Persistent Distraction

Great British Menu

How I hate this program. 

I hate it because I love cooking shows and have a weak spot for celebrity chefs.  I hate it with a fiery white-hot passion that compels me to switch on BBC 2 every evening at 7:30.

The premise, which is repeated twenty-seven times during each program by the ex-royal correspondent presenter, is that every week two chefs compete to win the prize of cooking for the Queen.

Each week two well-known or up-and-coming or chefs prepare a four-course menu which represents their region.  On Monday, the contestants banter and snipe and prepare a first course which the other then tastes. Tuesday through Thursday they repeat the slicing, searing and bitching through the fish course, the main, and the dessert.

On Friday, the chefs supposedly cook every dish again, for the judges.  The viewers' credulity is stretched on this by the daily previews of the judges tasting the creations.

In the grand tradition of vote 'em off reality shows, the judges cold-bloodedly butcher the candidates.  They greet the Michelin-star-studded chefs' hopeful creations with pronouncements like:

"This dish absolutely disappoints me."

"Aaaaggghhhh!  Mint sprigs!  The foulest ignominy from the bowels of hell!"

"It smells like a pub ashtray."

One obviously airbrushed photo of the aforementioned judges:

And the unretouched version:

I could mention the ridiculous rules of the contest (the first heats oblige the judges to vote for an overall menu, regardless of their favorite single dishes, yet the final pits starter against starter and pudding v. pudding, though the favorite dishes and their creators may have been eliminated), or the painful announcement of the winner (by my calculations, in each episode the lesser-known chef has won), or the rather hard-to-swallow notion that the final menu for the Queen's 80th birthday luncheon will be chosen by her subjects in a phone-in vote just days before the event...but that would just be irrelevant, since my real beef with the series is that I would give my right tastebud to be a judge myself, but I'll never experience the cured salmon with sweet citrus asparagus and dill hollandaise.

And neither will Her Majesty, because Gary Rhodes was voted off.

A footnote:  Judge Butthead redeemed himself slightly in last night's program when he wished for a Spinal Tap amp moment... he would have scored the Welsh fish course an eleven. 

Your Kindness, My Regards

Dear Reader,

As a word geek, I am sometimes distressed when, despite our best intentions, the words we use fail us.

The source of my current concern is expressions of courtesy which convey no courtesy at all.

Take, for example, the phrase "Kind regards," which has somehow gained wide usage as a closing salutation in personal and business correspondence.

The only function of such phatic communication is to promote sociability.  Therefore, it should make sense given the basic tenets of etiquette:  acknowledge the other person's qualities, needs and interests, and make as little reference to one's own as possible.

If I sign a letter "Kind regards," am I not claiming to be kind myself, and therefore undermining my message?

I once had a colleague who would end his outgoing voicemail message with, "I will return your call at my earliest convenience."

I imagined he would get back to me after a few rounds of Quake and a coffee break.  This may indeed have been the case, and that was his prerogative, but I doubt he actually meant to convey that message.  My problem was not with the relative importance of my call to his schedule or the sincerity of his message, but rather with the inability of the expression "at my earliest convenience" to do the only job required of it.  In the grammar of courtesy, the word "convenience" can only apply to the second person, never to the first.  (And even then, I would hesitate to append "earliest."  Does not the bossiness of "earliest" dilute the courtesy of "convenience?")

Compliments and deference move in one direction:  from the speaker toward the other.  To reverse this course in a message meant to convey politeness is to negate the only meaning such communication can claim.

This diatribe is not an apology for etiquette in correspondence, and if Gentle Reader should deign to write to me, I shall gratefully receive the letter, however it is signed.  I am simply registering my bemusement at expressions which self-destruct in their own inconsistency.  Closing a letter with "Kind regards" or promising to respond "at my earliest convenience" makes about as much sense to me as greeting someone at the water cooler with "Hi, how am I?"

Thank you for listening to my rant.  I understand that you are a busy person, and I hope you will return here whenever it may be convenient.  I do not presume to demand the earliest instance of that convenience.

Yours faithfully,
Auntie Shell

Cheap DVDs, Recovered Memories, and The Power of Denial

I'm a sucker for chick flicks:  romantic comedies, period drama, anything based on a Jane Austen novel or starring Hugh Grant.

Yesterday while out shopping I noticed that Donner had the latest Pride and Prejudice on DVD for €9.99, or 3 for €25 (I'm also a sucker for a bargain).  So I scooped up a copy and began browsing for two more to go with it.  I decided to finally get a copy of Sense and Sensibility, the Ang Lee one (Austen AND Grant?  How had I resisted that pull so long?).  Vying for the number three spot were a BBC production of Northanger Abbey, and Four Weddings and a Funeral.  (Austen VERSUS Grant?  Cruel choice to make...)  I hadn't seen the former, and had already seen by my calculations Thirty-Six Weddings and Nine Funerals.  Therefore, having learned the hard way to favor the known quantity in DVD purchases, and wondering why on earth I hadn't bought this one before, I chose FWAAF. 

This evening, I fancied some comfort viewing.  I surveyed my purchases and decided upon Four Weddings, for its familiarity:  Charles swearing as he wakes up late for another wedding, Scarlett's mad hats, the W H Auden poem, Fiona's arch wounded persona, and all the lovely scenes of average-looking people in pretty clothes. 

So I put that disc in the player, selected English with Dutch subtitles, and pressed Play.  As the opening credits began, I was struck by an incredible, horrendous realization.  Suddenly I knew why I had never bought the DVD, even though it is exactly my sort of film, and why yesterday, distracted by the Grant/Austen dilemma, I had consented to fork over the cash:

I had forgotten that Andie MacDowell was in it.

I watched it anyway, of course.  Her flat, twangy delivery is still annoying, but it wasn't her fault she was given lines like "Is it still raining?  I hadn't noticed."  Anyway, the rest of the movie is romcom therapy and worth owning the DVD for.  I'm keeping it next to Bridget Jones, on Rainy Saturday rotation...

Eating Swans

Dear Auntie Shell,

Why do people eat chickens and ducks and geese, but usually not swans?

Sincerely,
Curious Bird Enthusiast

Dear CBE,

While searching for the answer to your question of why swans are not generally considered food, I came upon several inconclusive answers, and one poetic one.  Here are the top five:

1.  Some people claim that swans are not eaten simply because they do not taste good, while others claim the contrary.  The question of whether swan meat is good to eat usually does not enter into the argument. 

2.  In the U.K., swans either are, or are widely considered to be, the property of the monarch; in any case, they are a protected species.  To be in possession of a dead swan, even one which has apparently met its fate accidentally, can prompt a visit from the police (during which visit one is advised simply to offer coffee or tea and biscuits, and resist the temptation to impress the officers with more exotic delicacies).

3.  In many other countries, even those with no crowned head claiming dominion over the graceful birds, most Cygnus species have "endangered" or "threatened" status and are protected.  This may explain why a search on  the term "swan" on epicurious.com returns no recipes, and why Swan McNuggets are not likely to appear on a fast-food menu anywhere on the planet.

4.  Some translations of the Bible list them in Leviticus amongst animals not to be eaten (though most people agree that this is a mistranslation of the name of a species of owl). 

5.  On a message board I read the best, if most cryptic, explanation to this puzzle:

"We don't eat swans because they're not bread, but hyacinths."

This response met with some confusion.  The author of the mysterious post, when asked by a bemused reader what she was "ingesting," answered, "Saadi."

Auntie Shell is sure she was referring to this passage, translated from the 13th-century Sufi poet:

If thou of fortune be bereft,
And in thy store there be but left,
Two loaves, sell one, and with the dole,
Buy Hyacinths to feed thy soul.

--Moslih Edden Saadi

So, there you have it.  We don't eat swans because they are beautiful, are symbols of grace, beauty, music, and poetic inspiration; and like most beautiful things, they are rare, and therefore make better food for the soul than for the body.

Troubled by a mystery?  Send your question to [email protected]. All inquiries which can be investigated with an internet search engine and a medium-sized chunk of spare time will be entertained.  Please don't make me do math.

Pay No Attention to the Woman Behind the Curtain

Auntie Shell would like to beg Devoted Reader's forgiveness for the dizzying vicissitudes of her blog's design.  Compulsive tweaking of link color and page banner is her way of combatting writer's block.

Top 2 Terry Wogan Quips from Eurovision 2006

One of Auntie Shell's first memories upon hitting European shores was of switching on the television in May 2001 to witness the horrifying, splendid train wreck that is the Eurovision Song Contest.  An Innocent Abroad, she was unprepared for the earnest enthusiasm for egregious pop that afflicts the continent, at least on that one night in late spring.

At that moment, she would have activated the remote were it not for the acerbic (and presumably alcohol-fuled) reflections of BBC presenter, Terry Wogan.  But Wogan's snarky comments, especially those concerning the Danish presenters ("Doctor Death and The Tooth Fairy") got AS hooked on the yearly extravaganza.

She learned that the voting is political:  that Balkans cast their highest votes for Balkans; that Scandinavians vote for Scandinavians; that Greece votes for Cyprus and Cyprus almost never votes for Turkey; and that pretty much nobody votes for the UK (perhaps because they're yoked to a non-European bully that tends to ignore Europe and invade the rest of the planet), even though they bankroll the event.

She also learned that catchy tunes prevail; that "wardrobe malfunctions" pay (the UK started the trend, when, in 1981, the group Bucks Fizz delighted viewers with a tearaway skirt, and ran away with the prize); that there will always be at least one act that didn't get memo (key of G:  repeat:  KEY OF G!); that somehow the French warrant translation of the telephone voting results into their language (Royaume Uni:  nulle points!); that everyone takes the thing seriously except the United Kingdom, who only pay attention in order to make fun of the event and/or grouse about losing.

Tragically, Auntie Shell missed the first hour of the 2006 Eurovision Song Contest broadcast.

Therefore, she was only able to capture two gems of the Wogan vintage:

#2:  On one country's performance: 

"I don't think Spain cares anymore."

#1:  Who remembers the context; it doesnt matter, it could apply to the whole program: 

"I've had virtually nothing to eat this evening."

Because The Netherlands cannot seem to come up with an act that can make it to the final, and because the BBC, at Eurovision as well as any other time of year, has kept her sane throughout this expat adventure, Auntie Shell is compelled to support the UK.  We thought "Teenage Life" was better cheesy rubbish than much of the other cheesy rubbish on show this year.  Better luck in 2007, chin up, what what.

Tell it to the cat

Another expression of skepticism.  If a Dutch person doesn't buy what you're selling, he'll say, "Jaja, maak dat de kat wijs."  He figures you'd be better served to tell the cat your story, if you want someone to believe it.

Colleague #1:  "Where have you been all morning?  I've left you two voicemails."
Colleague #2:  "I've been super busy."
Colleague #1:  "Yeah yeah, tell it to the cat."

The Raconteurs: Broken Boy Soldiers

More Jack White yumminess!  A supergroup side project without Meg and with a bunch of other guys from Detroit who aren't Jack White (and really, how super can that be; clone Jack three times and I'll show you a real All-Star Band), The Raconteurs got together to jam and stayed for an album. 

I keep trying to oust "Steady As She Goes" from my brain.  Unsuccessfully.

 

• Sex Appeal: 11  (How does he do it?  Jack really should not be this hot.)


• Outfits:  10.  They're all about jackets.  Velvet smoking, shiny vintage leather (or is that vinyl?), Western suede, tweed, corduroy, Jack in a crowd-pleasing Argyll jacket for a Glasgow gig.  And hats.  Top hat and white patent-leather shoes on one of the guys who isn't Jack White; beret on Jack.  And plaid.  Like they sneaked into Uncle's attic and played dress-up.  Wonderful.


• Bonus Points:  1, for using a French word for the band name and achieving irony rather than pretense.


• Demerits:  1.  I'm not feelin' the bloody bruised faces on the cover.  Auntie Shell abhors violence and tokens thereof, even in service of an album title.


• ASNBMR Score:  10

With your mouth full of teeth

If a Dutchie is speechless, he just stands there "met de mond vol tanden."   

What could express the inability to speak better than this?  The brain desperately searches its database for words, but nothing makes it as far as the mouth, which simply continues its teeth-storage duties.

Proposed usage:

"Two days after I threw out everything in the ancient hardware storage room, somebody asked me for 25 power cords and a Spanish keyboard.  I just stood there with my mouth full of teeth."

Monkey-sandwich story

Usually applied to grisly, ironic, or otherwise unusual stories of kittens in jars, criminal plots gone wrong, super-expensive cookie recipes, outrageous acts of revenge committed by spurned lovers, and, presumably, unsavory dishes unwittingly eaten, the Dutch equivalent of "urban legend" is "broodje aap verhaal."   

Because such stories are presented as true but are almost always fictional, I'd like to see the literal translation of "broodje aap" used, as I have heard at our international office, to express skepticism:

Colleague #1:  "When I was a child I once defrosted the windscreen of my mother's car with an electric sander."

Colleague #2:  "Monkey sandwich, mate.  Monkey sandwich."