Baking

Baking is an interesting rant because I always thought I hated baking. But maybe that was because I never really did any.

My mum is an excellent cook, so while I lived at home I was well fed and never felt the urge to try my hand in the kitchen. However, I mustn’t neglect to mention my brief foray into the kitchen. When I was younger I wanted to help with some cake or other. So, with my mum cooking up a storm in the background, I poured all the carefully measured ingredients into the mixer bowl and turned the Kenwood on. Full speed. It turns out that this is unwise, seeing how I ended up covering myself and the kitchen in clumps of slightly eggy white flour.

Another time I bravely volunteered to make a cake from a packet. I say volunteered, I mean my mother ordered me to “get off my *** and do something helpful for once.” It should have been so simple. You pour the stuff from the packet into a bowl, add an egg or two, mix it and stick it in the oven. And that’s what I did. Strangely, after an hour, the cake came out in almost the same liquidy state as it had gone in. It was swiftly chucked out by my more cuisine-astute (younger) sister, Zulu. She will eternally blame my baking skills; I blame the cake mix.

If I’m being honest, the most annoying thing about baking is the fact that I keep kosher. You see, we only have one dishwasher and it’s meaty. However, in anticipation of me making a cheesecake someday, I’ve kept my mixer and appliances parev. So, baking always ends up with me cleaning those pesky whisk attachments by hand, which, I’ll tell you, is really not fun.




look - I made a pie!

Superhero movies

The problem I have with superhero movies is not a problem with the actual genre. I am a self-confessed film-lover, and I pretty much enjoy most films I watch. And superhero movies are cool because they take some of the oldies back to the days of Marvel and DC comics for some brainless “Ker-pow!” action.

My problem is that superhero movies have sort of crept up on us and suddenly bombarded the box office with Hulk after Iron Man after Superman after Spiderman after Spiderman, after – hang on! Just how many Spidermans have there been?

What annoys me is that it’s just getting a bit boring. Nobody ever heard me complain about graphic novel movies like Sin City and 300 because, although they were comic-based, they were appreciated for a totally different reason: they actually looked like a comic book – but on a screen. Awesome!

Does Superman Returns look like a comic book? No. It’s just one long green-screen shot after another.

And no, I don’t have an issue with CGI (computer generated imagery), I think technology is advancing and we should use it. I have even grasped the complex notion that superhero stories aren’t meant to be realistic. But they’re just so monotonous.

Normal guy discovers crazy power(s), has fun testing them out. Fancies a girl. A villain comes along, often with his own kind of superpower. They battle. It looks like baddie has bested our hero, but wait, no, the hero has saved the world. The End. PS. He gets the girl too.

The one superhero franchise that stands out is Batman. We all remember those cheesy sequels: Batman Returns and Batman Forever, but suddenly, in 2005 Christopher Nolan brought us Batman Begins, which looked really original and gothic. It showed us that superhero films can be so much more than brightly coloured CGI-fests featuring flying men in tights.

Cooking

Cooking is a good one because it is so multi-faceted. I can vent my spleen about baking, frying, grilling, boiling, the heinous laws of kashrut, or the cleaning process that inevitably follows. But what I choose to rant about are recipe books. They really get me going.

First of all, there are so many to choose from. Do I want the kosher ones? That way I can make any dish it describes – and be allowed to eat it. Or do I want to specifically get the non-kosher ones? They’ll be more interesting, steer me away from being too heimishe, and maybe impress my friends a bit more. Then again, I’ll have to work out if chicken and beef are good substitutes for pork, bacon, ham, shrimp, oysters, prawns, lobster, caviar etc.

Luckily I’ve so far managed to avoid making this mind-bending decision because during the course of our engagement and wedding, my husband and I received about 12 recipe books as gifts, including one sent from Amazon anonymously. (If that was you, please reveal yourself – the suspense is killing us!)

Secondly, why are the recipes always so complicated? They tend to require about a thousand ingredients, none of which I ever have. Who on earth has their cupboard stocked with caster sugar, brown sugar, Demerara sugar, Vanilla sugar and icing sugar? Sugar is sugar. Isn’t it?

I like recipes that are simple. Like you take the chicken and whatever vegetables you have, throw ‘em in a pot of water, add some salt and voila! Chicken soup. Who can be bothered with gently folding anything into anything else. Just mix it up!

And finally, even if you do decide to use a recipe from a cookbook, it will never ever ever end up looking like it does in the picture.

Brent Cross Shopping Centre

Well, I suppose this isn’t really the fairest rant. I hate shopping. But my comments today are not about shopping as a pastime (I’ll get to that someday), but about Brent Cross itself.

Firstly, It’s so confusing! The only thing I know is that John Lewis is at one end and Fenwicks is at the other. And I also know HMV is next to Fenwicks. Or is it John Lewis?

Yes, yes, I know: “If you think Brent Cross is big, don’t go to the Harlequin.” Don’t worry, I won’t. And I won’t ever again look at Brent Cross’s maps. They are actually unhelpful.

So besides its rearing vastness and complexity, Brent Cross also poses a problem because it’s so local. Despite being a resentful shopper, I still enjoy having new clothes. So when I finally make it to Brent Cross, armed with a box of biscuits and a scowl, I like to get stuff done. I make my usual stops: H & M, Zara and Topshop and then mosey on down to HMV to see what DVDs are under £3 today.

Unfortunately, besides the racks of clothes, I also have to wade through various acquaintances I meet between dressing rooms. Each likes to tell me which shops they’ve been to, where’s next on their schedule, what they’re up to at the moment and what they’re cooking for Shabbat. Nightmare.

But still, when I get home, I feel so proud of my two new skirts, new top and shoes. Now I won’t need to shop again for another six months. The problem is, because Brent Cross is right in the heart of North West London, and because all the nice Jewish girls go to the same three stores, when I turn up to shul in my brand spanking new outfit, three other people are wearing it too.

Girls

Now don’t get me wrong: I am a girl. So there are plenty of things I like about my species. But how often being one of them drives me up the wall...

For example, I always feel so embarrassed when I overhear a variant of the following conversation:

Girl 1: “Oh, I really need the bathroom.”
Girl 2: “OK.”
Girl 1: “Will you come with me?”
Girl 2: “OK.”

Not only is it disturbing that Girl 1 needs a chaperone, but the fact that Girl 2 agrees with no fuss whatsoever – and often a little enthusiasm – is all the more annoying.

And get this. Girls feel the need to hug and kiss each other all the time. What is that about? And it’s not only the hug and the kiss. It’s all the screaming. I might understand if you were giving a hug to someone returning from a long holiday, a gap year perhaps, but a chance meeting with a gal pal one evening after having ‘done’ lunch with them four hours ago? Please.

I made my stance clear about ten years ago when, one day in year 10, I had somehow become a peripheral member of the ‘cool crew’ and realised that my newfound status was going to incur a lot of post-class and post-lunchbreak hugging and kissing. I told my new friends that I did not like all the kissing and, after a profound silence, complimented by many a gaping mouth, I was granted exemption.

I managed to keep my reputation as the non-kissing, semi-cool girl all the way up to my wedding day. Then people didn’t seem to care for my strict rules on greeting etiquette. I was hugged and kissed non-stop, but to be honest, a day’s exception was bearable.

Mind you, considering the contraption of a dress I had on, I did hold off going to the bathroom all day so as not to require an escort.