shepherd’s pie approved for cabin baggage

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Last weekend, I took a short trip to icecreammecca to catch up with friends and family.  Wur crew (our pet name for the classy team that are Ryanair cabin personnel) were late for once and it was after midnight when I arrived at my house.  Saturday there was lunch with aunties and cousins and sisters at Mrs. Formans.  I remembered a red flock wallpapered pub where my grandad would take a glass or so with his cronies.  How it has changed.

On Sunday, I hoped to surprise my friend wifiewhogoesforlunch for her birthday.  She had decided to go for a jaunt, but her sneaky brother, arbiteroftaste picked me up in his cool car and chased through the Scottish countryside to catch up with them.  We had a nice walk at Bracklinn Falls and then we went back to their house. Her husband, blokewhogoesfishing cooked us a lovely Sunday dinner.  That’s where the shepherd’s pie comes in.  I had bought one of Tesco’s finest to have for dinner on Sunday.  What to do with the shepherd’s pie?

Sunday evening was spent studying the various sites and advice about what one may take in cabin baggage.  Yoghurt, 100 mls only in your clear plastic bag with your toothpaste and haemorrhoid cream.  Jam, same.  Salsa, no. Peanut butter, no.  Salad dressing, no.  But not a word about shepherd’s pie.  Gravy is expressly forbidden.  I wondered how much gravy is in finest shepherd’s pie. I decided to risk it.  

On Monday, I had Lunch with horseysis, highheelsis and legallyniece in Bar Sygn and then it was off to the airport. I prepared myself for the shepherd’s pie security screening.  After an airport coffee with wifiewhogoesforlunch, I made my way airside.  I travel without belts and jewellery and all the other stuff that slows things down at security, so I am normally through fairly fast.  I was looking forward to providing some entertainment for the other travellers with my shepherd’s pie.  I imagined their puzzled faces at the sight of a shepherd’s pie in the confiscated items bin.  I saw their pitying smiles as I explained the lack of internet guidance on mince and mashed potato dishes.  I visualised them at their destinations telling how somewifie tried to take shepherd’s pie on a plane.

It was my turn.  I unzipped my shiny new purple suitcase and took out my laptop.  The shepherd’s pie was safe in the other compartment with the bacon and cheese.  I stepped through the archway.  No beep.  We had almost made it, my shepherd’s pie and me.  Then my bright purple case was moved from the conveyor belt to the table where they put items for hand searching.  I was all set to lose my shepherd’s pie.  I waited as non English speakers were divested of their shaving foam and shampoo.  

The lady with the latex gloves turned to her colleague.  “What’s in this one?” she asked, indicating the lovely shiny purple case.  He shrugged.  “Is this yours?” she asked in an almost threatening tone.  I nodded.  My mind was scanning the empty fridge in porkandcabbageland looking for an alternative dinner.  “I am just going to test the outside” she said.  She took a cotton wool swab and wiped over the shiny purple polycarbonate.  She put the cotton wool swab in a device which confirmed the non-explosive nature of the polycarbonate.  My shepherd’s pie had passed the test.


Grumpygermanman

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One of the things I like to take a holiday from is speaking German. On this trip, I had the transfer to the hotel with a German couple.  We spoke German at the airport and on the journey to the hotel.  They asked where I came from.  When I told them, he said “Bad place. Bad weather. Narrow roads”  I did not see them for days after that and so I could enjoy my holiday eavesdropping German conversations without anyone knowing that I am understanding what they are saying.  


Not that they were saying anything interesting.  I was treated to a detailed description of a forthcoming home cinema installation; a rant about how children should not be allowed to go on holiday; a conspiracy to persuade (left behind) children to become vegetarian; a recommendation for christian religious music in the Malayalan language.  You have to eavesdrop a lot of conversations to harvest anything more interesting than cheese purchases. 


Towards the end of my stay I bumped into grumpygermanman again.  “We shall be leaving together” he informed me in a tone that inferred that that would be something for me to look forward to.  As I settled my bill (just INR 125 for some laundry) the receptionist took a telephone call.  “I am sorry sir, they will finish by around 9.15pm” the receptionist said.  By that I realised that someone was ranting about the “infernal noise” from the music and dance presentation on the open air stage.  Go too far back on that stage and you are over the cliffs into the sea.  Somehow the face and voice of grumpygermanman flashed through my mind.


Sure enough at 1.30 am when we met for our departure that was one of his 1001 points to complain about.  His litany lasted all the way to the airport.  I took my seat in the plane.  Who was right behind me?  Oh yes.  There he was.  At the end of the flight he presented his addendum of complaints.  Worst flight ever apparently.  I fly a lot.  I had my tempur transit pillow (best thing ever) and my ipod (even better thing ever).  I had an on demand entertainment system.  I had a comfy seat and great service.  grumpygermanman had 101 things to complain about.


Poor grumpygermanman.  We had the same holiday.  I came home relaxed and happy.  Grumpygermanman, I fear, returned to his office on the Monday morning to be renamed evengrumpiergermanman.



spa visit in porkandcabbageland

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Just finished the Indian washing, when 6 ladies came to stay for the weekend.  We planned a spa visit for Sunday.  There is a thermal bath in waltzcity at Oberlaa with an exceedingly good cake shop.  But we decided to see a bit of the countryside and headed for the town of Baden.  Beethoven used to escape to Baden for the summer and walk in the hills and drink the local plonk.  


Off we went on the public transport.  We took the underground which does not actually go underground very much.  And then we took a tram that calls itself a train.  The tram thing took us through the middle of all the ugly industrial estates at the south of the city.  Not quite what I wanted to show the ladies.  It took us about an hour to get to Baden. On the journey my guests were eager to know all about life in porkandcabbageland, how long we have been recycling our rubbish, how long people wait for operations (not at all), how the ordinary people live (well) and so on.  There were shocked gasps when I told that there are no curtains round hospital beds.  The ladies were all nurses.


Once there we made our way straight to the thermal bath and off we went.  We stepped into the first warm pool inside and followed the schedule of bubbles and jets in different parts of the pool every 5 minutes.  Next we headed outside to loll in warm water at 32 degrees with our heads in the freezing cold. Another schedule of jets and bubbles was to be followed.  As the bubbles appeared, one of the ladies regretted wearing a two piece swimsuit.  The bubbles inflated her top making her look like a fat lady from a saucy postcard.  We laughed.  The elegant Austrian ladies with their pencilled eyebrows and red lipstick and startled look from the hair pulled too far back laughed too.  


The final pleasure was the sulphur pool.  At 36 degrees it was as warm as a bath.  Warnings were posted not to spend more than 20 minutes in there.  Disastrous consequences for the circulation were promised to those who did not comply.  And so we dashed round that pool rather quickly. We looked forward to the benefits for our joints and organs.  Soon we had to dash out or risk paying an extra 1.70 for overstaying our time. 


Smelling of rotten eggs, we made our way to see the town. The house where Beethoven composed his 9th symphony, the elegant Kurpark, the flashy casino and – inexplicably – 3 open shops were viewed with appreciation.  


The map then guided us to the edge of the town to a typical heuriger.  I explained that there would be a buffet of food for self service consisting of pork and cabbage in many many forms and only local wine or soft drinks. The ladies chose their pork dishes.  Some of them opted for blunz’n (that’s pork with blood and spices – a bit like black pudding) with cabbage. They liked it. 


As we were there a group of ladies arrived.  From their clothes and make up, I could tell they were Russian.  I looked to see if Ludmilla and  Svetlana from my yoga class were amongst them.  They were celebrating a birthday.  Platters were brought.  Of pork. We left before they started singing.


The ladies were thrilled to discover that our train back to waltzcity had an upstairs, they had been on all modes of transport on their various trips, but never a train with upstairs.  Our skin was soft.  Our hair was crazy.  We had had a lovely day.  Must do that more often.

Last(ing) Impressions

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I had planned to spend my last evening in town.  I wanted to look a fish in the eye, and call it dinner.  Off I went in a taxi with fellow guests David and Sylvia.  We had all manner of plans for a nice stroll along the seafront, cup of tea, bit of shopping and then back to a fish restaurant for a non-veg dinner.  About 1km from the hotel, the rain started again.  I was wearing my lovely new red sandals (again).  


When we got to town, David and Sylvia waited in the taxi whilst I repeated my barefoot sandal saving dash to do my errands.  I said my goodbyes and picked up some lemon cake takeaway from my friend Geemon.  We stopped off in just one shop where I admired one of the most beautiful shawls I have ever seen and was “singing bowled” by the owner.  The use of the singing bowl is supposed to free the body of fears. 


 We then stopped at the “Divine Supermarket”  I checked the price of cups.  20 rupees including saucer.  That will be a detail for my email to the hotel manager.  He made the mistake of asking me to give him feedback.


Back to the hotel.  It was still raining. That did not hamper the performance of Indian dance (classical to Bollywood) and Keralan martial arts on the open air stage.  They gave us some tandoori fish for dinner, but it did not have eyes.



cappuccino in Kerala

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Not the cup of coffee.  The monk.  2 of them actually, so I suppose I should change the title to cappuccini.  They arrived yesterday in their long brown robes with the pointed hoods.  Not really what you expect to see in a – if not luxurious, shall we say comfortable – resort. I was watching them going around looking holy.  One of them says “God bless you” to everyone who passes. 


My Swiss neighbour explained.  A capuchin monk, Fr. Bernadine started an orphanage in 1989.  There are many “orphans” in India.  They are orphans because they are illegitimate and their  mothers cannot afford to keep them, or they come from the poorest of families and are given up to the orphanage because their parents know that they will be fed there.  Fr. Bernadine had the bright idea to offer accommodation to tourists as a way of raising funds for the orphanage.  The project grew and the hotel grew too.  


The monk I saw strolling around was Fr. Bernadine with a younger colleague.  They also have 2 nuns in tow.  The nuns are old.  They are now starting a project teaching or training girls.  I am glad that the profits from my “holiday” goes to support such worthwhile projects. You can read about the charitable projects here

Bathed in oil

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I am now at the end of my stay here.  Beena and Binju have done their worst.  Today, it was a gentle massage followed by an oil bath.  They do not fill a tub with oil and get you to climb in.  You lie on the massage table and they rhythmically pour warm oil over you.  It would be very relaxing.  It is very relaxing.  For most people.  They warm the oil in large pots on a calor gas stove perched on a wobbly stool.  And that is why it is not very relaxing for me.  I lie there and hear the oil sizzling and crackling.  I am just waiting for it to ignite like a chip pan fire of old.  There is no fire blanket.  There is not even a lid for the pot which might kill the flames.  The rickety stool with the calor gas stove is placed directly in the 18 inches of space between me and the door.  There are bars on the windows. I am naked and oily.  How will I get out?  And so I lie there, all slippery, and just a little bit tense.  Every time the pot is removed from the stove, I can relax a bit.  And then the moment comes when they will pour it again.  In my neurotic mind, they have overheated it.  Blisters are forming on my skin before they realise their error.  I am deep fried and truly Scottish.

Swiss Ladies at Full Moon

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Everywhere I go there are lots of Swiss people. Here too.  But here, we have only Swiss ladies.  No Swiss men.  I expect they are all busy running banks, making watches, playing alphorns and manufacturing triangular chocolate. 


The Swiss ladies here are of a certain age, but that does not stop them from having fun.  I can understand television Swiss German, but I cannot understand bunchofhystericalwifiesalltalkingatonce Swiss German, so my eavesdropping expeditions have not harvested anything of interest.  So, this little story is based on what they actually told. 


Last Friday night was full moon.  They put the lights out here at 10pm and I stay on my terrace until the mosquitos have been fed.  By 11pm it is really lockdown.  When we cam back from the festival, we were chatting to some of the Swiss ladies and they told us about their Full Moon Party.


And this is what the Swiss ladies did.  Just before midnight, they went down onto the beach and drew a spiral in the sand.  They then summoned the energy of the full moon with rattles and drums.  Some full moon incantations were sung and they spent some time on a big rock “absorbing the powerful energy of the full moon.” After that they bathed in the sea.  Naked, they said. 


Next time you are in Switzerland, if you see a spiral drawn in the snow at full moon, you’ll know what’s up.

Attukal Pongala Festival

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Some kindly folk here persuaded me to join them to see the festival. I would normally avoid anywhere crowded and 3 million women with rice is not really my idea of good company for  a Saturday afternoon.  Off we went with a very patient taxi driver.  After about an hour in traffic jams watching busload after busload of ladies pass in the other direction, we feared we may have missed the fun.  We parked somewhere behind the temple and walked.  By the road, the ashes of the rice cooking fires were all around, and unsold cooking pots were piled up.  The atmosphere was festive and the way to the temple entrance was lined with stalls selling the usual pilgrim wares and helium filled zebras and plastic toys.  The Saturday afternoon ceremony seemed to be about little girls getting dressed up with fancy headgear and bringing offerings of small bananas, some grains of rice, sugar cane, and some jasmin flowers.  We were the only white people there and so we were much looked at. Some children, keen to try out their English came and shook our hands and before we knew it, grown ups were shaking our hands too. I felt like the Queen. Here a few photies:




whole groups arrived with the women in front and the men following.  towards the temple entrance drum groups joined the procession and drummed the little girls along

could not figure out why there were all these abandoned shoes quite far from the temple entrance.  I have been searching for a pair of purple sandals, and in the pile I found these ones just my size.  Not quite what I had in mind, but what’s a girl to do.
my new sandals

leftover cooking pots


3 Million (30 lakh) Women Making Rice Pudding

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A trip into town to buy linen fabric for some trousers was on the agenda for Friday.  As we got closer to town, I started to notice huge piles of clay cooking pots outside nearly every shop.  There was lots of traffic.  As we neared the city centre huge noisy pa systems  on the streets played loud devotional music.  “Is there a festival?” I asked the taxi driver.  “Yes, Madam, 3 millions of womens is coming to temple.  Is big festival of womens”  He went on to tell me that women come from all over India, and from whole Kerala for this festival.  I did my shopping.  As we drove back I noticed little brick piles and kindling all along the side of the road.  I asked the driver again what it was about. “They cooking” he said. Me: “All of them?” “Yes,” he answered “they all cooking rice and bring to temple.”  My table mates at lunch were planning to go shopping in town on Saturday.  I advised them not to, unless they were prepared to fight their way past 3 million rice cooking “womens”. 


Beena and Bindhu had a great treat in store for me today.  Rubbing down with powder.  It was like being sandpapered.  I hope my skin will be soft when I wash the powder off. In any case I am well spiced! They then put me in a wooden box which had a stool in it and a hole on top for my head.  A pressure cooker atop a bunsen burner feeds steam into the box via a plastic hose fitted to the bit where the pressure valve is. And I sat in the box as they steamed me.  I thought I would get away clean, but the banana leaf was applied again.  So 4 hairwashes again today.


I quizzed them about the festival.  Beena is Christian and will not be attending.  But Bindhu will make her rice at home and go along.  The rice is sweet.  The roadside cooking fires will be  used by the out-of-towners.  And all those women really do make rice pudding and take it along to the temple. Transposing the experience to my native Scotland, I found it difficult to visualise the streets of Glasgow lined with little fires on which Mars bars are deep fried in earthenware pots whilst huge speakers blast out “It’s only a step to Jesus” and other Salvation Army type hits.


There are some photos on this blog which show just how it looked when I was there on Friday morning.  This Attukal Pongala festival holds the world record for the largest gathering of women.

this is not the rice pudding, it is what they put under the banana leaf






Cleansing day

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Today was cleansing day.  Alarm went at 5.40 as I knew that “medicines, Madam” would be there at 6.  Sure enough, I was sitting on the terrace reading when he came along with a glass of warm sludge and told me to drink it.  It tasted of liquorice and pepper and ginger and honey, with an aftertaste of chanel no 5,  but it was still sludge and I had to battle the gagging reflex.  I will not tell more about the effects of the sludge.  After a while I felt a bit queasy, and so I shuffled off to breakfast and had 3 cups of very gingery ginger tea.  


At 10 a waiter appeared at my terrace with a glass of coconut water. “Drink this, Madam” he commanded.  30 minutes later the doctor appeared.  “How are you?” she asked.   “Have you been to the toilet?”  “How many times?”  Not totally satisfied with my answers, she shook her head from side to side and left.  She seemed disappointed that I was fine.  Tired and feeling the effects of the sludge, I went for a wee lie down.  I was just starting to dream of the office, when a loud knock on the door saved me. “Sorry for disturb, Madam, but this is for you” said the smiling waiter.  This, I understood, was my lunch.  A bowl of salty rice gruel and a green ball of something.  I thought it looked like a pistachio sweet of some kind and therefore saved it for after the gruel.  It was coconut and salt and herbs all chopped up very fine and then rolled into a disgusting ball.  Yuck.


2 o’clock torture time soon came round.  I dragged myself up the hill to Beena and Binjhu who greeted me warmly.  Beena: “Have you been to the toilet?”  “How many times?”  “Vomiting?”  When I said no, I had not vomited, Beena sniffed.  That was the wrong answer. When I told her about the ginger tea she shook her head, not from side to side Indian yes fashion, but  western style, eyes heavenward “you stupid woman” fashion.  Beena and Bindhu were kind to me today and did not thump me with anything at all.  A facepack.  Something cold on my eyelids.  I was starting to feel pampered.  “Sit” she  ordered.  And then they brought out a big brass bowl of mud like sludge.  It smelt like the stuff I drank this morning.  They plastered it on my head.  Then the banana leaf was applied.  “One hour keeping” instructed Beena.  As I left, Bindhu put a teatowel round my neck as if it were a jasmine garland.  Back at my terrace, reading my book, I soon realised that brown liquid was running down my face and neck as the sludge was melting in the heat.  That was what the teatowel was for.  4 washes it took to get that sludge out of my hair.  So at least my hair is cleansed.