Kirin

We adopted a dog.

Banana and blueberry muffins

I'm always envious of those Martha Stewart types who seem to have it all together. You know, nice home, nice garden, nice kids, good food on the table, nice table settings. And I've always suspected that while Martha Stewart herself has a huge operational team to make that happen for her, there really exist real women and men out there who live the life she has trademarked. Such people can get up in the morning, put the coffee on, make the bed, groom themselves, get breakfast ready, get the kids ready, yadda-yadda-ya... And that's just within one hour in the morning.

On the best of mornings (and only weekend ones at that), I just about manage to get out of bed some time after 1000h, stumble to the shower, waste copious amounts of water to get my eyes open, and demand breakfast very loudly until P gets up and makes it. But today, for some odd and unknown reason, I made muffins. Banana and blueberry ones at that. I've never made muffins. Not successfully anyway. I can make the most intricate of damn sachertortes, but hand me a muffin tin and crap comes out. Figuratively. Please, what do you think I am? Cack-handed?

Recipe courtesy of Epicurious.com. Not having a Martha Stewart team of organised people to ensure all reagents were in place prior to baking, I was about 2 bananas short of a full cup and completely lacking oat bran. But I had frozen blueberries. That counts for something. Substituting oat bran with some weird New-Age seven-grain hot breakfast mix seemed to work, with the pleasant side-effect of crunchy, nutty bits without the sat fats of nuts. But substituting a shortfall of bananas with milk, vanilla and maple syrup results in an overly moist muffin lacking structure.

No matter. P liked it. While not a success, it wasn't a complete failure.

Eww. I've just looked at this post on Firefox and my muffins look like crap. They looked OK on iPhoto and Safari. What's up with that?

Cross posted on akatsukieats.

:():

Sweep those ashes away. It was all over after the first test, wasn't it? Some would say it was all over before it even began with a dismal English summer, injuries and coaching changes. I'll never know; didn't even get to see any highlights in the boondocks. Oh well. Time to shore up the defences for the upcoming 6 Nations. We'll no doubt be watching Scotland get trashed in a pro-England pub yet again. I tell you, it's worse than living in England.

The 1.5 year wait is over... In 14 hours.

akatsuki crawls from under the very big rock she's hiding under in anticipation of... The Ashes!

I know it's not very Scottish and all, but I can't help backing England when it comes to the Ashes. They've been the underdogs for a long time, but I guess you could say the same for the Aussies. Come to think of it, in a competition between two countries, they both get to be the underdogs every so often. Ach well. Who cares? (Besides, when all Scottish cricket will aspire to is the occasional inclusion into the World Cup and Div2 county cricket, one's kind of lacking of a local team to support. Though you can't say I didn't fully back the Saltires while in Embra; I at least peeped over the wall on my way home if the games lasted long enough. And even paid for entry to quite a number of weekend matches. And watched all too many drunken brawls in the process. Scottish football is a little more civilised. They at least wait till you're *outside* the grounds to throw glass bottles at you.)

14 hours to go. I cannae wait! I even got broadband in my apartment so I could get at TMS on the internet. Shame there's absolutely no way to watch highlights apart from the 30 seconds that Sky Sports occasionally lets us have during the weekend round-up on Focks Sport Sucker Channel. (Although I must say AZN, the Asian-American channel, had a decent 30 min program at the weekend during the India-England series this summer. Here's hoping they're interested in the very non-Asian Ashes as well. But who knows. Monty is quite the looker.)

And akatsuki crawls back to being the over-worked, under-paid, under-appreciated scientist lab dogsbody that she has grown accustomed to being. Food blogging? What food blog? I don't even eat anymore. Let alone bake, cook or blog...

Washoku

Feeling the heat in LA, both weather- and work-wise. Going through a depressive slump as a result. What's a girl to do to combat the resulting insomnia when crosswords aren't doing the trick? Buy some new cookbooks, that's what!

After a particularly cruddy day at work (and I mean this in the literal sense; omg i'm never going to do anyone a favour again), the satisfaction from opening the Amazon box sitting on my desk was close to that gained from tearing off the wrapping of an anticipated Christmas present. For within the box were two impulse purchases: Harumi's Japanese Cooking and Washoku- recipes from the Japanese Home Kitchen.

I spent 20 minutes waiting for my agar to set salivating over the photo and recipe for Buckwheat Noodle Roll, an insane-looking maki sans rice, but made with buckwheat soba. That's definitely one to try one of these weekends.

Happy now...

Cross posted on akatsukieats.

Madeleines

Ce soir j'attends Madeleine.

J'aime des madeleines. And they're surprisingly easy to make. I simply followed the straight-forward recipe from Epicurious.com with a few modifications. Self-raising flour instead of all-purpose flour plus baking powder due to an unfortunate invasion of weevils in our store cupboard. And vanilla extract in place of the much better vanilla pod. (Sacrilege, I hear you murmur...)

I must say the use of a silicone madeleine tray probably made things easier. I didn't have to butter multiple moulds, nor worry about things sticking. The madeleines popped out easily. And there was only one disastrous batch of darker-than-necessary cakes. (still edible, just not very pretty.)

But critically, they passed the taste test of our French neighbours.

Technorati tag: madeleines..

Cross posted on akatsukieats.

Sushi Sasabune

Omakase. Trust your Itamae. With instructions courtesy of our friendly and efficient wait staff. (No dipping! Dipping allowed.)

Technorati tags: Sushi Sasabune.

Cross posted on akatsukieats.

darn it

Looks like I won't be swaying to the sound of Keane next month.

Bummer.

Battera sushi

After a half-hearted attempt to enjoy some jazz on Thursday, we gave up and went for more palatable sushi instead at Sushi Isshin (Lindbrook and Tiverton, Westwood). We've had all sorts of food at Isshin: bento for lunch, tempura, california-style rolls (like black dragon and caterpillar), chirashisushi, noodles. But we've never been on a Thursday, when the chefs make battera sushi!

Apparently, this is how sushi was for hundreds of years, before the advent of nigiri sushi (see here). The combo of pickled veg and fish was refreshingly different from nigiri sushi. And considerably easier to eat too, without the dilemma of whether to stuff ones mouth or bite the massive sushi in half. Much easier than determining if a ball has been tampered with when it starts to reverse-swing.

[and so we segue into cricket]

All too convenient for England, me thinks. What with the slim chance of catching up at all, let alone hanging in there long enough for a draw, this hulabaloo might be the way out of straight-out defeat.

An evening in Venice

Straying a little further than usual, we spent a few twilight hours out west on Venice Beach last weekend. (And, yes. It took me a whole week to get round to writing this.) Someone had the rather nifty idea that we should try out Jin Patisserie on Abbott Kinney Blvd. While living out there last year, I walked past it SO many times, but never felt the inclination to go in alone. On the other hand, I went into the Taco shop and coffee place on California many times. Some places don't look so inviting when you're on your tod.

Anyhoo, we arrived to find a hen party in full swing. Or at least it looked like a hen party. It could have been a baby shower too. I'm not very good at identifying occasions of all-female parties, never having been to any. Besides, we got there too late too sip some tea with cake, and had to make do with takeaway. All the cakes had pretty names, but I can only remember the Louvre, helped by its pyrimidal shape.

The cakes were absolutely fabulous, when we got round to eating them at midnight. What was meant to be mousse was. What was meant to be cake was light and spongy. What was meant to be stodgy and chocolatey also lived up to expectations. I'm sure our enjoyment of these delectables would have been enhanced in the calm garden/patio of the patisserie. The chef-owner must be living a dream come true: which food-loving little girl has never dreamed of owning a bakery or patisserie? Mine kind of died when science beckoned and I realised that one had to have the skill of decorating as well as baking. No matter. I can now spend my hard-earned money on such luxuries without the slaving away by a hot oven all morning bit.

We also went to Wabi-Sabi. But felt kind of out-of-place there. It was packed full of the typical beautiful characters of Venice. And while the menu looked interesting, something was lacking in us that day. It's like being back at school again. Sunday nights are always marred by the prospect of work on a Monday. I enjoyed the lychee martini though:

Russia comes to the Hollywood Bowl

Courtesy of a German conductor.

This weekend has been Tchaikovsky-tastic at the Hollywood Bowl: two nights of the Russe with fireworks. The evening started rousingly with T's Cossack dance: your steroetypical populist folksy tune made classical. It set the scene for a evening of entertaining cheesiness. Now, don't get me wrong. I lurve Tchaikovsky, and for all the same reasons that most people do: his music is very emotional and involving. But because of that, his music has been used in all too many soppy, tear-jerking, sentimental (you get the picture) movies and soap operas. The second piece of the night was his Piano Concerto No.1, which is beautiful. No doubt everyone knows the opening bars (or if you didn't know it was Tchaikovsky, you'd still recognise the melody). And I will forever more associate with a Japanese tear-fest of a drama about a talented young woman and her struggle to become a concert pianist.

The interval was a necessary break from the emotion welling within. OK, I just needed more alcohol*.

Which brings us to the even more spectacular second half, with T's Romeo and Juliet Fantasy Overemotion. Yes, one can have a little bit too much Tchaikovsky. Again, nothing wrong with the composition nor the orchestra. In fact, the Bowl's changing lighting scheme came into its own with this piece, turning a dangerous red for the fight, pink for their love, and blue in tragedy. Maybe I just wasn't in the appropriate romantic mood to truly appreciate the Fantasy overture. I was somewhat more concerned about P's chilly hands (poor circulation, poor dear) than in just holding them. And I have to confess to having favourites when it comes to Russian composers of a certain period. Prokofiev, too, scored the Romeo and Juliet tragedy. And that has been my favourite since my cranky adolescent years, being just a little less sentimental. (Oh, who am I kidding. I love Tchaikovsky's too. I think I was just tired.)

The 1812 overture, like the R+J F.O., is overemotional and overly testosterone-inducing. But what a crowd-pleaser it is! All the more when fireworks are timed perfectly to replace the cannons. Bringing on the red and gold-clad USC Trojan marching band was another perfectly cheesy, over-production, populist move that just fit the evening perfectly. I was thoroughly entertained despite my jaded-ness. After all the years of staid concert-going, being quiet and appreciative, trying not to fidget too much lest the neighbours shush me, last night's concert was quite liberating. I felt able to throw off the cynical overcoat and wow at the Russian rooftop that appeared over the roof of the Bowl, and clap and cheer for every firework.

While this can never replace the true satisfaction of watching the final fireworks of the Edinburgh festival, the Hollywood Bowl certainly puts on a damn good show in spectacular surroundings. Even the moon obliged and loomed large and low for the R+J F.O. It's not the best venue for delicate chamber music. It's not the best acoustically for rock/pop concerts. But it's perfect for Hollywood style grandness.

*For drinkipoos that night: a Merlot and some Polygamy Porter** from the Wasatch Brewery, both 100% from Utah. Of the two alkys, the porter was far superior (the less said about the wine the better). After initial laughs and nudges from my fellow Tchaikovskites, it was generally agreed that Wasatch produces a fine porter indeed. Unfortunately, one can't get beer shipped just now. Which is why I'm going to Utah again in a few weeks.

**Why have just one! is their slogan.

Palms Thai

Pad See Ew must be the Thai equivalent of Char Kway Teow (a dish truly deserving of captalisation).

And not having been back to S'pore for nigh-on a decade, this is the closest I've had to the magical fatty friedness that is CKT. Unfortunately, the use of broccoli and chicken makes it far too healthy to qualify as CKT. For that, one probably needs full-fat pork lard, cholesterol-laden prawns.

It was Ticketmaster what did us a favour. Their sometimes ridiculous "convenience" charges (ok for a couple of tickets, but not for ten!) forced us to the Hollywood Bowl's box office last Saturday. By public transportation, no less. It's one thing to take the Hollywood Bowl Park and Ride shuttle for a hour to get to the Bowl for a concert. It's quite another to trek out with the Metro bus system for the same amount of time. For one, you could get quite unlucky and get on a smelly one. Which always seems to happen to me whenever we have to venture further east than Westwood. So, a three hour round-trip requires maximisation of our time. While we had some hope of taking in a hike in the Hollywood Hills, it transpired that getting to somewhere fairly pleasant is not exactly easy once you're actually at the bottom of the hills.

No matter. We have more than one interest. And having been told about Thai Town, we were determined to get some Thai food after. Barcelona FC's visit to the nearby Hollywood and Highland mall nearly side-tracked us until we realised how long we'd have to wait to catch a glimpse of the second-highest paid (but best bang-for-buck) team in Spain. And the new Beard Papa made a stab at stopping us in our tracks too. A cool cream-filled chocolate eclair definitely makes pushing through the tourist-throng outside Mann's Chinese Theatre a little more bearable. By the time my lips were licked clean, P had gotten bored of looking at long-dead people's footprints. And off we set on our hunt for Thai cuisine. Helped by the Zagat guide.

Wee side note: does anyone else find the Zagat restau guide somewhat awkward when looking for food within a neighbourhood? Yes, they have a section at the back with lists of restaus by LA areas. But it's terribly difficult to wield the book, flip to the relevant page, check the darn address on a map balanced precariously between other hand and lap, give up cos it's not bus-able or walkable (in the heat, anyway), and whittle out the non-Thai places.

No matter. We found one within a 30 min walk. Palms Thai on Hollywood and Bronson is a somewhat canteeny looking place with an allegedly resident Elvis. But I guess an hour before real dinnertime starts isn't the best time to catch him. No maatter. That isn't why we went. We were after the exotics. Well, as exotic as it gets in LA anyway. Palms has a Wild Things menu, which includes raw shrimp, deer and frog legs. I think the only thing on that menu I'd find just beyond my ability is the raw shrimp. That's just asking for food poisoning, I reckon. In my prejudiced way.

But it was the leg of a frog that I managed to convince P to try. (Quail and deer are somewhat tame when one's had game all one's life.) The frog meat was a little tougher than I had hoped it would be. There's nothing quite like frog legs, French-style: all tender but with a garlicky kick. And I thought it'd be even better in a spicy sauce. Alas. I think our frog legs came out of a freezer drawer. And perhaps had been there a while too. I guess not enough people take advantage of the Wild Things menu to make getting in fresh frog legs economically viable. A shame.

Otherwise, we had pretty good service for off-peak. It wasn't overly attentive, and our bill (check, D! always ask for the check. no wonder no one understands you...) got a wee bit lost on its way to us. But that's kinda understandable when the entire wait staff is having their pre-game dinner. (Which looked soooo good.) It's also a little difficult to judge a restaurant's atmosphere at 5pm. The only other folk in were mainly small families with kiddies, and the odd tourist-looking couples (like us). Apart from the pad see ew, I enjoyed their coconut juice, which was really coconut water (the stuff wot will splash out if you're not careful when cracking the but) with floating chunks of coconut flesh. While not having to scrape crazily to get the sweet juicy flesh can be good, having it all in a glass can be somewhat.... mundane.

I think I'd go back again. But without the expectation of the exotic. (Goddamit. It's kinda hard to find exotic when you've grown up with the very cuisine Johhny Foreigner thinks of as exotic.) Maybe as pre-concert fodder for the nearby Henry Ford Theatre. (Did I mention I have tickets for the Clap Your Hands and Say Yeah concert? Yes, I do. Not that I was familiar with their music before coming over.) I guess my search for spectacular Thai food in LA will just have to continue. But next time, I'll leave the Zagat behind, and take some Santos™ with me.

Technorati tags: Palms Thai, thai food.

Hammer for Free

Not so much one that bangs nails into walls, but one called the Armand Hammer Museum in LA. (Not the Arm and Hammer, as misunderstood by a friend. In-joke for those who live in the States.) The museum has had a summer of free-ness. Free rock, free exhibitions, and now, free jazz.

We had a pretty swinging evening of jazz and blues with Pyeng Threadgill and her band. Despite the uncomfortable seats and overly hard acoustics, her music moved my toes and swayed my hips. If I could dance at all, I would have.

The Hammer's website describes her as having the "voice of a jazz diva" with "indie-pop songwrit[ing]" credentials. Not possessing the vocabulary of the music-connoisseurs, I'd have to agree. It's not very often that I hear new vocal jazz that I want to listen to again and again. And her voice has that envious fullness/richness. It brings to mind a cup of perfect Italian espresso, accompanied with a pastille of dark, rich chocolate. Her song Ambrosia evokes aural memories of a young Ella Fitzgerald (listen here). Sweet and sultry at the same time.

Dancing till Dusk

We've been away. And now we're back to the crazy heat of LA. It had been impossible to do anything in the daytime for at least a fortnight until it finally cooled off last weekend.

Which meant the weather was finally to my taste, and we could hit the beach. Manhattan Beach for a change. Lunch at Captain Kidd on Hermosa Beach was pretty good and not too expensive for fresh and varied seafood. The oysters were pretty good value at $1/shell. (That's in comparison to a pound a shell in Scotland.) And I got my bodyboard out for the first time this year. Wiped out on my first outing, and have a massive bruise to show for it. (exacerbated by volleyball afterwards. take my word for it: it's not fun to bruise a bruise.) Otherwise, a fun day oot.

Sunday was meant to be a chill-out day, but we had to work. :( We were rewarded in the evening when an otherwise ordinary trip to the supermarket ended in several hours of dancing ancestral worship that is the Obon festival on La Grange in Sawtelle. We had some pretty tasty Japanese fast food: beef teriyaki, char siew udon and shaved ice with red beans (kintoki). But we mainly had our sights set on having an imagawayaki to finish off the day. Blueberry flavour to boot. Not one I've ever had before. Alas, it was not meant to be. Having waited to digest our meal, we joined the super-long queue, only to be told 20 minutes later that they could only make one more batch of imagawayaki, and everyone in front of us had asked for the final 28 cakes.

We were, understandably, inconsolable. And spent the rest of the night throwing metal rings at money in a pit. (Some funky ring-throw booth.) I came pretty close to winning a $20 note. Close, but not close enough. But even a win would not have made up for the loss of the blueberry imagawayaki.

Oh yeah. And there was a lot of taiko-led dancing on the street outside. Some of it with fans and all.

A review

Furry lobster attacks tree
Originally uploaded by framboise.

Of events in the rather dullllife of D and P.

Backtracking from the weekend just past.

Sunday, 2nd of July, was spent in a leisurely fashion, starting with a large cappucino and pain au chocolat (for D) and almond croissant (for P) at Amandine Patisserie on Wilshire (cross street Bundy*). During breakfast (wot? no photos? yeah, no photos), we had a scholarly discussion of the pros and cons of supermarkets vs corner shops, and how Edinburgh was going downhill with the muscling out of the once ubiquitous corner shop by "metro" outlets of large supermarket chains. Yes, even after a year in LA. Pathetic, isn't it? It was, however, sparked off by a simple suggestion that we swing by Ralph's on the way home to get some bog roll. And somehow turned into this huge, 30 min long rant about how Ralphs was like Safeway (our old local supermarket), which was absolute shit for fresh produce (their steaks leak water), but critical for daily necessities like toilet roll.

A pathetic Sunday morning in the supermarket was saved by the brainwave that we should escape the heatwave by visiting a museum. After the fiasco of the last attempt to visit an LA museum, we settled on a fairly local one: the Armand Hammer museum in Westwood. They're currently exhibiting works of the Société Anonyme, a disparate collection of 1920s-40s artists, some with intentional Dadaist streaks, and others with pretention so pure that you could only view them as Dadaists. No matter. I likey. And I laughed. Unfortunately, eveyone else in the gallery seemed quite serious, which made me feel somewhat disrespectful. [mini rant] Honestly, when did art become something one had to take seriously? Sure, if you're a student or an enthusiast, you could/should view it with a critical eye. But who decided that the atmosphere in galleries and museums should be quite so sombre? Yeesh. Loosen up. [rant ends] That said, the Hammer is a nice wee museum, and being free all summer, it's the perfect place to escape the LA heat and learn a thing or two. Or laugh inappropriately. Or take photos of their soothing monster bamboo:

Saturday, 1st of July, was the day I finally met Santos/chotda, of green bananas fame and made the aquaintance of Sarah from who writes of her delicious life. This also being the day of the game-I-still-cannot-talk-about-rationally, we made plans to watch the game-I-wish-never-happened in an Ingerland pub way off in the Valley. Stepping into the Fox and Hound on that fateful day was like visiting an English pub giving away beer for free. In fact, it was so full that we had to split up. So I can't even give a mouthful-by-mouthful account of shared food/drink. And I still can't talk about that game. But Santos can, and with a sense of humour I don't possess early in the morning or when Ingerland loses (again).... (btw, that was not horror from sartorial comments, more from the abject patheticness of Ingerland at fitba. omg, i *still* can't talk about it.)

Further plans to meet up for a trendy evening of watching Dr. Strangelove on the side of Douglas Fairbank's tomb came to naught. Mainly cos we were late. When the website says "doors open at 7.30pm" in LA, one should be there at 7.30pm, not nearly 9pm. Or one will come face to face with security refusing to let anyone in unless they're on a guest list. Even if you dared to tell them that P tackled the monstrous watermelon specially for the picnic. (Not that we did; security in LA probably comes with guns...) No worries. D had a plan to salvage the crazy bus ride from West LA: soon dubu at BCD Tofu House! So, a 5 min walk, 10 min wait, 5 min bus ride, and a 20 min walk later, we arrive at Wilshire and Normandie to find... that BCD Tofu House, the always-open, 24 hour, round-the-clock home of emergency soon dubu of Koreatown, was shut. For renovations. We were a 1 min wait from tears. Then D, master of all failed ventures, queen of bad luck, bane of P's life, spots a light in the distance. Long story short: found a Korean BBQ place still open. The Safety Zone (no idea why they're called that, other than the fact that they were our safety blanky that night) is a pretty spartan, patio-style, cheap and cheerful place. And it's open till late. (At least till 11pm, as far as we could tell.) It's not as swanky as Chosun Galbee, but service was fast. P allowed me a couple of minutes to grab this shot before diving tongue-first into the standard-order Korean side dishes:

The week before the relatively eventful weekend was as dull as ditchwater. If you thought your life was dull, you should come and live mine.

Sunday, 25th of June, flew by without either P or I leaving the apartment. You will find out why below. If you cared.

Saturday, 24th of June,: the day the Scots beat the hell out of the English at the Battle of Bannockburn in the year no-one-knows-and-no-one-cares. Also, the day perspiration flowed freely and D's chin-zit grew to magnificent proportions.

Yeah, a couple of idiots thought it would be a good idea to invite both their labs to a BBQ. The preparations started on Monday, and carried on right to the end of the Argentina vs Mexico game. Even into penalties. Significant amounts of meat were marinated and grilled. Including the flesh on my arm. Stupendous amounts of vegetables were cut/julienned/sliced/pickled/dressed/boiled/grilled/macerated/steeped. And for all that effort: no bloody photos! After the last time it happened, I swore to have an "official" photographer. And what did I do this time? Forget to take any bloomin' photos, that's what.

No matter. I must learn to accept that any future efforts for BBQs will just have to remain undocumented. You've either experienced one of our slapdash, uncoordinated BBQs, or you very fortunately haven't. As day turned into night, and folk (other than my lab) started trickling home, our final two guests arrived to save us from yet another evening alone with my lab (wot have no other social life to leave for, like us). Round two, dinner began. Quite luckily, an attempt at glutinous rice had failed for the BBQ. Five hours of constantly resetting the rice cooker later, our guests, not knowing any better, tucked in quite happily. And the camera finally made an appearance when the evening descended into whisky. Best part of the day: I finally learned what the weird 2nd-last icon on my new camera is for: indoor shots! I'd been using the "incandescent" setting with poor results. Two tired drunkards, glad most guests left well-fed:

Friday, 23rd of July, right up to 4am: D and P are super grouchy and still marinading meat.

*note that I have finally realised, after one whole year, that this is critical when mentioning street names in LA. especially when wilshire stretches from the pacific to smoggy downtown LA. and maybe even beyond. i just haven't gone that far yet.

The Italian team are dirty fecking cheats

That was a dive. No doubt about it. Grosso is a fecking cheat. That was not a fair end to the game.

I hate teams that progress by cheating. It turns me off, watching the beautiful game ruined by these CHEATS! They did not deserve the penalty. They did not deserve to win. They do not deserve to be in the quarter-finals. I'd even like to propose a ban on Italy for the nest World Cup. This kind of desperate attempt in a game they clearly could not win is ugly and puts the game in bad repute. FIFA needs to come down harder on such teams. Especially if the referee fails to make the correct decision on the pitch.

What's the point of having a referee and two linsemen if their eyes aren't open? This incident proves that football *needs* a fourth official, like the replay officials in rugby and cricket. Who knows what the referee was thinking... Perhaps he was trying to make up for his bad decision in sending off the alleged "last man".

This World Cup is turning out to be the worst in terms of refereeing decisions. The referees have been put under immense pressure to come down hard on foul play. But some have been excessively harsh, yet some turn a blind eye. Lack of consistency makes it unfair on teams. And many of the referees look out of their depth, either lacking competency or just feeling the heat (literally and figuratively). The end result, whatever reason for the bad refereeing: ruined football.

What makes me even more mad is that the ESPN commentators here are saying the penalty was deserved, and in fact, was even "good play". I don't think American soccer players, coaches and analysts *get* the point of football. They think that hard, professional fouls are a necessity if the other team looks threatening. They think diving is good tactics. (Or maybe it's just that the clueless ESPN commentators are total fuckwits. Don't wish to tar all Americans with the same *dirty* brush.)

Technorati tags: world cup, cheating.

Commencement

Of their graduate lives...

It's graduation weekend at UCLA. And what a difference it is from the more sedate ceremonies at Edinburgh. A vast class of over 2000 students "walked" yesterday in UCLA's basketball stadium to lots of cheers and wolf-whistles. It was a little more like a basketball game than what I've been through. The various Deans' names were broadcast on the central bank ot TV screens (think NBA games), with cuts to the odd pretty face in the crowd of candidates for graduation.

Due to the sheer numbers, the different faculties were conferred their degrees in mass-wedding style, standing with their peers to be declared graduates of UCLA, followed by popping of balloons, tossing of tortillas (dunno what that was all about, and the odd thrown toilet roll). Slap-dash as that may sound, more ceremonies have been planned for this weekend for individual majors.

In all, a fun and interesting cultural experience.

Fitba, US-stylee

Had a glorious morning off watching the opening ceremony and first game of the 2006 World Cup. (Paid the price by having to work till late tonight; but it was worth it!)

Strangely enough, none of the "sports" channels had coverage of the opening ceremony. Instead, it was up to KXLA, the local Korean news and entertainment channel, to broadcast the feed. It's rather surprising that, apart from a few ads on Focks Soccer Channel, there hasn't been much mainstream enthusiasm for a World Cup that features the national team.

Heck, when Scotland occasionally qualifies, all work stops for the duration of the first round (and recommences when bloody England are yet again the only home country to qualify for round two). Yet the only excited folk in my lab and its vicinity are the foreigners. No one else seems aware that a major sports competition, with an audience close to that of the Olympics, kicked off this morning.

The game itself was pretty exciting; 6 goals being abnormally heart-racing for an opener, let alone one that included Germany, the Audi of football. Perhaps their poor qualifier efforts was enough of a kick up their backsides to up their game. Even so, that's got to be the most appalling German defence in a long time.

And while I didn't catch the Poland game, it'll be a fun World Cup if such "upsets" occur with more frequency. Perhaps my personal favourite underdogs: Trinidad and Tobago, will manage to win a match too. Just not against Ingerland.

And you wonder why I'm not happy here...

Further kick in teeth: I am, as of yesterday, not an official employee of the university. My contract expired, and I fell through the cracks. I am persona non grata.

So while I'm still expected to work all hours, I cannot access my lab out-of-hours or on weekends. Ah ha ha ha. I will not get paid this month. Again. (I didn't get paid for three months when I first arrived because everyone was too busy and overworked to put me in the system. Not that a foreigner spending a small fortune to pack and store her entire life, fly herself to a new country and pay several months' rent upfront in LA needs any money...)

Will the constant insults never end?

Today, the self-pity must end

Umm... What to say? A few moments here for self-centered cathartic self-pity. Normal business will resume shortly.

It's been a few months since I felt inspired enough to write or cook anything. It's no big surprise that the last few months have been tough for me. While having P in LA makes my life better, it's been a pretty poor excuse for a life at all. (I know here that our lives are nowhere near as difficult as quite a lot of folk, but I mean relative to the life we had in Edinburgh.) Work, though stimulating at times, has become a drag. The excitement and challenge of working in a new lab was quickly replaced by the drudgery all things wrong with modern working life. The rose-tinted glasses came off long ago, but I had not personally worked in "difficult" work environments before.

[Mid-August, 2006. Self-censorship here. I've just realised that I've made one or two fatal errors and may not be able to keep colleagues past and present from coming across this blog. It's the considered opinion of some that blogs are the lowest form of expression on earth. So I may be safe. But I may have made things far too obvious in this paragraph to those in the know. And breached common decency. The things I said should probably have been reworded and said to face(s) of folk who make my life miserable. But something tells me that would make it difficult for me to continue working in my lab. Either way. I must break all unwritten blogging rules and remove my words.]

Even without the work-related miseries, life here hasn't been all that fun. We've been to the beach a grand total of 5 times since P arrived (OK, it's winter. Even so!). And every attempt to explore LA at the weekends has been thwarted by traffic, work, the buses, work, protests, inertia, work... If it's not P that has to work on weekends, it's me.

In short, we're not as happy here as we were in Edinburgh. Sure, Edinburgh had it's problems too, namely the weather. But there, we could get away. Work, while hard, was made bearable by our peers and colleagues. There we also had friends. Here in LA, without the social life of our respective labs and our kind neighbours, we'd be lost. In Edinburgh, there was the build-up of acquired friends from having a past in the city. Here, as newcomers, without some hobby or way to socialize, it's lonely. And while we have dinner with the neighbours and their friends, we still feel a little out of it as obscure scientists. Fellow scientists outside of the lab are hard to meet with the crazy work schedules everyone sets out for themselves.

The end result is a couple of very unhappy postdocs in LA. Even with the constant sunshine, I've had SAD all winter long. Even though I love my science and working in an environment where I have plenty of friendly and helpful collaborators, I've started job hunting again. Even though we've got a mini-garden growing on out north-facing patio, we're looking for new apartments in a quieter neighbourhood. All because I stupidly accepted a job without first vetting the lab and its location. (Not that it would have solved my current problems.)

But summer's here. My strawberry plants are bearing fruit again. Our families have been and will be visiting. We've seen the Grand Canyon and the touristy northern part of Arizona. And we have good wine on the rack.

Things are looking up. Expect more blogging.