Tea: A love song

Oh tea, how do I love thee?
Like a flower loves a bee.
You're what makes me
human in the morning.

Only a cup of char 
is even up to par
to take my mind far 
from war and global warming.

Just give me a kettle
and I'll summon my mettle
to make divine dried leaves boiled in water
(or I'm not my mother's daughter).

Some crave cat crap coffee
to make them happy,
or flavoured syrups and milk all afrothy.
But not me.

In teaspoons Prufrock measured his life.
And like any good wife
I'll boil you up a cuppa 
whenever you ask, my dear old mukka.

And if they take me away
or to some Desert Island I stray,
only one thing I pray
- let there be tea.

Silent Sunday: Without a parachute?

Bowled over by brass

It was a typical Monday morning as I emerged from the train station and started my 10-minute walk to the office.

The start of another working week in Athens: "another day, another drachma", as I used to say in the days before the Euro swept away one of the world's longest-lasting currencies and brought a tsunami of price increases with it.

The Monday Morning Blues were threatening to bite. Despite the mild weather and blue skies, these days most folk in Greece are walking around with a little black cloud of anxiety floating above their heads - money's too tight to mention, and all the signs are that it is just going to get tighter.

But moments after stomping out of Piraeus station, my worry cloud was blown away by a blast of high-energy music from street corner that usually only plays host to abandoned store fronts and the occasional beggar waving their misery in your face in the hope of a handful of spare change.

I heard them before I saw them. But the Balkan brass version of Bizet's Carmen made me look up to see where the up-beat blast through the morning commute was coming from.

Then I spotted them - five musicians giving it their all on a hand drum, saxophone, accordion (normally a pet hate of mine) and two cornets, to the delight of the morning crowd of shoppers and wage-slaves.

They were almost certainly immigrants - a favourite group for many Greeks to revile in these days of unprecendented illegal migration into a country that is barely equipped to care for its own growing army of the needy.
But where their Greek may have been limited, at best, they were fluent in the international language of music.

They made my day, and I told them so as they cheerfully posed for a photo.


I gave them what loose change I had, but I felt it was mean and stingy compared to the lift they gave me on a gloomy Monday morning.

Hopefully, my big grin (and inner resolution to find some bigger value coins next time I see them) will encourage them to make a repeat performance later in the week.

Silent Sunday: A sign of spring to make me smile

Pie: A kind of homecoming

Picture the scene. It's 1977. I'm 12 years old, and I've just got back from two weeks away at International Camp in the wilds of Loughborough University campus grounds.

Unlike the previous summer when we had to water the veg with our bathwater, it has NOT been a scorcher. August dumped three years' worth of rain on us, as we gathered in a pathetic ring of soggy tents round a sulky camp fire, sipping scorched cocoa in a bid to get warm and convince ourselves that we were having a marvellous time (which we were, actually).

I'm filthy, my hair is matted with twigs from the final night's bivouac (rain miraculously held off for that one) and, for the first time in my life, my fingernails have grown (couldn't bring myself to bite them after digging the camp toilet). I look like the unmentionable cousin of Stig of the Dump.

But now I'm home. Back in the bosom of my family. In the warmth and security of suburban formica and three-piece suites.

I walk through the back door, drop my rucksack, and breathe deeeply.
Aaaaahhh!
I grin across the kitchen through the mud caking my face and say "You made my favourite. Thanks Mum!"

After being bustled off to the bathroom for a thorough soak (changing the bath water three times before it stopped looking like weak coffee), I emerge - scrubbed and glowing - to be guided to the dining table.

In front of me is a steaming plate of steak and kidney pie, oozing with rich brown gravy and topped with a crisp golden crust. To the side are new potatoes, with mint and butter, and runner beans - all fresh from our garden of course.

I'm in heaven. I've survived my first big adventure - and now I'm getting my reward for making it home in one piece. A condemned man eating his last meal couldn't have relished it more. After a fortnight of cold porridge, charred bangers and scalded tinned beans, it tastes like the best food in the world. And at that moment, it is. No super chef or exotic ingredient could produce anything better than my Mum's homecoming feast.

It's much more than a good tasty meal. It's confirmation that I matter, that I'm loved, and that I have a place - and always will have - at this dinner table. It's what being part of a family is all about.

And if I could possibly have any doubts about that, they are soon dispelled when pudding appears with a flourish of the oven glove: blackberry and apple crumble, with custard...



This post was inspired by 'Oui Chef" over at http://www.beckicklesie.com/ who gave us the prompt "Mum's Cooking".





Thanks to the lovely Becca and Cheffy Daddy for transporting me back to some of the best food memories of my childhood... ...but be warned, food played a bit part in our family (and still does), so there could be more to come.

The Gallery - One Sunday in August (or Desperately Seeking Serenity)

2010 has not been our best year.

Like so many in Greece, and elsewhere, the Ovver Arf lost his job in February and although we've managed so far, we're now reaching a critical point. Though I'm working and earning a decent wage, it's just not enough.

The economic outlook is still extremely gloomy here and the job market is utterly static. And during the summer, Greek business goes into semi-hibernation, even at the best of times, so there's nothing to be done til everyone gets back into the swing of things some time in mid-September.

Although the money situation is bad, the worst of it is the effect this shitty state of affairs is having on my Beloved. It's tough on anyone to lose their job and not find a new one quickly but for a Greek man with a strong sense of familial duty (no matter how misguided that may be), it's a real double- or even triple-whammy.

His self-esteem has plummeted and I fear that he is teetering on the precipice of a depression - though of course his male pride would never let him admit to that.

I watch him go through the motions every day, being the life and soul of the party, telling jokes and being the one everyone wants to sit next to. But I see the emptiness in his eyes, I feel the deep sadness welling up in him, and I sense that inside he feels like he's looking into a deep, dark pit.

And it kills me that I can't just wave my magic wand and make it all better...

As an antidote, we are making an effort to get pleasure from the small things in life. The things that cost little or nothing. The things that remind us that we're still alive, that we're loved and that we're living in a beautiful world. That things will work out in the end, one way or another.

That's what this past Sunday was about for us - desperately seeking serenity in our small blessings....

...things like waking up and looking past your geraniums and basil bushes to a beautiful morning.

Like knowing that our son is growing up happy and healthy....

....and that he has friends, the most precious thing life can give us.

That we have access to clean water...

...and plenty of food, every day.

That we can take solace in a glass of iced coffee, a trashy novel and half an hour to ourselves...

...and that there are people we can reach out to, talk to, to remind us that we are not alone.

========================

This Gallery and its accompanying self-indulgent burbling was inspired by Tara at Stocky Fingers, who this week set The Gallery theme as "One day in August". She did so in honour of the three Mummy bloggers who set off on the day in question (Sunday 29 August) for Bangladesh to help raise awareness for the work being done by Save The Children there.

It's rather humbling, especially after wallowing in my own bout of self-pity, to be reminded how lucky we all are and how much we take for granted.

True, we all have our problems, but having to miss out on summer hols and not quite knowing how to make the next mortgage payment pale into insignificance when compared to the dilemma of a mother faced with the choice of risking giving her child contaminated water or seeing them suffer the agonies of dehydration.

A nice cuppa

Years and years ago there was a very simple yet brilliant ad for tea on British TV.

It showed absolutely nothing, just a blank screen. But the soundtrack was a series of those charmingly familiar sounds involved in making a nice cuppa: filling the kettle, the whistle as it comes to the boil, water being poured into the pot, tea going into the cup, the clink of a spoon as it stirs, the slurp and that satisfied “aahh” as it slips down.

The tag line was the simple text on the blank screen:
“Tea. Best drink of the day.”

Greeks just don’t get the English obsession with tea. To them it is a tasteless brew which they only resort to in cases of high fever, severe colic or extreme diets. It is not something that they associate with anything approaching pleasure.

There’s a reason for that - they haven’t got the foggiest idea how to make a decent cup of tea.

I found that out the hard way when I first arrived in Athens. Whenever I asked for tea, even when it was billed as 'English Breakfast Tea' in some fancy kafeneio, the result was (and still is) always the same. An insipid brew made by briefly introducing a sachet filled with something resembling sawdust to a cup of warm water. And then – horror of horrors – adding a drop of sweet creamy evaporated milk from a tin. Bleurgh!

No wonder most Greeks think that tea is awful.

Just like most Brits, who wouldn’t know a decent cup of coffee if they were slapped in the face with one (and no, Starbucks has not changed that).

If you don’t believe me, compare the shelf allocation in two average supermarkets - one in Greece and one back in Blighty. In the UK, you will find about 6 square inches of space devoted to that particular type of powder than produces the boring grey-tinged beverage the English call coffee, hidden at the end of two full aisles packed with every kind of tea imaginable. Lapsong Souchong, Gunpowder, Orange Pekoe, Darjeeling, Jasmine, Green Tea, English Breakfast, Prince of Wales’ Blend, the list goes on and on and on... while the coffees are all a variation on the bland freeze-dried theme introduced to the UK in the 1970s.

But visit a Greek supermarket and – despite recent marketing drives to promote tea as cool, trendy and healthy – you’ll need a magnifying glass and the detective skills of a modern-day Sherlock Holmes to find a pack of PG Tips.

The secret to making a nice cuppa is really very simple. To get the proper flavour, the water has to be boiling - not boiled, but actually boiling when it hits the tealeaves. That why English tea-purists like my Nana insist on using a ceramic pot (metal robs the water of its heat too quickly), which must ALWAYS be warmed first.

It’s also why the habit of putting a cup of hot water in the approximate vicinity of a teabag is the absolute guaranteed way to produce something that is almost entirely, but not quite, undrinkable.

So, next time you hear me or one of my fellow ex-pats getting all misty-eyed at the thought of a decent cup of tea, drive from your mind that image of a thin, weak, insipid drink served in the afternoons with scones and cucumber sandwiches. Instead, give me a ring and let me show you what a REAL red-blooded Englishwoman can do with a teabag!

And it doesn’t even have to be 4 o’clock...

School daze

The Greek primary school term came to an end today, leaving 6-to-12 year olds across the country bubbling with excitement at the prospect of THREE WHOLE MONTHS with no homework, no tests and endless sunny days to play with their friends.

For my son, it marks the end of an era. The class of schoolmates he has spent the last six years with have seen their last days together. And, as the Class of '09 has been especially tight-knit, the end of the year brought some bitter-sweet emotions to the fore.

Over the past six years we have had broken limbs, broken promises, a couple of broken hearts that healed amazingly quickly, a few run-ins with a teacher who made no secret of the fact she couldn't stand kids, a classmate hovering between life and death (thankfully, two years later, he's made a full recovery) - and a smidge of learning too.

Our little darlings first met as mere six-year-olds, children in every sense of the word. Now, they are teetering on the precipice of puberty and this summer may be the last time they will enjoy life truly unfettered and uncomplicated as only children can.

It's not just the kids that have become close, but the parents too. So when we learned that, for the first time, there would be no full-day fun-filled excursion to the seaside for the leaving classes, we decided that we would arrange one ourselves.

Or rather Agni did.

There's an Agni in every group - the one with the magical combination of enough freedom from wage slavery, energy, willingness, organisational skills, drive, forceful nature and sheer chutzpah to get things done. All we had to do was say "Count us in" and cough up our share once Agni told us what had been arranged.

So, yesterday, bright and early (unreasonably early for a Sunday morning), we joined sixteen kids, six adults, some diving masks, a couple of fishing nets, a selection of clean designer swimsuits and gallons of sunscreen at the bus stop where the coach was waiting patiently for us. And we waited, and then we waited some more. We probably would have waited another hour or more if Agni hadn't pulled out her mobile phone and put a fire under the heels of the missing adult and two children on her list.

Five minutes later, they arrived in a fluster of half-packed beach bags and apologies.

By the end of the day, we still had the same number of kids and adults (thank God!) but we had acquired a collection of sea and pool-water soaked clothes, half a beach's worth of fine gravel, at least one case of mild sun stroke, several scarlet shoulders and noses, a coupla of tantrums, and a bus load of over-stimulated 12-year-olds who had not stopped for a second for six hours since we arrived at the resort.

Happy, but utterly shattered (and that was just the parents).

Come September, they'll be plunged into the abyss of Junior High. And from what I've been told, within a couple of months they will have left behind the sheer joy of being a kid and immersed themselves in the murky, antisocial waters of adolescence.

From our side, we are frantically making copies of photo CDs immortalising their last day together in the vague (and vain?) hope that they won't completely forget what a truly wonderful thing it is simply to be a kid.

Chocolate 1-Sex 0

Stop the presses!
Hold the front page!

Scientists have discovered that chocolate produces a more intense and longer lasting "buzz" than a passionate kiss!

Er, yeah. Yet another lengthy scientific study to add to "Things we already knew". Doh!

I'd be willing to bet that the scientist (who MUST be a man) in charge of this study is probably unmarried and has never spent much time in the same household as women. If he had a wife, girlfriend, pubescent daughter or even a female flatmate, he would have reached his conclusions MUCH quicker.

EVERY woman knows that good chocloate has a massive "feel good factor" that is hard to beat, even in competition with a passionate clinch with the likes of Johnny Depp, George Clooney, that ridiculously toned window cleaner, or whoever your choice of fantasy happens to be. Scientifically, it produces endorphins (or 'them dolphins' as a wonderfully loopy neighbour of mine used to call them) which are key ingredients for that much-sought-after natural high we hear so much about. And that's just the chemical reaction.

Then there is the creamy velvety sensation spreading across your palate, coupled with the unmistakable rich sweet smell as it slowly melts in your mouth. And if the only melting that goes on is in your mouth, then chocolate is much less messy than getting physical - and it involves less effort.

What surprises me is that men still haven't twigged to the fact that given the choice between a bar of Belgium's best and a roll in the hay, most of us gals would go for the nibbles (at least for starters). That's probably why God invented diets - and guilt (yet more proof that if God exists, he's a bloke).

Men, bless 'em, are incredibly gullible and they are very lucky that we are not all soul-sisters of Cruella De Ville, 'cos we can (if so inclined) literally wrap them around our little fingers.

Case in point. Many years ago, I suffered from slight asthma. One winter evening, I had a mild attack when out with my then boyfriend and I didn't have my inhaler with me. I'm ashamed to admit that I played the sympathy vote - and with my tongue firmly in my cheek - I looked at him with big innocent eyes and told him in a small and rather pathetic little-girl voice: "Chocolate usually helps".

To my amazement, he believed me! I was so surprised that I nearly fell off my bar stool laughing (but that would have given the game away and I would have lost out a bar of Galaxy).

Of course, not all women are like me. Some, like my dear friend Ffynella the Fragrant are restrained, disciplined and dignified... ...until a Chocolate Sundae appears on the horizon. Once she gets a whiff of hot chocaoate fudge sauce, you'd better clear the path and make way as Hurricane Ffynella dives in face-first. The aftermath is ten minutes of her making the kind of appreciate grunts and moans that could make her a fortune on the phone-sex lines.

So, it's official. Chocolate beats sex.

But don't worry, girls. I'm pretty sure that no men read this Blog-o-mine, and I think only us females that would make the effort to read an article about their relative merits.

Let's just allow our men folk to keep on thinking that they are really all we want, while we continue to smile sweetly and fantasise about a Cadbury's Flake.

Reasons to be cheerful

The late, great Ian Dury, who – though no stranger to suffering – found enough causes for happiness to inspire a memorable (at least to me) song…

Dury, who lived with the after-effects of the polio he contracted as a child, died of cancer in 2000. Together with his band, The Blockheads, he is probably best remembered by most for “Hit me with your rhythm stick”. But my personal favourite is his bitter-sweet hymn to happiness "Reasons to be cheerful, Part 3".

I wish I could come up with an equally brilliant list, but let’s face it, I’m no Ian Dury. But that doesn’t mean I can't be inspired by the irrepressible spirit and cockney humour of a man that had few favours dealt out to him, but who still felt it was worth paying tribute to some of the small pleasures of life.

So, with apologies to countless better poets than me, but in the spirit of looking on the bright side, below are just a few of my own reasons be cheerful:

Freshly brewed Darjeeling,
tanning without peeling,
finding you appealing
to touch.

Spending pocket money,
hot crumpets with honey,
feeling rather funny,
and toast.

Singing in the shower,
turning up the power,
the smell of a fresh flower
in March.

Acting rather silly,
gilding up the lily,
laughing willy-nilly
at jokes

A bunch of yellow tulips,
a dash of mint julep,
thinking about your lips
to kiss.

Not exactly art, I know. But if nothing else, all the above - and many more - are great incentives to get out of bed and face the world every day.

I am hoping that both my sister and Ffynella The Fragrant will share some of their reasons too, as they both have a talent for verse that I lack.

So, come on. I’m waiting!