I think about my blog every day. I think about writing for it every day. A day becomes a week becomes a month. I’m at once restless and lethargic, and how do I come to terms with that?
I’m not exactly sure.
My mother always told me, Janice, you think too much. She was right. What I think most about is other people. Who are they? What are they doing? Why don’t I know them? Where do they live? What do they eat? What are their lives when they are not in front of me, inside my head? Yes, all of that and more.
The short version of the story is I’m not getting out much and I’m not seeing that many people. Lockdowns combined with a deteriorating knee keep me indoors and away from things I normally love to do. I try to think about people who have written whole books while being (what I consider) prisoners of home and even bed. My hat’s off to them. Yes, the stories are still in my head but I lack the motivation. I’ve heard that inspiration is something being taken in, and motivation is about movement – a driving force. Â Motivation is more closely connected to external stimuli, while inspiration is based on the internal stimuli. I’d say that right now I do feel inspired, but not really motivated. So if I’m not getting out that much, external stimuli are dampened, and the thoughts stay inside my head. So let’s get them out a bit.
I say I haven’t been out much, but I’m blessed by living in an area that is infinitely walkable (even now, and even though that might be limited) and infinitely fascinating. Those who feel at one with nature have a hard time understanding that. In nature I understand the peace and beauty, but as large as the vista might be, it’s harder for me to examine. Where are the people? Maybe I don’t want to face the person who is there – me. Hmm.
Right now ‘me’ is a person who can barely walk. My knee has given up and more than a few minutes on it becomes unbearably painful. Except I do bear it, and don’t want to. I’m doing my best. If I don’t try, then I’m missing out on so many things. Throughout the pandemic, I’ve managed what I could. Now my radius is shrinking and I’ll still do what I can. So let’s look at what I’ve managed to do and think positive and look ahead.
Not in order but a smattering of life chez moi at the moment.
We are still mourning the loss of a favourite haunt, Poetto – a nice pizza and pasta with friendly service. Gone a few months before lockdown. Maybe it was a blessing for them.
Krish noticed a dragon standing over a building – now building supplies but we’d love to know what it was before. I’ll keep researching!There was apparently a tram depot in Clapton and this is the yard. Nowadays it’s a collection of rental studios for film and photography called Hackney Studios. Notice the ghost sign, centre right.After the tram depot, we visited Tram Shop. You can normally have a meal here, but right now it’s a general store. We found a few things to buy, none were food.I wanted to buy something at the Dusty Knuckle in Dalston. By the time I made it there (damn you, bad knee) the shelves were bare. Absolutely everything had sold out. This is the alley leading down to the bakery yard.
I hadn’t been in the Curve Garden for months! It was looking very green and wasn’t too busy. So Melodie and I sat by the Stik wallart and Melodie, who used to be his landlady, sent him texts, unanswered. I’m still a groupie, it seems.When Krish had his vaccination, we made time to visit Fremont Street, home of my great grandmother and father, and where my maternal grandmother was born. Along the way we saw Five King Edwards Road, once a women’s fashion factory, now fancy flats.We think this grand facade was likely the offices for the factory. Such elegant stonework.
6 Fremont Street. My maternal great grandparents lived here. It seems strange that I am now only 1km away from an ancestral home. Strange but fitting.My maternal great grandmother, Phoebe, with my maternal grandmother, Charlotte (looking incredibly like my mum)
Tesco Morning Lane. In just one year the world has changed. Shopping is a new experience and sometimes it feels like it was always like this, especially when I see people looking like they are used to it.
I have always been a bad needleworker, but I enjoy creating things, watching them take shape. I made these ‘postwoman’s gloves’ from a simple pattern and decorated them. I’ve now made a third pair in light orange.I went for an XRay on my knee and made sure I stayed a while in front of the Stik mural in one of the courtyards. On 28 March the clocks went forward in the UK. The evenings are longer. The trees on Sandringham Avenue will soon be in leaf, and the skies will stay lighter.
Low Traffic Neighbourhoods have taken cars away from some smaller streets and forced them to the larger streets, like mine. Every day starting around 3pm the parade of cars begins, ending almost four hours later. Continue reading “COVID – Restlessness and Lethargy”
In ‘normal’ times every now and again we would go to Canary Wharf to get our Toronto fix. It has that Toronto look and no wonder. Its earliest buildings were built by the Canadian company Olympia & York. There are even street names and apartment and shopping complex with Canadian influences. Everything is very modern and there’s even an underground shopping concourse. But we haven’t been for a very long time.
We had an idea that the weekends would be very quiet in the area and we’d be able to walk around and look at the river. And so we jumped on the 277 bus that takes us from Hackney Town Hall all the way to Canary Wharf DLR station.
Victoria Park Village from the bus. A more detailed look is on my Must Walk list
On the way, we pass through Victoria Park Village, Victoria Park itself, and Mile End. Victoria Park was my closest childhood park. I loved the playground there and also the pond. My grandfather would take me fishing at that pond. We’d buy maggots and mealworms in a little shop along the Roman Road and off we’d go. On the way down to the docks (where Canary Wharf is built) we pass by my old childhood home of (the now demolished) Lessada Street, just off Roman Road, and then down under the railway bridge where where the First Flying Bomb fell on London on 13 June 1944. It’s also where I saw a strange and scary site when I was about three years old.
I was walking with my dad – I loved those walks – and saw a fire under the bridge. There was a man and a motorcycle lying there in the hollow and they were alight. I asked my dad about it and he told me it was a guy (for Guy Fawkes Day) and hurried me on. When I was 14, I told my mum what I remembered and that I was sure it was a motorcycle fatality. She looked a little white and then confirmed it. She told me that my dad had hoped I would forget and never to tell me. He had been very shaken. She then asked me never to tell him that I knew. I kept my promise.
I didn’t take photos after Victoria Park. Photos from the bus are never very satisfying but it does mean there’s a gap.
Further down the road, we ride along Burdett Road. Here I have memories of visiting my great aunts – my mum’s mum’s sisters – in their tall, grand houses, or so they seemed in those days. And I remember the little Jewish grocer where they had barrels of olives, herring, pickled cucumbers – with a name something like Vlit Vlosh…who knows. And on down to Poplar, past the canal, and you see the river bank.
Except today there were dozens of people. At our stop, we noticed the same. Lots of people. We’d be wrong in our guess that it would be dead down there. They obviously all had the same idea that we had, to be somewhere ‘quiet.’ Oh well, nothing to do but carry on and see whatever we could.
The main financial district of London is in The City, the original square mile. Canary Wharf is the secondary business district. It’s on the Isle of Dogs and is named after one of the quays of this dockland area, No. 32 berth, where fruit was unloaded from the Canary Islands. And that’s why it’s called the Isle of Dogs. The Canary islands gets its name from the large dogs found there by the Spanish (Canarias from Canine). Canary Wharf is just one piece of the Docklands area and it has many tall buildings, including what was once the tallest (now third tallest) in the UK, One Canada Square, with its iconic pointed roof. Docklands was once just that, a large area of docks on the River Thames. As a child, I learned it was an area that was to be avoided, and also the place where the majority of bombs were aimed during the second world war. East India Docks, West India Docks – dangerous and dirty or not, it all sounded very exotic to me.
These once dangerous, dirty docks are now sparkling and modern roads, full of gleaming office towers and quayside cocktail bars. For years it was like a secret part of London known only to bankers and the like, but based on the number of people we saw here, I’d say the secret is out.
Canary Wharf DLR stationQuayside
And sometimes you get reminders you are on the Thames
Wandering around the Canary Wharf jungle!
Amidst the towers, an oasis of green, Jubilee Park
Crossing the South Dock bridge here we found a little food truck areaFrom over here, we could see the O2 ArenaIn the underground concourse on our way to Waitrose. Doesn’t it look like Toronto?
The floors are filled with tiles showing the history of the area
We’d outstayed our two window for getting home again, so home we came. Meanwhile, I found a good interactive map of the Canary Wharf area at https://canarywharfmap.com/ if you’d like to have an overview.
I didn’t make any new year’s resolutions really but one thing I did was decide I would get to all the restaurants on my list – maybe one each week. I’m working on it. Those restaurants were
Singburi – No nonsense Thai Anju – pop up Korean Bubala – Vegetarian, inspired by the cafes of Tel Aviv Sambal Shiok – Laksa specialist Marksman – Classic British fare in a former Victorian pub P.Franco – Snug, trendy bar with rotating chefs
or Bright – wine bar by P.Franco Peg – tiny cafe by P.Franco with set menu Mao Chow – All-vegan Chinese-inspired dishes Cafe East – Vietnamese home cooking Gloria – Decadent Italian, 70’s Capri-style Kakki Katsu – Specialist in Katsu Curry St John Bread and Wine – newer classic -seasonal, indigenous ingredients and “the whole beast” Rochelle Canteen – British restaurant at Arnold Circus that’s “calm, delicious, and brilliant”
and probably more to come. The ones in italics are the ones I’ve managed to get to so far – I’ll keep updating this. Almost all are local but it’s still taking me ages.
But three are done. None so far are going my must-return list. I hope the ‘done’ list grows and hopefully at least one will become a regular.
A note about dining alone, though. I can remember when I was very agoraphobic and in therapy. One of the practice sessions I had to undertake was to go to any restaurant and eat there alone. This terrified me, I can’t tell you how much. I chose the cafe at The Sheraton in Toronto and I have no idea what I ate there. It was terrifying, but I did it. It wasn’t something I wanted to repeat, to be honest, but since then I’ve become more used to dining alone and I quite like it. I knew I’d be going to most of these places alone, with the biggest drawback being not being alone, but not being able to try enough different things and being confined to just one or two menu items. I love to eat but I’m not a big eater.
Kakki Katsu opened not too long ago at Dalston Junction. This is a really handy location, since I have to be at this corner fairly often. It’s definitely not a chic place, more like a fast food cafe. There was one chef/server/cashier at the front. I ordered a katsu ramen and I would say it rated about a 5/10. The katsu was thick but crispy, the noodles were too soft, the broth was more like an average chicken soup, and the eggs were a bit too well done. It’s passable and nothing more but it was reasonably priced.
Katsu ramen at Kakki Katsu
I already blogged about Anju so I’ll steal the words: Anju has been open for a little while inside The Gun pub on Well Street. I stayed downstairs in the dark and unadorned pub instead of going up to the restaurant space. The menu was short, the few main courses pricey for a back-street pub – at £13-14 – and I’m not really up to a big meal much of the time, so I chose a starter instead: Korean Sushi Rolls (Bulgogi Beef or Braised Sweet Tofu, I chose the beef). They were fresh and pleasant. I was thinking that putting some hot beef in there would have made them more delicious but this was just a taste. Maybe I’ll go again and have something larger.
Bulgogi sushi rolls at Anju
I was really looking forward to trying Gloria. It was described as ‘exuberant,’ ‘over the top,’ ‘flamboyant, and the rest. It was said to be an in-your-face Italian place with large portions and crazy decor. It also boasted a lemon meringue pie with a six-inch high meringue – I have to say I really wanted to try that! I had one aborted attempt to get there, when I got lost, but this time I had it timed between two appointments. I at least wanted to try that pie to see if I would have it again on my birthday.
Gloria is on Great Eastern Street near Shoreditch High Street. I thought it would be trendy but it’s kitschy inside and looks like it’s been there for decades, rather than being quite new. I got a seat by myself quite easily, sitting next to another solo diner with her own table. I chose a ‘girella,’ since it didn’t sound too large – it was a stuffed coiled raviolo with some ragu. I also got some raddichio with parmesan, followed by the lemon pie. The girella and radicchio were pleasant. Then things went wonky. My coffee arrived – it was a standard restaurant cappuccino, the type that you know wasn’t made with a deeply roasted espresso – so so. And I waited…half an hour later, when my coffee was cold, the pie arrived.
Well, it did impress on first sight. The meringue was indeed at least six-inches high and nicely torched. But it wasn’t a lemon meringue pie. I’d describe it as a tarte au citron (rich and buttery and very sweet, with a shortbread base) with a tea-cake type topping that was creamy and dense, like a campfire marshmallow. It wasn’t the tangy, melt-in-the-mouth experience I had hoped for, even if it was interesting and tasty. Almost a fail in terms of expectations and it made me late for my next appointment, which is a whole other story!
From my seat, a glimpse of the bar at Gloria’s entranceDiners opposite in front of the large interior barLooking into the centre of GloriaRaddichio salad and my girellaThe very silly lemon pie
That’s it for now but watch this space grow…I hope!
A week or two before Christmas and you’d never dream it was just around the corner. Not on my street.
The view down the street just a couple of weeks before ChristmasAt nearby St Thomas’ Square, not much sign of Christmas here either
I’m used to the Christmases of Toronto, where bling was everywhere and not always tastefully. Now in Toronto, the lights in the centre are definitely not up to London standards but when you get (surprisingly quickly) to the neighbourhoods, almost every house has lights inside and out.
When I lived and visited La Habra (California) one of my favourite things to do at Christmas time was to drive around looking at the magnificent outdoor lights and decorations, each neighbour trying to outstrip the next. I used to say that what Los Angeles lacked in snow, it made up for in lights!
In ‘the old days,’ it was a very rare Toronto Christmas that was not white, sometimes spectacularly so. The drifts would blanket the streets and obscure some of the doorways and windows, creating a surreal and muffled scene, but the lights would shine through – magical. We;d light a fire log and settle in for a warm and lovely day indoors.
My childhood Christmases – in east and south-east London – were simple affairs. The tree would go up – more magic – often while we slept. On Christmas eve we’d go to bed, trying desperately to fall asleep or Father Christmas would not come down our chimney at all. It was the same chimney that we’d burned our ‘This is what I want for Christmas’ letters – mum and dad assured us that the words would arrive at the North Pole in the smoke. A glass of something strong and a mince pie or biscuit was waiting for Father Christmas, and we’d always check in the morning to see if it was gone – it always was.
When we did awake, there’d be a pillow case or stocking at the foot of our bed and also a tangerine and some nuts in the toe of the stocking – I imagined to keep us content and not out of bed too early. I don’t remember any elaborate presents. Colouring books, a doll, toiletries as we got older… A good breakfast and then, as our dinner was roasting, Dad would take us out to buy something we chose, sometimes from the chemist. The air was usually crisp and the puddles frozen over. A favourite trick was to crack the ice with my shoe – how much fun were the simple things!
When Robin was little, I was very excited for his first Christmas. The first he was only a few months old but the second was highly anticipated. A bulging stocking at the foot of the bed each year and then the wait for him to wake up. Yes – the wait! I’d be awake at 5am like a child – and he’d be asleep. An hour later, asleep, three hours later, asleep…some time before noon, he’d wake up rubbing his eyes and wondering why John and I were hovering over the bed. I have tapes of his childish chatter as he opened presents. So cute!
It’s not likely that I’ll get into the West End to see the big lights this year. I had lots of plans and even marked on my calendar all the opportunities I had to check them out, but the cold rain and other bits and pieces put paid to that idea. Hopefully, next year.
But here I am in Hackney and, while there are no spectacular light displays, it’s got its own kind of special going on.
Just before Christmas, I went with my friend Holly-Gale to see my pottery instructor, Maria’s studio. She and others in the studio were having an open house sale. Maria is one of those people who, when you meet them, you know you’ll stay connected.
Maria in her studioSome of Maria’s pots inside her tiny studio spaceI bought a few things from the ‘seconds’ box. I love this fragmented piece, which I’m using a candle holder
One very rushed morning on the weekend before Christmas, I met Lisa for a quick visit to Mare Street and Broadway Markets.
Inside the market it was warm and bustlingThe Chandelier Room at Mare Street MarketRebel Rebel had some lovely Christmas flowers – they also created the door display
Netil Market was super quiet, with only a couple of stalls open. We were shocked but walked on to Broadway Market. Things were quieter than usual there. First we wandered into the Vegan Market, which seemed to have a few stalls including a man who was selling raw oysters, freshly smoked kippers, and jars of smoked oysters. I decided to buy a jar – haven’t tried it yet. Soon!
Finn and Flounder on Broadway Market was pretty gorgeousOne year I bought sprigs from holly from here. This year, nothingCouldn’t resist a photo of one of the remaining Pie and Mash shops* *See bottom of blog**
Market florist selling her wintry bouquetsA very serious Christmas musician
Quite honestly, I’m not very good at making things. This would make my friends and everyone who sees my ‘things’ laugh really. They’d tell me I’m creative and talented. I can see how that happens.
I would say, though, that I have five thumbs on each hand, or that somehow the messages from my brain don’t get all the way down to my fingers when I create. In my head is a beautiful image, which by the time it gets down to my hands becomes a muddled mess. But then I’m messy – let’s get that out in the open right now.
What I can do is make use of my mistakes. Take my dolls – the end result is good, sometimes great, because I cover up the mistakes with lace, ribbon, bits of fabric… and I smile a lot and don’t let a mistake interrupt or stop me.
And so messy becomes ‘me,’ ‘my style.’ I think or hope that people see that the end result reflects me. And yet…
I was recently interviewed by a woman who is writing a book. As far as I can tell, she is taking photos of older people and writing about them. We talked for about an hour, I told her all manner of things about me, holding very little back and at the end, it was the dolls – something I mentioned only briefly at first – that caught her attention, even though I suggested she photograph me in front of some Hackney Stik art. And so in January I’ll be taking all of my dolls to a studio where she’ll artfully display them and take my photo with the whole lot. I hate having my photo taken so we’ll see what comes of it. At any rate, her eyes lit up when she saw the colours and personalities I’d created – forget the travels, forget the search for street art and local culture, forget the foodie obsessions – this, apparently, was it!
In November I took a course on how to make rye bread. Somewhere in Dalston, down a less-travelled alley, is the Dusty Knuckle Bakery. I went one evening to their classroom, which is across the yard from the bakery/cafe, in a container. The instructor was Tomek, a somewhat serious man, who knew a lot about bread.
Tomek with Marta
There were only three of us! A woman, her daughter, and me. This was perfect. We could each do our own thing, and the mood was unhurried and personal. Rye bread, it seems, is the simplest bread to make. We were learning the slow method, which uses a sour dough starter instead of commercial yeast. The starter at the Dusty Knuckle is called Marta. She sits in a large plastic container with a cracked lid, growing and being used to start hundreds of rye loaves. Bits of her have been shared around the students and bakers, and now a bit of her is in my fridge, waiting to be woken up when I need another loaf.
Yeast, Tomek, explained is natural and it’s everywhere. If we had special ‘yeast glasses,’ we would see yeast covering everything and it might be horrifying. So Marta picks up that natural yeast and. when fed, grows. My Marta is different than anyone else’s because it’s picked up the yeast in my environment, including from my body. If I gave some to you, it would change again. Yeast is pretty special.
We created one loaf of sour dough rye bread, one loaf of quick (soda) bread, and some thin rye crackers that use buttermilk and honey. All in three hours. I am not used to weighing on a scale or with grams, British-style, and that may be the reason that, after the sour dough loaves had risen (proved) to be ready for baking, mine was smaller than the others. I was a bit devastated. Why mine? Of course mine! Messy me strikes again. Out of the hot oven, mine was still the smallest. At home? Tasted delicious! Job done.
The dreaded scales and gramsFinished dough into the tin to prove
The classroomRye soda breadMy sour dough rye at home
How do you make rye bread, you ask? Well, you take some starter, add rye flour, salt, and water, mix just till the flour disappears, plop the whole lot into an oiled loaf tin and you’re done! Seriously, good bread is made with flour, water and salt – that’s it. (Even the starter is made with just flour and water and allowed to ferment.)
In December I went to a Christmas wreath making workshop. I’d done the same workshop the year before and, despite how many hours it took I loved it. So I was back. It was at the Geffrye Museum – recently controversially renamed to the Museum of the Home! While the museum is being renovated and enlarged, workshops, front garden events, and almshouse visits are continuing.
Walking up to the workshop at the Museum of the Home – see all the greenery waiting outside?
This year there was less greenery than before so my idea to make a wreath with some bare twigs, trailing eucalyptus and flowering branches and such, evaporated. However, I had lovely tablemates this year, Heather was her usual helpful, competent, and friendly self, there were chocolate bicuits, tea, and mince pies, and I happily – and more calmly than last year – got to it.
To create the trailing effect that I’d seen on Instagram, I chose some lighter pine in with the sturdy spruce. The messy result ensued and people must love mess based on the number who came by the table and remarked on how they were soooo going to copy my ideas. Another job done.
My finished wreath
To create a wreath, you start with a wire frame and pack it tightly with live moss, which you firmly wire to create the round shape. Then you staple a plastic backing to protect your door. You take your greenery and push it firmly into the moss to create the wreath, and then add finishing touches – ornaments, ribbons, spices… Mine this year was made with spruce, pine, pine cones, artificial red berries and a subtle white and gold bow. It’s bigger than I’d planned – second time that’s been the case – but it looks good on the living room door. Continue reading “I love to make things – messy or not, here I come!”
