Gluttony in Moderation

Many thanks to Mr. & Mrs. Nelson, Shane’s folks, who sent a huge care package after Thanksgiving. Seeing as how there were far too many cookies and pints of salsa for Shane to consume before his departure for Spain, I graciously offered to help ease his burden (above photo). Shortly after this picture was taken I ate enough Pace Picante to choke a horse – seriously, I made myself ill… but it totally cured me of SDD (salsa deprivation disorder). I never knew my stomach could hold a gallon of picante. While I’m on the topic of gluttony, I should share a few culinary anecdotes. First, one of my favorite things to do in London involves taking the Tube to Aldgate East and finding an Indian restaurant on Brick Lane (aka “The Curry Mile”). What sets Brick Lane apart is that eateries have bouncer-salesman who try to convince you to choose their particular establishment, and if you’re savvy you can negotiate an amazing price. Since we usually go with a large group, we get insane deals – we’ve even gotten a free round of naan, half price drinks, and 20% off all entrées. Impressive. I’ve ordered the house’s “hottest curry” before and been unimpressed with the use of spice, or lack thereof, so on my last visit to chutney paradise I informed the waiter that anything less than the “hottest curry in all of Britain” would be a severe disappointment. I first began to suspect that I might have made a mistake when the waiter said, “Sir, I accept your challenge.” As a kid I couldn’t understand why my dad loved to eat jalapeños since I couldn’t handle the heat, but now I realize that my genes predispose me to crave hotter and hotter foods as I grow older. One day, like Lister from Red Dwarf, the only food I’ll be able to taste with my last remaining taste bud is a flaming hot dish of chicken vindaloo. When the waiter returned carrying a deep sunburn-red curry, I could actually feel the entrée radiating heat. Warning #1. This was weapons-grade curry my friend… Niger yellow cake… a few plutonium atoms short of critical mass. Ouch. When the curry first touched my lips, before it alighted on my tongue or was anywhere close to my throat, let alone stomach, I began to hiccup uncontrollably. Warning # 2. The waiter looked concerned and offered to fetch me a saucer of yogurt to ‘compliment’ the curry. I declined. Warning #3. Despite the warnings I plowed ahead and managed, with the help of Steven Tapera, to finish almost half of the dish. I can’t describe what it tasted like, because there was no flavor, just pain with a hint of anguish. I was grateful for the napkins, as my face was sweating profusely. The last thing I’ll say about my hellish curry experience is that the curry burned as much coming as it did going. Lovely.



You’d think that for this, my first major holiday spent away from home, I’d feel robbed of the Thanksgiving experience, but I ended up celebrating Thanksgiving twice and have had my thankful fill of turkey, Pilgrims, and Americana. In the above photo you can see the Butcher’s Hook and Cleaver, a pub near Queen Mary where the UTers all met for Thanksgiving dinner. Apart from a lack of cranberries and pumpkin pie, the turkey dinner was extremely authentic and did much to alleviate my homesickness. Across the street from the pub is a memorial to William Wallace – it seems Wills was disemboweled, executed, and quartered on this very spot. Pass the stuffing please. On the weekend, my recently engaged Norwegian friends (congratulations Alexander and Madeline!) came to visit and we all cooked a massive Thanksgiving dinner at an expat’s house. The pumpkin pie was drenched in Norwegian vanilla sauce, a milky glaze that I have heretofore refused to talk about in my blog, lest any readers with addictive predilections seek out and become enslaved to this Valhalla of all dessert sauces (the chemical reactions in the pleasure-centers of the brain react to Norwegian vanilla sauce as they would crack cocaine or heroine). Trust me friend, if you don’t want vices in your life, forget I ever mentioned Norwegian vanilla sauce. And just one last culinary anecdote: the other night I was walking along Bayswater Road when I saw a gleaming silver platter of Turkish Delight! Ever since the White Witch convinced Edmund to betray his kin for a few pieces of this powdered sugar-clad sweet, I have longed for the day when I could sample the illicit fruit. I asked the proprietor if this was indeed ‘the’ Turkish Delight, to which he responded, ‘Yes. There is no other.” After purchasing a large square, it took only one bite before I realized how incredibly disgusting Turkish Delight really is. Imagine extremely dense fruit-flavored jello jigglers allowed to dehydrate in the sun before being impregnated with almond shards and powdered in sugar. Don’t worry Blake, you’re safe… for now. However, if the Narnian despot ever gets her hands on a supply of Norwegian vanilla sauce, you’re toast. Grace and Peace.