10.48pm - Food Glorious Food

Trip Start Jan 07, 2010
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Trip End Dec 13, 2010


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Where I stayed

Flag of Malaysia  , Pinang,
Wednesday, April 7, 2010

Wednesday 7 April, 10.48pm, Hotel Malaysia

And so to Penang, one of the northern states of Peninsular Malaysia. I can't tell if it’s a lot colder up here or if it’s just that my cold seems to be turning into full-on flu, but I am so fricking chilly that layering vest tops and t-shirts is no longer enough. I have been forced to break out my cold weather sweater for the first time since I left the UK. Just in case you were wondering, I look damn sexy. It has a hood and one of those big muff/pocket things* and everything. My ambition to be Allie Brosh takes another step forward.

Shit, it’s just occurred to me. This better not be H1N1. That would make further travelling complex if they catch me snuffling at immigration, and nice as Malaysia is (and it is nice – I like it a lot, actually), I intend to be long gone before my 90 day visa even comes close to running out. Oh, and also I don’t especially want swine flu when the only person to take care of me is me. Chris and Kirsty didn’t make it sound like much of a picnic. Either way, I better write now before my fingers start turning into trotters. (I’ve just had a sudden flashback of one of the later Demon Headmaster books. Tee.)

I was sad to leave Kuala Lumpur. Between being coldy and being cooped up inside from the endless rain, I didn’t see nearly as much of it as I would have liked. Of course, that’s just a good excuse to come again one day (perhaps whilst on a trip to Singapore!), but it would have been nice to feel I’d earned the tick next to its name in my mental Rolodex. I am trying, illness or no illness, to make up for it here in Georgetown though, which is another of the Malaysian tourist hotspots. There’ve been big cruise ships here nearly every day, and I can see why. The multicultural island state of Penang is a good mix of Malay, Chinese and Indian families, and has a pleasantly relaxed atmosphere of tolerance as a result. As the name might indicate, the capital of Georgetown is another site that my ancestors merrily steamrollered, resulting in a nice dollop of guilt at the Penang Museum but some neat colonial architecture to take in. But I still feel like crap, so pretty much all I’ve done since I got here is open my window (the aircon won’t turn off, for some reason, so global warming be damned, I’m letting as much cold air out and warm air in as possible), wrap myself up in my covers like a caterpillar (my sexy cold weather sweater is pretty much ever-present, even when I’m outdoors in the heat – it’s the nearest thing I have to a cuddle. God, I’m so pathetic now I’m even depressing myself), and stuff my face. This place backs onto a hawker centre called Red Garden, and if I thought hawker stalls were fun, it’s nothing compared to a proper hawker centre.

Imagine, if you will, that a restaurant and a food court had a baby, and that baby grew up, discovered cigarettes, started hanging out with a bad crowd, and eventually ran off with a burger van. The offspring from that illicit union would be a hawker centre. Some are open 24 hours; most just do a dinner service (6-9pm); and a few, like Red Garden, throw on a bit of entertainment and have people dancing til midnight. Essentially, they are a huge square filled with numbered plastic tables. You take a seat, and decide what cuisine you fancy. Lining the square are stalls of every description, selling anything you could desire (as long as what you desire falls somewhere in the Asian genre), as well as roving waiters taking orders for beer or fruit juice. You go up to a stall, order what you’d like from the brightly coloured menus displayed across the front of the booth, then give them your table number. You can go to as many stalls as you like, depending on how hungry you are. Then you take a seat and wait for them to bring out your food, and pay the money belt wearing staff as they deliver each dish. Ditto with drinks. It’s pretty much wall to wall noodles and rice, but you can also get dim sum, BBQ, maybe even sushi if you’re lucky. Oh, and in one tiny stall right by the exit, that I walked past, then stopped and took a few steps backwards, they do huge slabs of cake for RM5 (about 90p). The part of me that doesn’t want to die of heart disease when I’m 27 wrestled for a moment with the part of me that was going "I AM ILL AND ALONE AND FUCKING COLD ALL THE TIME, I AM IN NEED OF CHEERING UP", then the second part won and I brought a piece of peppermint cake back to my room and sat cross legged on the floor and ate it watching Desperate Housewives on my laptop, with the sounds of that evening’s turn drifting in through the window – Red Garden mark out a small dancefloor each night and seem to cycle through two or three different singers. One woman is very good, I listened to her singing Unchained Melody and she hit the high “I NEE-EE-EED YOU-RRRR LOOOOOOOVE” note towards the end perfectly. Of course, she then sang By The Rivers Of Babylon, Poker Face, and Zombie by the Cranberries, presenting something of a cultural disconnect for me, because you don’t expect to hear songs about the Troubles in the midst of neon and rope lights.

So the hawker centres are great fun, to be sure. But as I said, it’s pretty much entirely Asian food, and since all I’ve eaten since I left Singapore is noodles and Oreos, I’ve spent the last few days hungry for something Western. Something that must be eaten with a knife and fork, not chopsticks. Something that I could make myself, if that makes any sense at all. It’s odd, because two years ago, I could barely boil water – now, one of the things I miss the most about home is that I can’t cook anything. I’ve been collecting recipes from everywhere and keep going in bookshops to look covetously at cookbooks, to stroke their shiny pages and make yummy noises over the pictures.

Do you ever get a craving for a certain food, and nothing else will do? And more specifically, a certain type of that certain food? You know exactly what you want and exactly how you want it cooking. I suppose that’s another way the cooking for yourself comes in – if I’m hungry for pulled pork, I make it myself with my own homemade barbecue sauce, and I know exactly how tangy or vinegary or peppery it will taste, because I made it. I've told the following story before, but I'm going to tell it again now, because it's vaguely relevant: when I spent a night in Buenos Aires on my way to Antarctica, I was hot and tired and sticky from travelling, I had another day and night of voyaging ahead of me before I got to the boat, and all I wanted was a steak. Not a hard thing to find in Argentina, I’ll grant you, but I wanted a very specific steak. I wanted it to be big (but not too big), juicy, nicely browned but pink enough to bleed in the centre, with a bit of fat running along the side that would sizzle in the pan but could be easily sliced off on the plate. I wanted it with thick cut chips. I wanted to douse the chips in vinegar and the steak in a creamy mushroom sauce, and I wanted to wash it all down with a big glass of full-bodied red wine. In short, I wanted steak how I make it at home. I remember texting Louise as I sat in a random café I’d found, my head and feet both aching from an afternoon of pounding around BA, exhausted but determined not to waste my few hours in this city. I remember saying I’d just ordered a steak and a half bottle of Malbec, and if my steak didn’t taste good, it was more than likely that I was going to cry, because I was so hungry and so eager to eat the steak in my head that the disappointment of a crap one might be more than I could bear.

Sometimes, you get yourself all worked up for something, and then when it happens, it’s not nearly as good as you thought it would be, and you are sad. Fortunately, my steak that night was not one of those things.

It was big (boy was it, it was nearly as long as my arm), it was smothered in a delicious creamy mushroom sauce, and the chips were more fried potato slices, but they tasted like chips no matter how they were cut, so that was fine by me. Vinegar was lacking, but the bread they had was so nice I ate all of it (and I NEVER eat bread – I’d only tried half a roll because I was starving, ended up eating all three), so I can forgive them. I ordered another half bottle of Malbec, and tottered back to my hotel with a sleepy but satisfied smile on my face.

What does that have to do with being here? Well, at home, I regularly eat steak. (Again, the part of me that desires to live past 27 loses out against the part that goes “COWS ARE STUPID AND TRUSTING AND DELICIOUS”.) So it’s not entirely shocking that I could desire such a thing when I’m abroad, particularly when I’m in the land of steak, so it’s on my mind anyway. At home, I also regularly eat Asian food. I enjoy noodles, and I have subsequently enjoyed my time out here. But the one thing I very, very rarely eat is pizza. And why? Because pizzas traditionally contain cheese. And I don’t like cheese. Cheese and I parted company at a young age, and have maintained a respectful distance ever since. Periodically, I eat cheese, either by accident or design, but am always sadly forced to conclude that the cheese embargo must go on.

There is one small exception to this rule. That exception is pizza.

When I was a youth, I didn’t eat pizza at all, because of the aforementioned cheese issue. I used to make pizzas, oh yes, and glorious pizzas they were too. In Food Tech, if we had to make whatever we wanted, I always made a pizza, because making pizzas is fun, with the layering and different ingredients and whatnot. (This continued until year 11, when I realised if I quietly slipped off to the other side of the classroom when Mrs Buxton was at our desk, and busied myself helping my friends Lynzee and Saőirse the rest of the time, I could get away with never bringing any ingredients or making anything at all. My friend Sean helped with the marking and dutifully gave me 18/20 every week for imaginary food, and that is why I love him still and would vote for him to be County Councillor again if I lived in his constituency.) The eating of pizzas, however, was most assuredly not my bag, and the fact that I also happen to dislike things like olives and pepperoni didn’t help matters.

I’m not sure at what point I relented and started eating the odd pizza. I think it was somewhere in my teen years, and almost certainly either to impress a boy, or because I was very drunk and the only food in the house was DA’s legion of Chicago Town mini-pizzas. The discovery of things like tomato garlic bread (pizza without the cheese) and Pizza Ristorante frozen pizzas continued to break down my resistance; indeed, the latter are the only frozen food I will still serve with pride at a party since my cooking revolution (waffles don’t count. That’s breakfast.) (Jane – before we head off into another pancake debacle, waffles aren’t what you’re thinking of. YouTube Birdseye Potato Waffles, and you will understand. You will also understand why, if the phrase “Birdseye Potato Waffles” is mentioned, it is statistically impossible for anyone born between 1980 and 1990 in the UK not to immediately say “They’re waffly versatile”.) It’s also very difficult if you’re the only one that wants to go to the chicken place when everyone else wants pizza or a kebab after a session, because the chicken place is miles away and you’d have to go on your own and your ankles are hurting because you kept dancing even after you fell over and everyone else is smashed so if you leave there’s a good chance they’ll forget about you and they’ll end up going home without you and you’ll have to pay for a cab back from Rawtenstall on your own, and you’ve only got three quid left because you spent all your money on an Aftershock slamming competition with Noj, and besides, you want to stay in Mimi’s because that’s where everyone goes after chucking out time so you might end up hooking up with that guy you’ve been eye-fucking all night after all.

Ahem.

Anyway. Somewhere along the line, pizzas stopped being part of the “ugh, cheese” family, and something that every now and again, I could calmly face if that’s what everybody else wanted. It will never be my favourite food, but I can cope with a visit to Pizza Hut, and every now and again I will voluntarily order a pizza if I am in an Italian and know it will be a decently tomatoey chickeny pineappley sweetcorny feast (which, for those keeping count, is my pizza topping of choice, if I am ever choosing), as opposed to the crap you get in a kebab shop.

All of which random wanderings through my debauched teenage years brings us to this evening. I’ve been reading Dara O Briain’s book the past few days, and he keeps talking about ordering pizza to the stage door. (Again, for the non-Brits in the audience – Dara O Briain is a fantastic Irish comedian, known mostly for hosting comedy topical panel show Mock The Week, but he’s also a phenomenal standup who actually does large amounts of improvisational comedy, unlike most stand-ups of note today who just recite their material and leave. McIntyre, you utter penis, I’m looking at you. I should probably be looking at Dave Spikey, but I hate you a lot more, so I’m looking at you instead.)

The seed is planted.

Then as mentioned earlier, whether it’s when I’m scoffing cake or huddling in my sexy cold weather sweater with naught but my eyes and forehead peeping out from my covers, I have recently been indulging in a little Desperate Housewives. In which Tom and Lynette Scavo own a pizzeria, the imaginatively-titled Scavo’s.

The seed grows.

Finally, an episode of DH comes up where they don’t just talk about pizzas, they show one. A big, gooey, tomatoey, delicious looking thing.

The seed flowers, and I am suddenly filled with an overwhelming urge for pizza. But not just any pizza. Just like with the steak, I am fixating on a certain type of pizza, and as detailed above, my margin for error when it comes to pizza is pretty thin. I never want pizza until I do, and then when I do, it’s all I can think about. And then after I eat some, I won’t want any again for months or years. But right now I want some. And I am in the middle of fucking Asia. Italy is thousands of miles away. Italian food is about as far. And if I could find a pizza joint, it would be something in the Pizza Marzano family, the Pizza Express knock off I ran across in Jakarta. I don’t want crappy chain pizza. I want proper pizza, fresh made pizza, with proper tomato and proper mozzarella and proper herbs and a thin yet doughy base. I want the pizza in my head, in short, which I think is Mario’s margarita pizza, from Mario’s Italian restaurant in Bacup, which is where we all used to go at the drop of a hat in my teen years because even though Nino’s had better food, Mario’s had Mario, who was brilliant and funny and nice and always remembered us and used to tease me for being cheeky and then one night sang my praises when I came in with my family instead of my friends, and said I was always bubbly and cheerful and he was always glad to see me, and I went all red and shy. Mario’s is also where I discovered tomato garlic bread, and I think if Louise Cook and I could have the perfect meal, it would consist of nothing but Mario’s tomato garlic bread and a big plate of poppadoms with all the stuff.

Since Mario and his pizzas are thousands of miles away, I was resigned to this desire going unfulfilled before I’d even started to dream, but out of idle curiosity, since Penang is famed for its food (chiefly Indian, Chinese and Nyonya though), I began flicking through the Western section of the old LP. And once again, the old LP came through, with the mention of a tiny café called Ecco that wasn’t too far from my hotel and served what they assured me was very good pizza. So earlier this evening, I headed out and about thirty minutes later arrived at their door (it’s only actually about ten minutes away, but no day would be complete if I didn’t get lost at least once). I timidly ordered a beer and a margarita, then sat and waited nervously, necking my beer and trying to concentrate on Dara. The fact that it was taking a while was a good sign; it implied that they were making it from scratch. Eventually, my pizza arrived, and I almost burst into tears.

Tears of relief.

It was perfect.

Proper tomato. Proper mozzarella (and not too much of it). Proper herbs. And a thin yet doughy base.

I burnt my mouth on it because I was so eager to scarf it down. My only regret it that they only make 10 inch ones. I wasn’t even hungry anymore but I seriously considered ordering another one just because it was so damn good.

Of course, now I’m feeling I maybe shouldn’t have washed it down with three bottles of Tiger, because was an awful lot of nonsense about food, particularly when you consider I have something far more interesting to end on. Maybe the flu has hit my head and I am now delirious. It’s possible. I marched around the streets in my sexy cold weather sweater again tonight and I was still too cold for most of it. Then I was all of a sudden too hot, which was sad – my religious pizza experience was slightly marred by the fact that I was all sweaty. Now as I write this I’m fucking freezing again, but my sexy cold weather sweater isn’t nearly as warm as it usually is, because I sweated in it, then left it in my bag, and now it’s a bit damp. (Saucy, right? I know.)

My interesting thing, which I’ve now probably oversold, is that I was in my very first earthquake today. True, it involved no death, destruction, or even toppling china (not here in Georgetown, anyway), but it was my first earthquake, and you never forget your first. It hit a 5.1 on the Richter Scale off the west coast of Sumatra (look at the map at the top if you can’t imagine where that is in relation to me; Medan was Sumatra), so it was about a thousand kilometres from here. I woke up at about 6.35am because the bed was shaking – if like me, you live in a crap new build Barrett House, you may have experienced something similar when a big truck drives down your road. Except instead of fading after a few seconds, this shaking just got stronger until I could hear the aircon clanking and the water in the pipes sloshing about. I got up and looked out of the window (quite what I was expecting to see, I don’t know – an incoming tsunami? A fast approaching mushroom cloud? Alien tripods?) but all seemed well. I could hear a few people calling out in the hallway, but nobody sounded especially panicked. I wondered what I should do, and felt a bit frightened for a minute as the room kept shaking (idiotically, I put my hands on either wall as though I was trying to steady them), and looked over at my laptop and electronics cube full of important things like my portable hard drives (which would be the things I’d want to save in an emergency). After a few minutes, the shaking started to lessen. When the clanking and sloshing stopped, I relaxed. Since I was still pretty tired (I had been coughing all night, and only dropped off at about 3am), I paused for another minute just to make sure the alien tripods really had left, then shrugged, and pausing only to tweet about it, I got back in bed and went back to sleep.

Not very exciting, I grant you. Exciting earthquake stories tend to result in bothersome things like death and/or destruction, however, and in this one nothing even fell off any shelves, so I think in some ways, whilst my tale may lack pizzazz, it has a distinct upside in that I am still alive to tell it. Win.

*muff/pocket things = when you have a bit sewn onto the front of your sweater that you can put both of your hands in, like a muff, but you can leave stuff in there like a pocket as long as you don’t start dashing around too enthusiastically. It doesn’t mean anything else that you might have thought it meant.
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Comments

hoopdogg
hoopdogg on

I am glad you found a pizza.

suzloua
suzloua on

I am glad that you are glad.

Lou on

Dara is a funny magical man who we love. Also sexy in an "you are not attractive, but you could laugh me into bed and have a sweet Irish accent" kind of way
You undersold him to the non-brits amongst us.

Are you now taking strange drugs??? Get yourself well properly. You are in a world of noodle soup, get some down you, don't drink alcohol for 48 hours and drink lots of fluids and fruit juices. Stop making yourself worse.
And for goodness sake wash that horrible jumper. Have a bath if it is possible? Or a long hot shower if not, for as long as you possibly can. If you are squeaky clean and rehydrated you will feel much better (ask ant, I am not wrong on these things).

Your pizza sounds good, I am now officially starving for steak. Unfortunately I am going to Jess's for dinner tonight and she is hindu, I am not rating my chances!

Have fun. Kisses
Mummy Lou

Ps. Do I need the book?

jane on

I enjoy your blog way more than I enjoy Allie Brosh's blog (although hers is creative w her drawings, yours is witty w well-structured sentences that pack a punch). And yes, I was one of the ones who snickered at your use of the words 'big muff.' Sorry. Loved your use of the asterisk - - I believe for the first time on this blogging adventure. (The sweater is adorable, btw) When you live in Singapore you'll be able to visit KL all the time! LOL about global warming being damned and your aircon.

OK, now you have me howling, once again. "if a restaurant and a food court had a baby..." That is such an apt description, though! You're dead-on there. "The part of me that doesn't want to die of heart disease..." and the "I am ill and alone..." part are hi-larious.

Are your "yummy noises" made whilst looking at cookbooks anything like my yummy noises when you would rub my neck? Just wondering... I would imagine they're similar...

One of the things I miss the very most about traveling (besides homemade popcorn w butter, garlic, and parmesan cheese) is cooking something for myself - - or simply pouring cereal into a bowl and pouring milk over it. And here you are fantasizing about a steak you once knew and how it compared to your imaginary steak. Descriptive and funny. I think I will make a steak for dinner as I enjoy mine the same way you enjoy yours.

I'm YouTubing Birdseye Potato Waffles... And I enjoyed the so-called pancake debacle. I prefer to call it "Pancakes 101 - - for Jane" than refer to it as a debacle. Those pancakes changed my life.

What does peppermint cake taste like??

How can I follow you on twitter? I'm 'cheerful outlook'.

Another enjoyable read, my dear!

hoopdogg
hoopdogg on

I think I would also do Dara. But then again, I have a thing for Comedians. Not many I wouldn't do. Except MacIntyre.

We might get other meat tonight Louise? x

Lou on

We are having Choritzo, though Jess says you can bugger off because you do not ike onions, it is an issue she cannot comprehend!

suzloua
suzloua on

Yes, you need the book. I've just commented to that effect on another entry ;)

I undersold the fact that we fancy Dara, but only because the non-Brits will Google Image him and say "Really? That guy?" because they have not seen his standup or his gentle whimsy or the sign that says DARA FANCIES KONNIE, and they will not understand when they see a 7 foot tall bald man.

Maybe they should YouTube him instead.

My jumper is not horrible! I am wearing it right now. It is keeping me warm against the Arctic temperatures of this pub. In fact, even typing that has made me realise I'm cold so I am pulling my sleeves down over my hands. It will have to be washed though, just because lots of people are smoking in here and I'm going to reek of fags when I leave.

I cleaned myself til I squeaked, but I forgot to shave my legs so I will clean myself again. But at the moment Wild World by Cat Stevens is playing so I'm going nowhere.

Jane on

Wild World is my favorite song of all time. Absolutely love it. I'm singing along from afar...

Lou on

A jumper which became damp with sweat is not a nice thing ever! Buy a blanket.
I just giggled a Konnie! It is amazing.
Aso, get involved in RH's good news. if Ant and Penny had baby....
I hope you ordered an orange juice and a fllu capsule at that pub young lady???

PS. Just saw your other message, appologies. This is like the four media/four conversations thing all over again!

Lou on

PPS. You did not shave your legs?
Then maybe thats WHY!!!!!!!!!!!

hoopdogg
hoopdogg on

Shall I eat before we go to Jess' house then?

I agree with Lou about the Jumper. You must smell delightful. I also agree with mum about the getting yourself better thing, do they not have pharmacies in Georgetown?

suzloua
suzloua on

Jane: I very rarely make myself laugh when I'm writing (although I do try to write in the style of things that amuse me), so I will always think Allie is better than me. Ironically, since she is hugely self-deprecating, she would probably say the same about me (if she found me funny, that is. F*ck it, I'm hilarious, why wouldn't she.)

I believe that you are correct, and that was in fact my first footnote. I dedicate it to you.

My yummy noises are not a patch on your noises. My noises are restrained and quiet, because I am usually standing in a bookshop and don't want to have the equivalent of "THIS ISN'T A LIBRARY, LOVE" yelled at me. Your noises are... not those things.

I'm intrigued by this popcorn with garlic and cheese thing. I wouldn't make it myself, obviously, due to the aforementioned cheese hate, but I've never heard of anyone doing that before. Melanie, if you're reading this, make a note, it sounds perfect for you.

I have requested to follow your tweets. I am suzloua. Just like everywhere.

I'm going to pretend you didn't ask what peppermint cake tastes like. What do you think it tastes like?

Lorna: No-one would do McIntyre, because he is the devil.

And the pair of you - stop discussing your evening plans on my blog, you devils.

hoopdogg
hoopdogg on

Ps Susan, we are halfway through Dex S2. I am not impressed with Lila the dirty little tramp. Also, didn't realise Rita was Darla from BTVS! I recognised her voice....eventually.

Have you seen any Lost while you are away? Also Loving TB now, it took a bit to get going, but CRIKEY! Its amazeballs right now xx

suzloua
suzloua on

My jumper is FINE! And I'm not buying a blanket, are you mad? I'd have to carry it.

Konnie Huq: she's a great girl.

I want to watch Russell Howard's Good News, because if Ant and Chris had a baby and that baby ran off with a burger van, it would be Russell Howard and I would love it. But you know, far away and all. When I come home, we will have a Mock The Week night, and watch Frankie/Dara/Russell's standup as well. Not Andy though. Andy's sh!te.

And no, I didn't order an orange juice. I ordered two pints of Tiger and I drank them!! HAHAHAAH!!

(tee on the leg shaving, by the way. No sex for me today.)

Jane on

Here's what I need to know about Peppermint Cake: white cake w chunks of peppermint candy? green-colored to mimic peppermint? Strong, minty taste or subtle? Crunchy mint in the frosting? White frosting? I need more descriptors of it as I've never had it before. Was there chocolate involved? Let's call this the 'Peppermint Cake Debacle."

suzloua
suzloua on

Oh, I'm so glad you don't like Lila. Noj likes her because he likes seeing Jaime Murray not wearing clothes, but I hate her (although I like Murray in Hustle). I can't believe you didn't peg Julie Benz - poor skills.

I have seen ALLLLLLL of Lost so far, except for Happily Ever After. Tomorrow I will be in Melaka though, and my hostel has free wifi, and I decided to pay £5/night instead of £3/night for a single room instead of a 10 person mixed dorm (good stories, sure, but bad snorers + five nights = NO) so I will be able to leave it downloading and watch that too. YAYNESS. I can't believe you haven't finished TB yet, I finished it when you guys were in Turkey.

suzloua
suzloua on

LOL, okay. Fair enough. It looked in every respect like chocolate cake, but it tasted like peppermint. I would imagine there was peppermint essence in the frosting and cake mix. It was moist and fabulous, and I have a piece of their regular chocolate cake here for when I leave in a few minutes (or when these comments stop coming in so thick and fast!)

ou on

Jane.
Following in your lessons about pancakes/waffles.
ICING!!!! very important, especially because as a nation, we don't relly like frost after we get too old and heavy to skid ion it and it hurts to fall over.
Also, it is not as soft and creamy as the american stuff, it is hard and sugary. the soft stuff we have is either fondant icing or buttercream.
We need to rename it Brittish food 101 instead of pancake debacle.
In the unlikely eventuality you are ever quizzed on brittish food you will be a genious!

Jane on

Icing! Yes, I knew that!! We're so harsh and unrefined here in the States. You all always sound so fancy. :-) I'm ready to play Trivial Pursuit UK soon, I think!

And so the peppermint cake was chocolate after all? I had no idea. Yum.

I have posted photos of my first pancake-making experience and posted them on my Facebook page. Will figure out how to send to Susan's for everyone's viewing pleasure.

suzloua
suzloua on

Jane, just tag me :) And these people you are talking to, by the way, are Louise Tyson and Lorna Hooper, and my ma is Lynda Atherton. Add away.

Louby, I would argue with your icing v frosting thing. For me, frosting is the thick stuff - fondant icing/buttercream (god, you're pedantic). Icing is the thin stuff you make with icing sugar and water.

Lou on

True, but the most common is the Icing sugar/rolled out stuff and fondant icing or buttercream (two different things, not pedantic) is more a special order. When you think cake, you assume traditional icing.
Whereas from my understanding of US cakes, frosting is the norm yes? and rolled icing would be more of a special order?

Anne on

Commiserations on your unwellness....it really sucks when you want to be out and at 'em. I had swine flu BEFORE departing on my travels(the proper way to do it!) and it really didn't make me as horribly ill as predicted. One of the boys gave it to me and he suffered a humungous fever for like 48hrs, ached and pained for a few days then decided to give up and survive. So sweat it out, lots to drink and keep Panadol near at hand. Travels sound so fascinating I wanna go again!! Just got pay rise and more hours at work so might be able to fly the coop next year. YES!

Jo Al on

Mmm yum pulled pork!

Jane on

In the US icing is the thin kind, like what might be drizzled on a sweet roll or coffee cake. Frosting is the routine, run-of-the-mill buttery-sweet-thick kind of topping on a proper cake. Fondant is the rolled-out kind that's laid over the cake and is less-traditional and more fancy, like for a wedding/party. Fondant looks good but doesn't have that melt-in-your-mouth kind of feeling that frosting has. Baking is my forte and I have a whole series on Facebook where I baked a version of Red Velvet Cake for my mom - - but let's call it Green Velvet Cake and let's also call it a BIG MISTAKE.

hoopdogg
hoopdogg on

On Cakewrecks.com, They refer to rolled out Icing as Fondant, and the buttercreamy looking stuff as Frosting. I don't think they have the icing sugar mix there like we have here. You know, the stuff louise manages to splatter all over the kitchen.

Jane, check out cakewrecks.com - my favourite blog. Apart from this one obv.

Anne on

PS Stay away from Russians who claim to be doctors:-)

dini123 on

I am not your ma, I am your mother, mum, Lynda, Lindiloo, mummy. I am not ma. I am so sad that you are ill and my arms want to hug you and put you to bed and make you better. Kendal Mint Cake, that's the stuff. And the earthquake was the second in your life, when I was lying in my bed of pain with 28 stiches and you in a goldfish bowl at the side of me, and a drip in each arm (oh, a plane just went over the house, very low) and feeling like real proper rubbish there was an earthquake that made some of us fall out of our beds. True. Google it, earthquake (I think it was in Scotland and we got the aftershock) 1986 July 12th. love mummy.

adatherton
adatherton on

Hope you feel better soon. Glad that my little contribution of 400 hours of TV/movie viewing fills the gap.

suzloua
suzloua on

This comment section is supposed to be for you lot to tell me how fabulously funny/insightful I am with my travel musings, you know. It is not supposed to be your own personal recipe swap. You're terrible, Muriel.

Jo: Love your sole contribution there ;)

Anne: I don't think it is the dread swine flu, it just popped into my head because there are posters up in all the airports here. I am swigging orange juice as we speak though - I shall beat this thing, with or without Russian assistance. Glad to hear things are going better at work, honey - you deserve a break!!

Ma: Hush your noise. And I'm sure you must be joking about the date, being as it is ever so slightly inaccurate. Then again, I'm only sure because you would have had time to look it up. As we know, if I ask you when I was born and you are forced to answer on the spot, we end up with you hysterically shouting "April!"

DA: Yes, the media care package is very handy for such things ;)

By the way, speaking of Google Imaging Dara - try it now and check out image number 3 (the one from the Guardian).

Oh, and I definitely need to wash my jumper now, it REEKS of smoke. I had to have a shower last night before bed because I stank.

hmph
hmph on

3rd earthquake, surely? Where were you at the start of 2008 when there was that earthquake in Manchester? xx

suzloua
suzloua on

Lanzarote. It all sounded marvellously dramatic on Facebook, though I hear most people didn't even feel it.

Melly on

Just so you know, I went to Mario's a few weeks ago, he gave me free wine, god love mario
x

suzloua
suzloua on

Mario is so ace.

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