Limericktation

Sitting cross legged in full lotus
Some say helps both merit and focus
Thoughts bubble around
Like flees on a hound
Stay there and your peace will be found

[..]

It's just AWGH
Not into words again
Things come to life

Sit with me still

Your iris my fear
My pupil your sorrow
In the breath our journey

Gedanken Video-Clip

(A Thought Video-Clip)

(Linked Song on YouTube)

Und ich sitze immer noch
In meinem kleinen Spiegelraum
I’m still sitting
In my small mirror room

AnNa is sitting in front of a dressingroom mirror. Brunette waves drape her neck down till the shoulderblades. Reflected in the mirror, her gaze does not pay attention to the necklace she is fixing.

Warte dass mal jemand klopft
Damit ich mich bewegen kann
I wait for someone to knock
So I can move

Barely distinguishable, in a darkening room, a masculine shape faces a wall. AnNa’s mirror shows its opposing wall sliding and revealing another mirror. AnNa walks to the centre of the room.

Stell mir vor - wie du wohl bist
Ob du schoen bist oder blond
Face me as you are
Whether attractive or blond

Weisst du wie das Leben ist
Hinter dieser Spiegelfront
D’you know how it is living
Behind this mirror

The man is now facing a see-through window. At the centre, a femme fatale in crimson evening dress. She waits until the wall has opened completely and slowly starts dancing, paced and secure.

Ich tanz ganz nah vor deinen Augen -
Doch sehe ich dich nicht
I dance in front of you
Still I can’t see you
Du zahlst mit deinen Kupfermunzen -
Und ich dreh' mich nur fuer dich
You count your copper -
And I turn just for you

ANna is dancing in front of the glass surface. The masculine silouette behind it is barely detectable. She is not dancing a solo routine, all her movements revolve around the shadow through the mirror.

Auch wenn uns nur das Fenster trennt
Komm ich dir niemals nah
Only the window between us
Still I never come close
Stell mir vor wie du wohl liebst
Und das ich das nie leben mag
Face me as you’d like to
I don’t wish to live on

From behind the man’s shoulders, the coreography is symmetric.

Wenn die Zeit vorueber ist
Die Wand sich wieder schliesst
When the time is over
The wall slides closed

Doch will ich nicht dass du gehst
Denn ich leb' nur durch dich
Still I don’t want you to leave
‘Cause I live through you

The wall slides close. AnNa keeps dancing.

Ich tanz ganz nah vor deinen Augen -
Doch sehe ich dich nicht
I dance in front of you
Still I can’t see you

AnNa keeps dancing.
The rythm of the song becomes frantic and the movements scattered.
She keeps dancing.

Saffron Chicken

My parents last visit to Manchester brought me a new supply of saffron powder. Not a common saffron: the one my mum has always used for her risotto alla milanese. It comes in small yellow sachets with three chefs parading generous servings of 'l pia' de Milan. The first chef on the line is Italian (you can tell from the stile of his mustaches, even though his skin is yellow), the second chef is Chinese and the third is of black origins. They all step on a 'ZAFFERANO' sign-catwalk with proud and welcoming smiles. Opening a sachet reveals a second, smaller, eight-folded and translucent preserving envelop. The little envelope itself act as a measure for the precious powder - trust me: the price of it justifies the attribute.

Once the small onion chops have started browning, in a pond of melted butter, and the aroma arises from the risotto pot, it is time for the rice (carnaroli or arborio in type) to be added to the fry and left to toast gently with a hint of red wine. Through the whole cooking time the mix must be kept stirred and moist by patiently incorporating boiling beef stock, a couple of ladles at time - every pouring series intervening when the previous has almost evaporated. The saffron powder comes in with the first ladles of stock. When the rice is almost ready, the stock-pouring ceases and the stirring becomes more intense to prevent the grains from sticking to the pot, while the risotto reaches the appropriate consistency: not too dry but not too liquid so that, if the pot is vigorously shaken, a proud wave is produced. Off the fire, butter and parmisan are incorporated. The risotto is left still for a couple of minutes in the pot, under the lid, before serving. It is a skill of timing the snaps of the wooden spoon stirring the thick rice moisture together with the jingles of pot lids disclosing vaporous aromas and stock pouring ladles. It is a rite of nourishing affection and soothing yellows in creamy sharpness.

"Look, we got saffron!", I tell Richard, as soon as the yellow sachets pop out of my mother's traveller wrappings.

"Nice! Is it for meat?", genuinely replies Richard, unaware of the ceremony.

Self-righteous, with a condescending smile, I reply it is for risotto.

Not a bad idea, after all: saffron on a thick beef stake, I realize. And what about small aubergine and saffron beef pies? Instead of the pastry crust, grilled slices of aubergines wrap saffron beef stew sealed with a roasted cherry tomato. Then the yellow won't shine. Chicken then. A bit bland though. The aubergine will prevail.

Alone with my pride I let the inspirational momentum fade for the quandary to be settled in a second time.

Over a pint, a friend, on his way to the chippy, discloses to me his appetite for marinating chicken with lime and chillies.

The same night I prepare a marinade with the juice of two limes and the zest of one, fresh red chilly, saffron powder, a spoon of soya sauce, a pinch of salt, a spoon of extra-virgin olive oil, sage, rosemary and half a red onion chopped into stripes. Two chicken breasts are ready to soak overnight. It is Sunday lunch time and i confine Richard in the lounge while I maneuver with the pans. There has to be some green, so I boil some green beans, to be layed aside the chicken with a dressing of extra-virgin olive oil, balsamic vinegar, salt and pepper. I sieve the chicken breasts together with the herbs, the onions and the chillies: they will be cooked in a pan with hot olive oil and the rest of the onion. Richard asks me what we are having.

"Chicken."

"With mash?"

Aware of the British binomial relation between the two, I defrost some potatoes (they had been previously boiled in half water and half milk - I always keep some in the freezer, just in case). When the microwave pings, the potatoes dive in a pan with milk, salt and butter on their way to the mash. Once the onions are browned and the chicken breasts are cooked, I am ready to serve with some salt and pepper. Not before adding some chopped basil to the mash. A mediterranean whim.

I stare in anticipation at Richard forking a green bean and cutting the meat. His relish smile and his rushing to the next cut come with my first bite. It is a new familiar flavor and it's us.