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There aren’t a lot of things I miss about the US…I think it boils down to food, for the most part.  There’s not much that compares to sloppy barbecue pork shoulder sandwiches slathered in hot sauce and eaten in 90 degree heat and 95% humidity while waving a cold beer around your head to fend off the deer flies.  Or, proper pork sausage with spices and flavour and not a speck of breading.

I’ll come back to those in the near future (I bought a meat grinder and make our own sausages now due to the abysmal state of the offerings here).  But the thing that has been haunting me for the last few weeks is a desire to sit on Buford Highway in some fly infested Guat restaurant with Telemundo or a Mexican soccer match playing in the background and to wolf down some hot salsa on corn chips with a pitcher of cold lager (or two…maybe three if Jackie joins me).

You can’t get spicy food on this island, though.  I don’t know how they manage it, but even the imported pickled jalapeño pepper slices have been castrated and are as mild as my grannies sugar dills.  I’ve even bought brands I recognise from the States and somehow the Health and Safety (and Fun?) bureaucrats have come up with a form of irradiation that neutralises the capsaicin with the sealed lid in place.  Bastards…you can use these peppers to cover your eyes for a beauty treatment, so mild are they.

I finally found some real peppers squirreled away on a small shelf in the supermarket a couple of weeks ago and bought up copious quantities of habañero and jalapeño peppers.  I was now ready to prepare my fix, and my hands were shaking with the anticipation of a junkie.

After mixing, stash half of it away or you'll eat the whole batch

I just replanted my cilantro (known here as coriander, which at home only refers to the seeds) which I have been using by the handful to doctor up Thai and Mexican dishes all summer, but they have only now sprouted and won’t be ready for use for another month.  The tomatoes from this summer’s plants were delicious but most were disappointingly small; I gathered as many of those as I could, as well.  The onions and garlic are locally sourced from our farmers market.  A bit of cumin and some lemon juice were all that remained.

It always comes out as too big of a batch so I have enough leftover to hit it again next weekend (or tomorrow if the urge hits).  I’ll have to go back to the grocer to grab another bag of tortilla chips, but they are especially easy to spot with the offensive caricature of the bandito on the package:

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I have visited the Alma close to a dozen times during its posted opening hours and this was the first time I wasn’t greeted by a locked door or a sign stating that they will reopen some number of hours later.  I shouldn’t have bothered.

The door was open to the spacious and empty front room as I approached.  I heard the gigantic televison blaring down the street and was able to follow the plot (long before reaching the door) of some obese American (is that redundant?) woman testifying to a crowd about how her weight loss medication caused her to have the shits and eventually a heart attack; “the extra 150 pounds weight she was carrying had NOTHING to do with it,” I commented to the bartender who didn’t seem to know what I was talking about.

“I’m not really watching that, mate,” he stated matter-of-factly as he reluctantly broke his blank stare from the tele just 10 feet away.

“Maybe it would help if you turned up the volume,” I shouted as I paid for my pint of Olde Trip, which I drank in three gulps and left him to finish not watching the Ricki Lake Show rerun.  I can’t imagine why they don’t do a better business.

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I give you here the Transport Secretary of the United Kingdom, Lord Adonis:

Not what I was expecting, either.  I think “Transport Secretary” is the tip-off.

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Here is another article from my local paper, with some links to national news.

Best line:

“I assure you the problem of throwing fruit is no joke.”

Father arrested for carrying out citizen’s arrest on yobs ‘who threw apples at him and his wife’ (Mail)

Dad on rap for defying louts’ gang (Mirror)

Seriously, though, kids are out of control here.

Cannabis growers with £26k stash spared jail

Here’s an article wherein a couple receive suspended sentences for growing 83 marijuana plants because they are heavy users and the judge found it plausible that this was meant for personal use.

First consider that the plants were valued at £26000, total…that’s a little less than $500 US.  The newspapers in the US typically value a cannibas stem as $5000 to $6000.

Then, consider that even crappy growers are going to bet an ounce of buds off each plant (dunno how I know that).  If half are males and discarded, the 41 ounces (forget that they could easily harvest up to as much as 300 ounces) they have sitting around the would easily keep two stoners going for 6 months to a year if they lost half of it (and what are the chances of that).

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You expect this sort of thing in America (remember the Freedom Fries and how Hostess Ding Dongs are treated in the South).  But, the kerfuffle in Wales is beyond the pale, for behaviour on this side of the Atlantic:

http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-1215641/Spotted-Dick-menu-U-turn-council-bosses-renamed-Spotted-Richard.html#

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Or London, or Glasgow…or could be staying put. A world of opportunity in such a small island.

an Oxford and Cambridge Club logo

You know, it’s funny how things never turn out the way you had ‘em planned.
The only thing we knew for sure about Henry Porter is that his name wasn’t Henry Porter.
And, you know there was something about you, baby, that I liked that was always too good for this world
Just like you always said there was something about me you liked that I left behind in the French Quarter.
—–from Brownsville Girl, Bob Dylan

Sometimes songs pop into your head and won’t go away, and Brownsville Girl has re-emerged from my subconcious as it tends to do from time-to-time.  It isn’t alone; it brought Return of the Grievous Angel along with it, but I can think of a worse pair of voices to walk around with in your head than Gram Parsons (my homeboy, as it were…he was from Waycross, GA) and the Bobhead.

I guess this type of mental affliction is usually prompted by some sort of trauma.  The most immediate qualifying event in my wee world was the sudden announcement of the impending move of my research group’s professor from Cambridge to Oxford.  I have kind of settled into the fens these past 6 months, and still have about 6 month’s worth of research and instrument development ahead of me before I can feel good about jumping ship on the larger research amalgam that I’m currently a part of but I have a firm offer of a permanent post–on hard money or University funds as opposed to soft money which refers to grant-based cash–as soon as I can wrap things up here.  And, the new contract should carry me across the time threshhold (4 years in the UK) that allows me to apply for permanent residency.  Cool.

“How far are y’all going?” Ruby asked us with a sigh.
“We’re going ALL the way till the wheels fall off and burn,
“Till the sun peels the paint and the seat covers fade and the water moccasin dies.”
Ruby just smiled and said, “ah, you know some babies never learn.”
—–from Brownsville Girl, Bob Dylan

I’m pretty sure I’ll be the last mass spectrometry person to leave the microdroplets group and, except for whoever takes over the service facility, the last in the department since my boss is taking most of her research group with her to Oxford in October with the rest following at the end of the year.  I guess I have a bit of trail and village running to do out at this end of the country and a large number of pubs to visit before I take down the flag and return the grounds to the natives.

You always said people don’t do what they believe in, they just do what’s most convenient, then they repent.
—–from Brownsville Girl, Bob Dylan

Now if I can just get this bleeding song out of my head.

Update 21 Feb 2012: Just over two years since I started work at Oxford and this post gets hit fairly regularly…inexplicable except that the Bob-head is a powerful voice, or vice.  Thumbing through my chemistry dissertation I found a line from Brownsville Girl referenced there, too.  I have developed no imagination these last 10 years, but thanks for stopping by anyway.

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The students, if they can call themselves such after this, at Anglia Ruskin University have converted their student union bar into a gymnasium…another sign that something is seriously wrong with the youth of today:

http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/england/8269157.stm

look at this jackass, he needs a beer and some smokes

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Not only will I get some recipe ideas from here, I am determined to come up with a creation to be enshrined on this page within the next year:

http://thisiswhyyourefat.com/

Thanks to Company Cock in Korea for finding this in the first place. Yum, yum.

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From my house, take bikeway next to the A1123, turn onto Duck Lane in Haddenham and cut back a hard left at the Cherry Tree onto Froize End/Lode way, snake through some sugar beet fields near the River Ouse then south along the Aldreth Causeway and west past the travelers’ encampment on Meadow Drove into Willingham.  On Church Street at precisely the 10 mile mark on your quest you’ll stagger into the Duke of Wellington, a nice little pub sunken slightly below street level so that folks sitting in the windows will be staring at your sweat soaked crotch as you pretty yourself up for your mid-run beer.

At least, such was my experience.  Dripping with extruded poisons built up on my week off but coaxed out by the exertion and humidity, I needed to avoid shocking my system with too fast of a purge and ordered a Highland Whisky Ale, the name of which was tempting enough but the taste will have me seeking it out again (the website says each firkin gets half a bottle of whisky added to it at finishing, but it tastes more of beer malt than a smoky peat malt).

The conversation was centered around some controversy about the tv show Strictly Come Dancing, so I concentrated on cleaning off my salted sunglasses and my rehydration/carb replenishment.  Good, rough beams and wooden floors, though.  attractive pub on the bus line from Cambridge to St. Ives (and three other pubs nearby) if you are visiting.

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I got a great online deal for the Hotel Ibis so I decided to take it even though I prefer the non-chain hotels.  I thought we could go with a bit of standardised housing geared toward the business traveler whilst doing a lot of on foot tourism during the day and the rooms above pubs and in B&B’s are usually pretty hit or miss (although our batting average has been pretty good of late).

The bed was creaky but comfortable.  The kettle had water in it that I assumed was from the previous guests but when I went to clean it out I realised that it was, in fact, bleach that had ALMOST cleared the bit of fungus at the bottom of the device.  A bit of scrubbing with toothpaste seemed in order before morning cups and after boiling two batches of water the thing didn’t really smell too much like bleach or Crest, anymore.

don't touch it, you might wake it

The shower pressure was almost non-existent and it was difficult to rinse the shampoo from my hair.  The water was plenty hot, though, and the steam accumulated quickly as the vents were blocked by some sort of growth (see photo).  But, the room was really cheap.

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spotted whilst driving thru North yorkshire

Fish and chip shops in England almost always have some sort of clever name, like the one above I spotted in a village near York. Here are a few more:

“The Frying Scotsman”
“A Fish called Rhondda”
“Oh My Cod” and “Cod Help Us” and “The Codfather” and “Codrophenia”
“A Salt ‘N’ Battered”
“{owner’s name here} Plaice” and “A Summer Plaice”
“I’ve Haddock Up To Here”

I’m sure there’ll be more as I spot them now that I’ve tuned into this

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York was loads of fun.  Leaving the Shambles, we couldn’t decide where to go next and opted to think about it over a drink in the Last Drop, a small one room pub housed owned by the York Brewery in a converted solicitor’s office (but with some great windows on the street).  The food smelled and looked fantastic as we walked in but we were having an Italian feast later before going to see Patience at the Rowntree theatre just outside the walls and instead I just had an amber (but hearty) Guzzler from York Brewery.  Yum.

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My sleepy little village is all over the news, lately.  Primarily, we have been watched because of the just ended trial, conviction, and sentencing of a mom that stabbed her two teenage daughters to death here two years ago:

http://www.mirror.co.uk/news/top-stories/2009/09/22/rekha-kumari-baker-trial-mum-stabbed-her-daughters-to-death-in-revenge-attack-on-men-115875-21691470/

http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/england/cambridgeshire/8268632.stm

Then, just last Sunday morning an 81-year-old childrens book author (who has sold more than 21 million copies of her Topsy and Tim series) was mugged by a teenager as she left the village store:

http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/england/cambridgeshire/8267542.stm

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After a day of touring the town of King’s Lynn we found ourselves thirsty and in need of a short rest before the drive back south.  The Lord Kelvin solved both of those problems.

Outside it looks sort of like a dive, which was one reason it was chosen for our pub visit this afternoon.  The other reason was the name…if you aren’t familiar with Lord Kelvin, here’s a good one page synopsis that has other links within it (the wikipedia article is a little more expansive, though).  Impressive guy.

Inside, the bar itself is striking, a large oval oaken monolith with polished brass fittings (and not an ale to be found…I had a pint of Stella and the staff scrounged around to find some wine for Jackie).  Etched glass windows decorate the doors to the Gents and Ladies, and there’s a weird little shrine to the football team West Ham United behind these customers (none of whom are anything at all like the pub’s namesake):

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High, transvestite clown (hashers, do any of these ring a bell) Eddie Izzard ran the equivalent of 43 marathons in 52 days.  This is one for me and Brownie to suck on, if not a WHOLE lot of the rest of you….

On the other hand, Eddie hasn’t tried THIS yet: http://1pumplane.wordpress.com/2010/04/04/30-pack-marathon/

but, he’s probably done this one a few times in an evening: http://1pumplane.wordpress.com/2010/05/21/london-pub-almost-marathon-11am-30-may-2010/

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[Let me open with a disclaimer: The Grunty Fen 1/2 Marathon is one of the better organised and staged races I've ever been in and I would highly recommend it to anyone who was going to be in the area on race day.  On the other hand, running in the pancake-flat fens can be oppressively boring under the best of conditions...so, don't plan a trip around the race.]

The results are in and I am officially too slow to take racing seriously anymore.  It was bound to happen, but if it prompts some (to me, anyway) amusing bile then I’m all for it.  My time was 1h 35m 36s, and I was already a minute off my target pace at the halfway mark when this shot was snapped:

No stretching in the training regimen has left me with really tight hamstrings that pull both on my lower back and on my iliotibial band on my right knee and both of these developed shooting pains right after the above photo.  Shit.

Well, acceptance that the pace could not be recovered would have allowed me to settle in and enjoy the rest of the morning’s trot through the roads near Wilburton and Stretham and through Wentworth and Witchford had it not been so gusty (with strong sustained winds) and had I not already blown through the beer check set up by the St. Radegund hashers (46 of whom were in the race, more than 1/10 of the entire field).

The biggest insult I usually notice in one of these events is the “finisher’s medal,” usually something that would pass for nice ghetto jewelry amongst severely brain damaged gangstas but items that I can’t bring myself to even really inspect until I’m safely home (finishing in the meaty part of the bell curve does that to your sense of self esteem).  I would like to see more realistic medals handed out, broken up by the finishing times…something like these inscriptions:

Under 1h 20m: “Get a life, you are not an Olympian”

1h 20m – 1h 30m: “Heh. You busted your balls for 6 months for this.”

1h 30m – 1h 40m: “You slow fuck. This is for blocking better runners for an hour and a half.”

1h 40m – 2h 00m:  “Bless.” [note: the Brits have developed a transcendentally condescending manner of saying, "Bless," that really must be heard to appreciate]

2h – DNF (everyone’s a winner!):  “We all know what a fat ass you used to be, but Monday your colleagues are just being polite when they ask how it went.”

click if you really need this animated

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The Red Lion looks like a great pub…large, thatched roof, big rooms, crowded with folks and there’s an affiliated restaurant in an attached building.  Inside it was something of a dive, which is what I usually look for in a bar and I didn’t mind that it was only lager (ice cold San Miguel for me) and fizzy cider on tap…but the music was incredibly loud and you couldn’t escape it by going out to the picnic tables in the car park because it was piped out there via much better speakers than the sounds warranted.

Okay, so that’s the old guy coming out, but trust me this was the worst sort of disco crap and I would’ve thought, from the looks of the crowd, that they would also have been more comfortable with something else, I’m guessing Twisted Sister or Night Ranger from surveying the other drinkers, but anything else would’ve been relief.  Perhaps, the “wicked band” Stingray playing there Saturday night was an improvement, but I didn’t feel up to the trip back over there to check it out.

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Two bars, a function room, narrow serpentine corridors, and a giant garden are nice for any pub, but the people in the Six Bells are really fantastic.  Had a nice chat with this old plasterer who was just starting to organise his British Legion Post’s annual poppy drive. The bartender was bright and cheery. A couple of bikers were just leaving as I came in but took a moment to introduce themselves, perhaps in a form of menace, but I literally ran right up to the door (from roughly 10 miles south and along some difficult trails) and was still catching my breath and didn’t really catch onto it until after a hearty round of handshakes and “take care of yerselves!”

There were many good ales to choose from and I got a Samson from Maxim Brewery which was rich in flavour and medium bodied (not unlike myself).  I spilled a mouthfull as I moved toward a window seat to continue my conversation and the house dog came and lapped up the mess then followed me over to my seat; “don’t mind him, he’s a peacefull drunk,” the bartender assured me as the dog trotted off banging into a couple of barstools along the way.

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I had just run a hundred meters when I spotted the Black Bull, a fine restaurant, inn and (my favourite) bar.  Okay, there was time for one more before hitting the mostly downhill trail to Fulbourn.

Inside, the old timbers were complemented by a polished but hewn bar (outside, the old timbers were complemented by an old timer and what I suspect was his 17-year-old asian date…perhaps the inn has short time rentals, but it’s none of my business).

There were several good ales to choose from and I took a Buntingford Golden Plover which has the taste of an old dishrag infused with saddle soap having been used to polish the tack of a fat man’s nag; I have chosen better in the past, but I have chosen worse, too, I just won’t choose this one again.