Fireman update

Now, I know there was disappointment about the lack of photographic evidence of the fireman incident. Happily, the fire station is but paces from my front door, and today Spring has Sprung. So, as I was strolling home after luncheon, I passed the fire station where the boys had the shutters up & were lolling about in the sunshine. I stopped to say hi, we reminisced about sausages, and they kindly agreed to pose for a photo with the limey. Thanks again to Salem's fine fire service!

Coffee, oh coffee, where art thou coffee?

Ctrl+click on the link below if you want a carefully chosen (by me) soundtrack whilst you read this post - it should open up in a different window so you can trill along whilst you read.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7oDuGN6K3VQ

So, when I was a mere gangly teenybopper, my schoolgirlgang friend Miss T and I were slavishly addicted to David Lynch's Twin Peaks. A moment of pure televisual genius, with many fine tropes that have entered into our culture including Kyle MacLachlan, as FBI Special Agent Dale Cooper, repeatedly riffing on the "damn fine coffee" offered to him in the course of his investigation as to Who Killed Laura Palmer:

Harry, I'm going to let you in on a little secret. Every day, once a day, give yourself a present. Don't plan it. Just let it happen. It could be a new shirt at the men's store, a catnap in your office chair, or two cups of good, hot black coffee.

[Lucy pours Cooper a cup of coffee. He takes a sip and promptly spits it out]. Damn fine coffee! And hot!

Mr Cooper, how do you take it? [Cooper] Black as midnight on a moonless night.

This led me to believe that America was a Land of Delicious Coffee. How wrong I was. I first visited the U S of A about 10 years after Twin Peaks aired, where Miss T was now working in the fillum business. 48 hours into my LA trip, I asked the lovely Springer (nickname of boy, not dog) who had been assigned as my minder, to take me where "I could eat food that tastes of something". Admittedly, subsequent experience has taught me that those first 48 hours were a spectacular dearth on the epicurean front in the States, but guys, the great coffee has never made itself known. In over a decade of visiting at least once a year, I don't think I've ever had the damn fine coffee. Where is it? It all tastes like gnats' wee, or what I imagine gnats' wee to taste like. As I was mainly over here for work, I had thought I was a repeat victim of the worldwide virus Conference Coffee, which affects even countries known for their intravenous-caffeine-style coffee - I've sampled Conference Coffee in Syria and Turkey, for example. But no! Alas and definitely Alack! The coffee here is just terrible. My poor mum has not been able to get over it - she really does enjoy her daily self-present of a cup of coffee, as prescribed by Agent Cooper. Today was her last over visiting, and we scoured Boston for something suitable. Our failure was made all the more poignant by another schoolgirlgang friend, Miss B, posting a photo of what can only be described as a paean to the perfect cup of coffee on her FB this morning. It looked so good on the screen, I could taste it. Torturer! In response to my moaning, Miss B has quite rightly asked, why Jules I thought you were in a college town. How can those students survive without proper coffee? She is so right, it's a mission! There must be some somewhere. I will investigate. Perhaps in the legendary North Side, home to all Boston's Italians. Or, I've heard of a tiny Syrian epicerie tucked away in the South Side that definitely needs plundering.

Those of you who are Shakey fans will note my deliberate use of the R'n'J quote which can mean 'why are you called [coffee / Romeo* substitute as applicable]' rather than where is [coffee / Romeo* substitute as applicable]' as both interpretations seem apt in this case. I think the search for / whinge about real coffee could become a regular feature of this blog. Until then it shall be called gnats' wee.

If I don't sort something out soon, the only option for my daily self-present will be catnapping in the office.

Bangers, mash, and the fire brigade

So, I've been very kindly lent a top floor flat in an historic building. The flat is fully furnished, including kitchen implements. Although in retrospect these did seem remarkably shiny, polished, and, well, new.
Last night, after less than 48 hours in this borrowed flat, I managed to set off the smoke alarm in the kitchen, when frying some delicious (and expensive) saussies from Wholefoods. Except that it turned out to be impossible to open any of the historic windows in the historic building, plus the historic building was completely wired for fire prevention...so the smoke detector set off a full scale alarm of flashing lights and sirens throughout the building. The lovely, and extremely efficient, guys from the fire department presented themselves, fully togged up with breathing apparatus & a fire engine, within 3 minutes of the offending sausages making their presence in town known. The also lovely and extremely efficient building guardian arrived two minutes later, disturbed in the middle of his dinner which was not sausages.
All were disappointed that there weren't enough sausages to go round.
There's no photo on this post as I was far too embarassed to bother anyone further. But thank you guys!
It turns out I'm the first person to actually cook in the borrowed flat since this newfangled fire prevention business was installed.

Giant crustaceans

The enormous portions served as standard in the States are well documented, but even my mother, a big fan of seafood, was defeated by the lobster that arrived. Note how it is nearly double the size of her face yet she's putting on a brave smile. And apparently this one was quite standard.

The point is, of course, that you don't have to eat it all. You can, in fact most people do, eat half and then ask the restaurant to package up the other half for you to take home & eat later. But this isn't always a mouth watering, let alone hygenic, prospect. See, for example, my favourite part of the squid, below - and imagine it the morning after a night in the fridge. So the only option is to stuff your face and enjoy it. Which should probably be my epitaph.

Just what you need after a transatlantic flight...

...to have accidentally ordered a limo to pick you up. Thanks mum!

Sadly we didn't quite match the bling. The driver asked, are there only you two for the ride?

Preparing to leave.

I've removed the badge from my tweed coat. But I'm taking the lunch box that my good friend Goldy gave me last week as a leaving present. I have already packed my Cath Kidstone 'London' line drawing print bag and it's in the shipping container on its way over the pond.

Labouring a point too much?
Oops, need to learn to say / write laboring.