Wednesday, 29 June 2011

Summer Soup Interlude

Dear readers,

apologies for the lull in posting - there are some changes happening, and there's no way of telling whether they are going to go a David Bowie or Judas Priest direction at this stage.

But while I've been running around like a headless chick, I found comfort in the ladle of a brilliant, family run, local soupery, somewhat cheekily named Naked Soup. The jury is still out on the amusement factor of this name. But be that as it may, I find that, when summer consists of a maximum temperature that would count as winter in other parts of the world, soup is reliable, spoonable tummy joy.

Summer and Soup in Glasgow
Photo: kalico 10 on Flickr

So, today, when I paid a visit to the abovementioned establishment, I mentioned to the young, handsome lad behind the till just how yumsome the soup of my choice was. And hey, presto, here's the recipe. (Of course, if you are in town, please check out the cafe! Their coffee is on par with the soup, served with a corner of caramel slice.)

Lentil-Sweet Potato-Coconut Soup
(serves about a third of customers at lunchtime - adjust to smaller portions as necessary)

Add water to 3 sweet potatoes, 2 large onions (both in chunks), 100g stock cubes and 1.6kg red lentils. Boil untill the lentils are soft.. Add 1 tin of coconut milk, season, blend, and enjoy the goodness!

Saturday, 4 June 2011

Here's One I'm Preparing Right Now

A quick post while I'm anticipating the arrival of six hungry dinner guests (and the accompanying logistical problems that arise from living in a rental flat clearly not designed for entertaining the masses): a recipe which allows even those of us who have not been raptured to partake in heavenly experiences.

I discovered this recipe while sharing a flat with a young gardener at Hardwick Hall - a young gardener with a brilliant cookbook collection which turned me as green with envy as his thumb. There it was: stripey, colourful, and so full of brilliant, exciting and mouthwatering recipes that I a) didn't even mind that there weren't many pictures in there (a no-no when it comes to cookbooks otherwise - I want to see what I'm going to make, even if it is a cold, hairsprayed version of the real thing), and b) almost missed an appointment because I kept on saying "I'll just read one more recipe and then I'll go".
Photo from sarahraven.com

The book in question is Sarah Raven's Garden Cookbook. Month by month, it lists fresh produce and a multitude of recipes for each. And not your bog standard recipes, either, as you will soon see. Aforementioned gardener made me promise to put all the words back into the book before I leave. I nicked a few on a notepad. Apologies. Here's what's chilling in the freezer compartment of my fridge right now, waiting to be spooned onto plates with fresh strawberries.

Basil Ice Cream (adapted from Sarah Raven)
Take one bunch of fresh basil, chop it roughly and then mix together with 250g caster sugar. Add 150g mascarpone and stir for a while to get rid of the sugar crystals and infuse everything with the basil aroma. Add the juice of one lemon as you go along. Finally, add ca. 600g of full fat natural yoghurt.

Put into a freezer friendly container, the container then into the freezer, and give a good stir with a fork (breaking up any solid masses that might build up) every couple of hours. If your freezer is too cold, do something about it. It's best made the late morning of your dinner party, for perfect consistency. Raven warns that this ice cream doesn't keep for long. I'd say, rather, it doesn't last long. Mmmh. Serve with fresh strawberries.

Monday, 23 May 2011

Imagining Voices

Me me me meeee! Yes, indeed, I have started taking voice lessons. For the spoken word (not singing), the vehicle of my strange thoughts in the absence of pen, paper and keyboard. When I mentioned this exciting little piece of news to a colleague she quipped: "I never thought you had a speech impediment!" I swiftly and somewhat filled her in on the difference between speech therapy and voice lessons, growing more and more conscious of my glottis and its motions as I went along. It's a bit like learning a new type of dance at this stage: at some point I will start stumbling for no reason whatsoever... and hopefully, at some stage, the fruit of my croaks will improve my everyday delivery of delightful tidbits of wisdom as well as smoothen my presentation of conference papers.
His Master's Voice Print by Michael Sowa
Available at an Amazon near you (whence this image originates)

But back to the issue of voices and control over the same: in my initial session I already learned a lot about physiology, the connection between breath, speech organs, brain and 'what-I-sound-like', and about the inadvertent sneaking of emotion into every aspect of voice production. It's this very connection between emotion and voice which creates forensic linguists' daily bread when they analyse the voices in distress calls and or nuisance callers. It's fascinating stuff. And too intricate to be repeated here, right now, when I should really be opening the windows, do a bit of a tai chi exercise and then shout "Baaaaahhhhhh!" at the blustery windy world out there.

One point bears mentioning, though, since I noticed a connection of my interest in the voice to my own daily keep, writing history. I don't know if everyone does this, but I often wonder what type of voice my historical protagonists had. Bess of Hardwick seems to come in at a comfortable alto, while her husband George evokes a thin yet raspy baritone. And wouldn't it be weird if John Dee had a lispy falsetto? In many cases we will never know - lucky is the historian who finds a contemporary commentary on a historical person's voice!
John Dee, image (as so often on this blog) sourced from Wikipedia

But I think I can be a little more confident about the impact of all of the abovementioneds' voices: Bess, George and Johnny were all charismatic, influential personalities, as witnessed by their careers, their fans and even their enemies. There was no one, it seems, who did not have a connection and an impression of their personalities upon meeting them. They made themselves heard, which must have reinforced their confidence, their style of writing and their overall impact, even now, when all that remains is an impression of their tone in their written words.

I had not previously appreciated the connections between voice, confidence, physical composure and personality, and can't wait to find out more. And even if (ok, I'll admit it) I cannot draw any strong conclusions about the voices of historical characters - I suspect this is just as it is tricky (and often dodgy) as is the search for someone's character traits in his or her handwriting - it'll be even more fun now to orchestrate historical conversations in my mind.

To finish, a little recipe (this, too, no rocket science and probably seen in many incarnations elsewhere - but indulge me in thinking I invented it) for a beverage that promotes wonderful voiceness (and here I speak from experience, in a beautiful, melodious contralto) ((who sniggered there?)):

Grate some fresh ginger into a mug and top with boiling hot water. Let steep for several minutes. Add a spritz of freshly squeezed lemon juice, some honey and a sprig of mint. Sip slowly while reciting alchemical poetry.

Sunday, 8 May 2011

Now You See It - Now You Don't

The British Public are a curious beast when it comes to elections. Sometimes the unpredictability, or rather the ability to pick, en masse, an option which shoves 'common' sense into a sad, lonely position, makes me want to flap my ears in the sad rhythm of Tanita Tikaram's Twist in my Sobriety. Yes, it is that bad.
Photo from reasonandmadness.co.uk

I am, of course, talking about the TV show we call So You Think You Can Dance, where Brazilian hip hop dancer Rithy, who is just plain brilliant, landed in the bottom four and had to dance a solo to stay in the competition not once, but two weeks in a row. The public's phone-in vote was not strong enough to keep her safe. I watched in disbelief: had the other viewers not seen what I see? And while I was relieved that Rithy and her also-very-talented partner Shane made it through the dance-offs (twice), three themes kept bubbling up in my flabbergasted brain. And all of them link voting and dance to alchemy (because that's the way this brain works).
Poster available from Paper Scissor Stone

1. Perception & Preferences
Had the other viewers seen the same show I did? Their eyes certainly did (allowing for minor fuzz which their friendly optician could fix in a spec), but their minds did not. Viewers may like a dancer for any reason, but more often than not the reason will be something 'special'. What stands out to the individual viewer relies much on his or her background and preferences. So, while the technical ability, effortlessness and talent of Rithy might seem very obvious to me, others might pick up on something completely different, like hair styles, costumes, the perceived attractiveness or the regional origin of a dancer. What they like and what I like is therefore completely different, and may even change over time: a viewer who becomes more educated about dance may concentrate on different aspects in the next season. And needless to say that our grandparents, who grew up dancing with Fred Astaire and Gene Kelly in the background, would make a completely different story out of the contest.

This 'now you see it-now you don't' effect also shows itself in the history of alchemy. A relatively young field in the history of science, the history of alchemy has left its bibliographic conception behind, went through an infancy of considering alchemy an inferior, esoteric predecessor of chemistry, and is now half-way out of an adolescence which connected it with social and intellectual history as well as truly interdisciplinary approaches (including archaeology and chemistry, not only for the reconstruction of historical experiments). Its future looks bright, partly thanks to its openness to diversity and eagerness to communicate with other disciplines. We now see different ways of approaching alchemical writings, concepts, language, experiments and material culture which the founding fathers of the discipline did not spot. And I am certainly looking forward to changing my mind about those in the next few decades.
A fire and water-damaged manuscript
check out this blog for a technical discussion of manuscript rescue and preservation!

2. We'll Always Have...
Like anyone who is really good at something, Rithy seems, I'll say it again, effortless. That makes her prone to being taken for granted. Those who phoned in to vote for other dancers probably thought that she would not need their support, or rather, that others needed it more than she did. In that sense, her repeated (wail!) landing in the bottom four is not a surprise. The very assumption that she will always be there may send her home.

It is here that I recall, with more wailing, the flood which damaged many unique and irreplaceable manuscripts in Prague in 2002. Among them were alchemical manuscripts - and I need barely hint at the significance of the court of Rudolph II of Prague to tell you how lamentable this loss is. Apart from being stored in what I can only assume were inadequate surroundings, the majority of manuscripts in the archives had not been microfilmed or preserved in other formats, either. The assumption that they would always be there contributed to their loss. To read more about the attempts at recovery of what the Prague flood had not swallowed whole, check out the Guardian article. And if you find any way to support archives operating on a shoe string (be it through donations, adoption of a manuscript or volunteering), please go ahead. While you can.
Not quite the type of alchemical scholarship I'm after...
Marie-Louise von Franz, Alchemy, on Amazon

3. The Meh of the Common Man
I'll say it again, Rithy is really good (I refuse to use the word 'awesome', which is not only an ugly word but also pretty much meaningless). But it is for this reason that she is getting as little attention as, say, those who do well at school. Perhaps (though I certainly hope not!) she will eventually find herself whizzed out of the way by those who need help, receive attention and therefore support and lessons that would further anyone. Their best will still be worse than her unaided best, but will be more appreciated: everyone likes a struggler who overcomes obstacles. Why else would reality TV glorify extreme slimmers and ignore those who have a perfectly normal figure? (I can hear a general 'meh' in my ears as I type this).

Some themes in the history of alchemy, science, or even generally in scholarship are similarly meh-ed at. No one picks a good, solid topic just for the sake of it any more, perhaps in the hope that a 'sexy' topic will get more attention when the researcher applies for the all-important fellowship or lectureship of his bill-paying, life-beyond-mere-survival-living, young and hopeful dreams. And it is a world of survival out there. Some acquire big scholarly elbows, others become professional box tickers on the skills sheet, yet others hope to impress with more degrees, another conference and, certainly, a list of publications longer than their longest article. Does it work? I'll tell you when I get there. I have a suspicion, though, that there is no patent recipe for lectureships or happiness. (I find myself flogging a dead self-help manual here). And I openly admit that I picked the history of alchemy as my poison, sorry, passion because there are just so many interesting, special, unusual things to research!

Meanwhile, though, there really are topics no one wants to poke with a stick, much less pick up and run with: the general overviews, the obvious questions and the topics which seem just too unspectacular or unfashionable to receive attention. The unwritten studies are those I often try to find in secondary literature, for hours, thinking and then screaming "Can you believe no one has written about this?" followed by "Goodness, where will I find that basic, vital information?". They will always be there for someone to do, I suppose. But tell you what: give me a lectureship, and I'll do them.