Mission 033 - Where I learn to make sushi

Now that I am officially once more residing in New Zealand, there are lots of things that I'd like to do. Things I need to learn how to do. One of these is making Japanese food.
Food is one of my great loves, following close on the heels of sunshine and fresh air, and leading travel by a long neck. While I can't claim to be Michelin-star quality, there are several things I do well, and some that, with a little more attention, I could probably make money from, as long as I'm not drinking wine while I cook it.

I'm pretty good at Italian, Greek and even French. I've tried my hand at simple Indian, Thai and Chinese. But Japanese has always been left to a 'dining out' choice. Bit of a shame really, when I love it so much.

Now, take sashimi. I reckon that's a breeze. All you need is really fresh fish, a very sharp knife and a little bit of hand-eye coordination so you slice the fish and not your fingers. I already have some rather special Japanese knives (bought from the seriously amazing Tokyu Hands store in Tokyo, but that's another story). And I know where to get some fresh fish (Auckland Fish Market). And most of the time, my fingers keep themselves away from sharp implements. Sushi though, has a few more challenges. So this is what I've chosen to get the Japanese ball rolling. Although it's a cliche, it's a great summer starter. And you can buy most of the ingredients in the supermarket, including the bamboo roll thingy. I give myself until November 20th to make it for the first time. Anyone want to volunteer as a guinea pig?

By the way, I will post some piccies of the lovely Japanese ceramic knives here in a day or so. They're sharper than stainless knives, and can cut practically anything, except pumpkin, apparently because they don't flex. Or are pictures of knives a bit weird? Never mind, I know those of you who cook will appreciate my knives. Won't you?

Mission 032: Where Susan stops larking about

Aha. I knew these months of wandering the world and filling my brain with all kinds of curious cultural facts was bound to come to an end sometime. The money had to run out, and did. The line of travel had to finish somewhere, and has.
Now I am in Auckland, it is raining, and all around me the city is working, eating and...windsurfing, it would appear. Although I'm not really into windsurfing, I would like to be eating, and for that, I need to start... working. My mission is simple: to become gainfully employed.
I checked the paper on the weekend for jobs: nothing doing there in the advertising, media or publishing world. But the field of adult entertainment had lots of openings. (No pun intended!) I also found plenty of other unappealing jobs: cafe staff (no thanks), taxi driving (no chance) and childminding (no patience).
So tomorrow I will start looking seriously - with recruitment agents, friends of friends, job sites and, then, cold-contacting design and advertising agencies. Susan M Wills, copywriter and editor, words in waiting. Here I go, on the other side of the world, off to work.
Wish me luck. And some fine weather.

Mission 031: Where Susan tries to lose some weight

Ok, tough mission this. I have been travelling in India now for just on a month, and several unknown bacterial visitors have left my body slightly slimmer than it is normally. But several scarves, sarees and bags have made my bag decidedly plump.
It's not too much of a problem for getting around. But now that I'm due to fly out of India, things are coming to a head. I have a 15kg limit on my checked-in baggage (that's the trouble with these low-cost airlines). And my bag is weighing in at around 17 (not including hand luggage. So, somehow, I must slice a couple of kilos off my bag before the 28th August.
Shall I fling a couple of pairs of undies in the bin? Ditch a book onto the nearest shelf? Weed out the top that lurks closest to the bottom of the bag, fold it neatly and leave it lying on the bed, to be claimed by the cleaner?
Perhaps all three.
It is a tough mission this, and afterwards, I may be short on clothes and reading material, but at least I will be well accessorised.

Mission 030: Where Susan decides to become a neo-Italian mama

I am in Siena, Italy at the moment, and due to a freak weather pattern (stormy and very rainy - typically more English than the Italian weather the Buckwell and I know and love), we are spending a lot of time eating, or browsing food stores while wiping dribble from our chins.
A quick sample from yesterday's menu:
- Pici(Big fat strands of a spaghetti-like pasta) with parmesan and pepper for the Buckwell
- Ravioli alla maremmani (not sure what maremmani is, sorry) with rustic chunky pesto oozing all over it for me
- Some zucchini trifolate to share ( which seems to be sauteed zucchini in olive oil)
And a half litre of wine plus a bottle of sparkling mineral water to wash it down
Then we moved on to wander the local supermarket, where we observed no less than 55 types of pasta on the shelves or in the fridge.
There were:
tortellini
ravioli
gnocchi
cannoli
pici (also seems to be known as bagoli)
tagliatelle
lasagne
spaghetti
fedelini
linguine
tortiglioni
cavatappi
penne rgate
fusilli
pipe rigate
rotelle
pennoni rigate
casarecce
farfalle
sopraffini
digitale rigati
dischi
gallanini
anelli
stellette
digitale piccoli rigate
avena
filini
gigli
amorosi
mini penne rigate
capellini
spahettini
vermecellini
bavettine
corallini
pintine
tempestine
sedani rigati
mezze penne rigate
gnochetti
orechiette
reginette
penne lisce
nastrini
pipette
dischi volanti
bucatini
mezze maniche rigate
trenette
spahettoni
lasagnette ricce
fettucine
taglerini
cavatelli

So. Are you impressed that I stood there and wrote it all down? I got a few funny looks, I can tell you. However, the outcome of all this is that I have decided to perfect my pasta-making skills. Luckily, the Buckwell and I own a pasta machine, which I have used (and he has eaten the results from). It may have been used twice. However, as soon as we re-settle after this trip, I am going to become the homemade pasta queen - a neo, or rather pseudo (because as far as I know I have no Italian ancestry), Italian mama in the kitchen. But first I shall need a few essential ingredients:
- a louder voice
- a bigger bosom
- stout shoes (this should be easy as I have big feet anyway)
- a poster of the madonna holding baby jesus
- some fake flowers to arrange around the poster
Once I have assembled all that, you're all invited round for Sunday lunch...

Mission 029: Where Susan tries to avoid everything piscine

First, a little background. I am no longer in London, but travelling around Portugal, one week into a mammoth trip with the Buckwell. You an read more about the trip here .
So far, there are plenty of interesting sights and surprises, one of which is that there is a peacock 2 metres from my foot. Actually, she is a peahen, to be precise.
Over the last week, the Buckwell and I have been sampling a range of Portuguese dishes, many of which have been of the piscine variety. I have had sardines, prawns, golden bream, sole, tuna, monkfish and skate. And I am heartily fed up with all of it. Don't get me wrong - it's been tasty, and unlike the Buckwell, at least I like fish. But one meal finished me off. The biggest fish stew known to man as served up at a beachside restuarant to myself, the Buckwell, along with his brother and brother's girlfriend (latter two pictured here looking in disbelief at the pot'o fish. Eight people would have struggled to get through it. We four didn't stand a chance.And now my new mission is to avoid all fish for at least 3 days.

Mission 028: Where Susan takes some exercise

In just over a week, the Buckwell and I are going snowboarding in Verbier. It will be my first time on a snowboard, and the first 'active' holiday I've had in a very long time. And I have not prepared my body for the shock.
So today's mission is to try and minimise the inevitable pain and suffering by reminding my hamstrings, calves, gluteus maximus and other muscles that they exist for a purpose other than walking to Clapham Junction train station. I am going to use the gym 2 floors down in our apartment block for the first time. (Sauna and swimming pool use don't count.) I'll be coaxing the best out of my body by putting some really nasty techno/dance type music on my ipod. Afterwards I'll wind down with 200 or so revolutions of the hula hoop (upstairs in the privacy of the lounge).
So just in case you know me and will be seeing me over the next few days, be prepared for me to whinge about being aching and stiff.

Mission 027: Where Susan finds a decent waterproof jacket by the weekend

Is there a clothing item that you need and should really go shopping for? Do you, like me, know that whenever such a need arises, the chances of you finding said item are slim at best - unless of course, you have no money to buy it, when your chances of finding it increase exponentially. Wouldn't you rather just open a bottle of good wine while someone reads your mind, finds the item and delivers it to your door with a smile and a guarantee?
I have a need for a good quality (read 'quite expensive') Gore-tex jacket, in a common size and colour, suitable for walking in the Lake District, snowboarding in Verbier and many other outdoorsy type pursuits. I also have the money to buy it. And I need it for this Easter weekend. Oh dear, I feel despondent already. The chances are next to nothing of me finding it by tomorrow lunchtime. And that's if I even make it to the shops.

If you know somebody who can source such an item (in black, women's size 10-12 please), please send them over this evening to slip it under my pillow while I'm asleep. A bit like the tooth fairy did for me many years ago, only with money, not jackets.

Or damn it, I will have to embark upon my shopping mission tomorrow. Without any confidence whatsoever. Oh dear, I feel another failure coming on.

By the way, I haven't got my photos done yet, either.

Hopeless, I am.

Mission 026: Where Susan gets her picture taken

I slept very heavily last night. So heavily in fact, that I didn't even stir when the Buckwell got up.
Instead, the alarm aurally bashed me awake at 7:10.

I was having a dream where the Buckwell and I were on a train to Iran. I was trying to speak Arabic to some Iranians on the train, and one of them kindly reminded me that they spoke Persian. Yet they were shaking my hand and saying 'Ahlan, Ahlan', which is 'Welcome' in Arabic. That's when they weren't speaking English to me – with a heavy Eastern European accent (hey, I don't know what Iranian accented English sounds like yet).

I don't know what it all means, but it has reminded me that I need to get a photo taken for my Iranian visa application for our intended visit in April, otherwise I'm not going to get it back in time. So that's my mission for today - file under boring but essential things to do.

Get to the back of the line

... to congratulate me. I successfully managed to avoid queues until the end of the week, and EVEN AT THE AIRPORT. Freakily, there were no queues at check-in, or at the luggage scanning bit.
I salute me. Or rather, my luck.

Mission 026 - Where Susan takes her chances

This morning I had a strange thing happen.

I went to register with a new doctor and get the obligatory health check. Nothing strange about that. The next bit is where it gets weird.

They couldn't go through with confirming my registration at the doctors because I was already on there. Or rather, there was somebody with my name living at my current address 4 years ago. Susan Wills, middle initial M, White Other, hazel eyes. But born 2 years after me, fatter, taller, a smoker and heavy drinker. (I probably shouldn't have looked at her records in the interests of patient confidentiality, but the nurse brought them up on the screen.)

This has spooked me just a little.

Given our birth years, I figured there's an even chance that the other Susan Wills would be on Facebook. So I looked. There are 11 Susan Willses on there. Only 2, including me, in London. Did the only other London Susan Wills live at the SAME address? If so, it disturbs me even more now that I have seen her face. Although I'm certainly not about to embark on a Dave Gormanesque experiment.

However, given the chances of this extremely bizarre event, I think it's only fair that my next mission is to buy a lottery ticket...

Mission 025 - Where Susan tries to save the world

First off, I’d like to declare that I am a greenie. Have been for years. Hell, I even had my own tree from when I was six. I used to hug it and everything. I am also a militant recycler and, until recently, was a co-leader of the voluntary Green Team at my workplace. And I was using carbon-neutral transport to get to work long before it was fashionable.

Right. Now that I’ve established my credentials, there’s something I want to get off my chest. (It’s been festering away a good while.) Is it just me, or is all this green business (and I don’t use the ‘b’ word lightly) becoming a bit too much like a religion? Suddenly, everywhere I look, there are avid greenies milling about high streets and websites everywhere. In droves, they are buying jute bags, devouring organic broccoli and converting their cars to bio-diesel.

It’s as if they’ve been born again – and they want the world to know. Like all new converts to a religion they are overzealous; they want everyone to join them in the Church of Green; to save the world from itself.

Yet what they don’t realise is that the Church of Green has been taken over by the Church of Commerce. And membership to that is not about how green your behaviour is - it’s about who buys the most green stuff. Ironic, really, as the key principle of sustainable living is REDUCE. Then comes REUSE. Then comes RECYCLE.

Now I didn’t see CONSUME MORE STUFF in there. Did you?

It’s all very well to be devouring eco-friendly options, but only if they replace less eco-friendly ones. For example, I have no truck with people who drive 5km to their ‘local’ farmers market in their SUVs. Or people who buy designer jute bags to do their shopping in, then continue to put all their vegetables in single plastic bags to be weighed. Adopt a wider view, people.

Green is becoming the status quo – its commercialisation grows every day. It’s been scooped up into the brand lifecycle and is feverishly working its way to cash cowdom as I write. We should all know the end result of commercialisation. Commodity. Then ennui. Which will mean the death of green. Although Commerce will go on.

So to save Green, better lose the preachiness, especially if you’re not the perfect apple-hued tone (and few of us are, surprise, surprise). Stop adopting the first, new, ‘cool’ green thing that comes along. Make being green an integral part of your life, not a clip on fashion accessory. I hate to take a line from one of the bishops in the Church of Commerce here, but it works: Just Do It. Or most of it. But whatever you do, please shut up and do it quietly. You’re boring me to death.


Psssst (whispered): My latest mission is to take the stairs instead of the lift for the next week, thus conserving precious planetary energy. And firming my flubbery, blubbery thighs.

I smell success

Yesterday, I thought that I may have reached a crisis in my mission to avoid queues.

I headed to one of the biggest queue-danger zones - the supermarket at lunchtime. There, I loaded up my basket and headed to the checkouts with trepidation. But when I got there (ominous jaws music...duuuum dum duuuuum dum) the queues were surprisingly small. Two people in each, at most.

So I took a calculated risk. I browsed the nearby nut display, while keeping a lookout for movement in the basket-only line, hoping that I'd spot a break in the queue.

And then it happened - a new checkout lane opened. I sprinted forward, narrowly missing a distracted, baguette-waving pensioner (I don't think the baguette was being waved at me) and practically threw my basket at the checkout fellow.

I am SUCH a sad piece of work.

But one more day of it and I will have completed my mission.

And another thing

Oh dear.

Now I remember one of the reasons why I am going to miss England. The English sense of humour.

On my internet meanderings, I came across this blog written by one of the writers for The Observer newspaper (incidentally, one of the few newspapers I buy).

It made me smile at work. And for that I thank him.

Mission 024 - Where Susan says no to queues

Well, once again it's a gloriously grey day here in Crawley, which has kept my mind well and truly focused on my work. No reason to gaze absent-mindedly across the carpark to the trees when I can't even see as far as the nearest car...
Once again I am reminded why it is time to leave England. I've never been anywhere where grey skies feel so oppressive. 7 years of it is enough.
In a couple of months, the Buckwell and I will depart England and go travelling. And for that, we'll need some rather impressive and possibly obscure visas (although I only have 10 spare pages in my current passport). I'm already mentally preparing for the embassy queues, another feature of English life that I'm not going to miss. Not everyone's dismayed by queues, mind you. I like how this blogger has embraced queues, turning them into a pastime.
However, I'm going to go to the other extreme. This week's mini-mission (it lasts until Friday afternoon, because then I am off to the airport, when I KNOW FOR A FACT it would be impossible) is to avoid all queues.

I foresee several challenging situations over the next few days.

Entering and exiting the train station
Getting on the train
Buying my lunch
Filling up my water bottle at the water cooler
Making tea
Buying drinks at the pub tonight
Buying food for dinner, washing detergent and toilet paper
Buying hair dye at the chemist
Telephoning the bank (yes, phone queues count too)

I will, of course, let you know how I get on.

Mission 023: Where Susan gets all independently-minded

I think I must've been living in a hole in the ground over the past year.

I have just discovered the Wedge Card, a cool card that gives you discounts for local, independent shops around London. The Wedge Card costs a mere tenner (with £5 of that going to a worthy charity - local, of course). and it was launched in December 2006. The people behind the card say: "Wedge is the little man. The local independent shopkeeper and all the locals who love the fact that their High Street hasn't fallen prey to the large multinational large chain, turning it well into well, a faceless, desensitized "brand only" environment."

Even though little men don't really do it for me, personally (sorry, bad joke, couldn't help it - low on blood sugar), I'm really turned on by the Wedge Card right now. I've gone and signed up for one, and I wish more Londoners knew about it.

A quick flick through the discounts on offer turned up:
The Design Museum
Nina and Lola (hip online fashion store)
Crockatt and Powell (yay for my fave independent bookshop)

And there are lots more. So if you're a Londoner, please sign up for a Wedge Card now, here . You won't regret it, especially once you've made a couple of small purchases, because it will pay for itself. (You'll probably also feel quite smug and pleased with yourself for supporting local shops too.) It's just a pity that I won't be around in London much longer to use it.

So that defines my new mission: to shop more at independent shops this year. I already do try to shop locally, but sometimes I get lazy. Now I have a new excuse to avoid the Tescos and the Asdas and the Selfridges of this world. It's my new mission, dammit. Make it yours too.

Mission 022 - Money, happiness and con-men

The Buckwell and I have just sold our flat. We made a reasonable sum of money on it. This got me thinking about whether money really can buy happiness. Certainly for me, the moment I saw the bank account balloon was a source of great excitement. But that excitement fizzled out about as quickly as a cheap Catherine Wheel.

The letter from the property lawyers turned up, giving the breakdown of the whole transaction. So in my practical, skeptical way I went through it, item by item. And one item I didn't like the look of. For some reason, we have been charged rent payable of £230.49. Quoi? We've had a lot of trouble with our solicitors; they've been generally hopeless. But I will refrain from mentioning the name of the firm thus far, until the Buckwell chases the discrepancy up tomorrow.

In the meantime, I have been stewing over it in my head, mentally scripting the complaint letter and scheming to garner as much negative publicity for them as I can. After all, nobody rips me off and gets away with it. Well, that is unless you are a papyrus seller in Cairo, a camel driver hawking rides around the Pyramids, a carpet seller in Aleppo, a spice seller in Marrakech, a jewellery merchant in Sousse, or a furniture transport company in Denmark. (But I'll get them back too, eventually.)

My, I do sound like a vengeful sort.

Money doesn't buy happiness, but losing it can mean unhappiness. Particularly when you lose it through property lawyers with no concept of customer service. Hmmm, perhaps service is the real issue here? After all, with the benefit of distance, I actually have rather fond memories of some of the other cons.
But I have decided that it's time to put a stop to it. My mission is to not fall for any more cons in 2008.

Have a happy new year.

Mission Update - Starting the year on a low note

Well here I stand before you, just over a week into 2008, with hanging head and shamefaced expression. I have failed two missions.
I had been going strong, staunchly resisting the chips from the canteen downstairs at work, but yesterday something inside me broke. I ordered some and ate them. They were actually pretty good. But I didn't feel so well afterwards. So there, my first confession is out. Now for number two.
I got also Jerome's flu - my excessive garlic and chilli concoction came to naught. The morning we got up to depart for Japan, I was tired and listless. My nose was hot, my throat felt like a piece of sisal was hitching a ride in it, and my eyes were watery. Halfway to the airport, the sneezes were coming thick and fast, along with lots of mucus. "I feel hot," I said to the Buckwell. "Feel my forehead."
He did. "No fever," he replied.
So I popped a couple of cold and flu tablets and tried to ride it out.
The flu tablets must've worked a bit, because British Airways upgraded us to Club class on the way over to Tokyo. However, it was obvious that I was really sick; I declined the Champagne on boarding, and went for an orange juice instead. Then, despite the fully-flat bed, movies on demand, and food on proper china plates, things went rapidly downhill. It all reached a head about 30,000 feet up, somewhere north of Ulan Batur, when I woke up after a short sleep, with a piercing earache, the shivers and a large trail of mucus winding its way from my nose to my mouth. I winced, and said plaintively to the Buckwell, "I think I have a fever".
Dutifully, he reached across and felt my forehead. "Nope."
So I curled myself up in the foetal position (what a waste of a flat bed), and shivered for an hour.
"What about now?"
"Sorry. You still don't have a fever."
"Oh".
Eventually, we got to Tokyo, and I soldiered on for a couple of days until my cold/flu faded away. By about the fifth day, I was back to my normal self. But on our penultimate morning, I woke up with a sore throat and ballooning neck glands. By the evening, I was exhausted and in bed by 9pm. "Damn," I moaned. "I think I'm getting another cold." The Buckwell reached over and felt my forehead. "Oh no," he said. "Now you really do have a fever."