- peppers, tomatoes, pineapple, onions-- without oil in a cast iron skillet, then dice them (cheers to my uncle Mark for that tip). Beautiful flavour. Also, coriander suits any dip. Period. Following, you'll see the finished products, after we'd eaten our fill. Working round anticlockwise (to the left) from the bowl of lime-laced tortilla chips (the big, nearly empty bowl, actually), we have: hummus (diced, ground, and otherwise mutilated chick peas. I don't know what else she put in it, but it had a great kick. This is an Old dish. Greek, I believe.), a yogurt and mustard combo with a whoooole lot of whang to it, guacamole (also Katie. My guacamolean standards are pretty high, due to the familiarity and amassed years of expereience my mother's family has in concocting this variant of avocado salad, and I had to admit that Katie far exceeded what I expected anyone not related to my grandmother to be capable of.), pineapple salsa (with garlic, coriander, and green chiles in sunflower seed oil. Should've blackened the pineapple, and left out some of the onion.), and finally, tomato salsa (made with cherry tomatoes from the mustgo bin, blackened capsicums (green peppers), and a whole slew of other herbs that have my mouth watering now.)



Believe I'll go have lunch now. Katie's mom sent me leftovers.

Yahoooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Piggly Wiggly It Ain't

I love grocery shopping. This is primarily due to the fact that I love food, and a grocery store is nearly always your guaranteed best bet for purchasing food. Secondly, if you're in a new place, grocery shopping allows you to observe the locals in a natural habitat, finding out what they eat, how they dress, what sorts of folks are out at what particular hours during the day, and what all schools of thought frequent different grocerial institutions. It allows and necessitates rediscovering how to shop, live, and sustain oneself. A regular adventure in modern existence.

When I lived out in North Carolina for 6 months, I loved shopping at the Blowing Rock Food Lion. A chain based primarily in the American southeast, Food Lion is one of those particular grocers that thinks that issuing a 'membership card' will inspire customer loyalty. Not true. It will nearly guarantee that regular customers will purchase the sale items weekly, but it also allows one to assume, as a professional grocer, that these same sale-fickle customers have similar, if not identical gossamer contracts with the competition. In the town of Boone, North Carolina (population: roughly 20,000; 36,000 during university terms-- GO APP STATE!) there is a Food Lion, a Lowe's Foods, a Winn Dixie, and not one, but TWO Harris Teeter's. All four of these chains offer incentive programs, wherein a customer fills out an 'application,' are given a 'membership card' and then receive routine discounts that non-members do not. Since every store has different sales every week, many customers will shop under all four different marquees. But, as a customer, you can feel good about yourself, because you belong. I know always felt good flashing out my Food Lion card. I forget the logo on it, but I remember that the Harris Teeter cards were little triangle-shaped key chains that read 'VIP' (Very Important Person) (or Value Induced Purchaser) (or, Variable Infidelity Policy) (or, Variously Intrigued Patronage). But Food Lion loyal was I. I had my pride. (GET IT??? LIONS? PRIDE? BWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!)

When I moved to Nottingham, England, my Mexican housemates, Juan y Alexis, got me hooked on Sainsbury's. There were two of them, roughly equidistant from my home in Dunkirk. I typically went to the one in Beeston, because there were quite a few other shops worth visiting on the Beeston High Street, but changed my preferences when I realised that I could walk along the canal (The Beeston Cut of the Trent River) the entire length from my home to the store at Castle Marina, which was bigger than its small town cousin, with a better selection. There was a Tesco in the Nottingham city centre, but that involved purchasing a bus ticket (unnecessary, given that I could walk for free to Sainsbury's, and that I couldn't fit enough groceries in my share of the kitchen to render walking difficult), and, since then, some of the corporate practices of that chain have really put me off. Beeston also boasted a Farm Foods, an Iceland, any numer of Spars (German chain--small, convenient, expensive), a Somerfield, and there may've even been a Lidl somewhere around. In Wales and Yorkshire, the store with the most presence seemed to be Morrison's (Who love giving you more reasons to shop at Morrison's), and here and there could be found Asda, the UK equivalent of Wal-Mart (and also therefore on my list of less-than-ethical businesses), but I pretty well tried to keep with Sainsbury's. Their quality and selection simply rates. Unless you're trying out their allegedly American-style root beer...

However, here I am now in Edinburgh, Scotland for a few weeks. Food still being high on my priority list, I've had a mosey around my temporary headquarters and discovered two MidScot supermarkets, the local derivative of the national COOP chain. COOP's OK-- I gave them a bit of patronage in Yorkshire, back in October, but my friend and personal local, Katie, absolutely swears by them. They are competitively priced (their only competition here in Stockbridge is a pair of Margiottas-- seemingly Italian versions of Spar.), and many of their products are supplied by Fair Trade--an organisation that helps to ensure just treatment and market value for the (Quite often) third world producers of their various offered goods. COOP's store brand chocolate, for that matter, is a Fair Trade product. And I do love my chocolate. It's nice to know that my personal indulgences can do the world some good. I've already aligned my allegiance to one particular of the two local COOPs: the larger one, nearest me, has what I and Mama (my grandmother Brown) would term a shelf for mustgoes. As in, it Must Go today, or it Must Go to the bin. When products near their expiration date, the management chops their price in half, or more, and moves it to the clearance rack. There's almost always some meat or cheese, nice breads and pastries-- at the very least, enough food to last a day, which is about as long as I'm concerned about, currently. Best yet, my first day in the country, there were 3 dozen buffalo wings on said shelf. They were amazing. I didn't realise the Brits could do spicy so well.

What they can't do well, unfortunately, is Peanut Butter. I am the All-American Kid, in that I can live on Peanut Butter and Jam sandwiches (PBJs) for weeks at a time. My European, British, and Antipodian acquaintances think I'm nuts, and I suppose if all they have to go on is Peanut Butter of a type such as the COOP sells, then I can understand why. Jif and Skippy it ain't. What they have here is good, it turns out, if you add it to mushroom soup. Don't gag. Bear in mind, I'm not talking about American Peanut Butter. The stuff here is much more of a paste, it's bland, and just vaguely salty. As such, it goes a long way as far as thickening up an otherwise over-liquefied soup, and adds a more well-rounded effect to the flavour than ordinary table salt would, with the added bonus of not simply upping the sodium count. As far as making PBJs, though, it leaves a bit to be desired.

No, it may not come in a big red tub bearing the brandname "Peter Pan," but, then again, I didn't buy it at the Piggly Wiggly.


*Pictures forthcoming*

Hoots, Mon!

And greetings all, from sunny Scotland! No! Really! Tis gorgeous here. Have spent the past 2 days walking along the water of Leith, both directions as it flows out of Edinburgh.

Didn't know I was tripping off American soil again, so soon? Feel no harm or shame, I beg you. I kept this one under wraps as much as I was able. I do have pictures to post to you, already, but, as always when in Europe, internet time is limited. Look for them in a few days.

Happy Valentine's Day to you all! I celebrated by making an intercontinental prank call to a certain John Deere dealership and making a request that ended hotly with one of us suggesting the other swallow a few nuts and bolts and create our own parts... Howdy to Todd, on that one... And also by presenting a toy tractor (and what better Valentine Gift?) to a certain someone...

Hope y'all's was equally enjoyable.
cheers for now
jeffro

--
Life is enjoyed most when you're laughing. Laugh hard, laugh often, and think of me.