Friday, 25 July 2014

Summer, Klephtiko Recipe, Thoughts on Motherhood and Fund-Raising.




Having a fair-sized garden entails a lot of work but one of the perks is that when the fine weather comes we can entertain a good number of friends all together since space is not a problem. Catering for large numbers, however, means carefully selecting dishes that don’t reduce the hostess to a frazzle before the guests have even arrived.  

One of my standby dishes is klephtiko - or one of its many variations - which comes with an interesting history to its name. Particularly towards the end of the Ottoman Empire dominion in Greece, there were those who, rather than succumb to these overlords, took to the mountains, living in hardship and often in extreme climatic conditions. These Greeks were known as the Klephts - a word deriving from the verb klevo: to steal – for they survived on foodstuffs either donated by the local people or acquired by stealth – in the usual sense of being furtive and in the Shakespearean sense of theft!! I rather like to think of them as similar to the Border cattle reivers, families whose lives had been devastated by the continual warring between the Scots and the English and who had resorted to a similarly predatory way of life in order to survive.

  The meat – however acquired – needed to be cooked without betraying the whereabouts of our hungry rebels so klephtiko was the answer. A pit was dug, hot coals were placed in the bottom and on top of them, sealed inside a clay pot, was the meat (usually lamb) and whatever else they could find. The pit closed over, the food was left cooking away there for perhaps as long as 24 hours – hunger permitting! No smell, no smoke, just a delicious aromatic stew.

 Nowadays we seal the meat in cooking parchment wrapped in baking foil and one hour in the oven suffices. I shall list the ingredients I would use for four people and it’s up to you whether you want to prepare four large packets or go for six to eight smaller versions. In the summer heat here I tend to make the smaller portions as appetites are diminished – and that way seconds are always available! Not being particularly partial to lamb, we use pork in this recipe.
 Ingredients :
 600 gr pork cut into generous cubes
6 medium potatoes sliced into rounds of medium thickness
4 large carrots cut into julienne strips
3 courgettes sliced
400 gr small cabbage cut into chunks
Feta cheese – allow for a 3 cm square piece per packet
3 tomatoes sliced
2 onions sliced

The pork cubes are marinated overnight in about 300 gr of Greek yoghurt, with oil, lemon juice, oregano, garlic salt, salt and pepper to taste. The following day, fry the meat in its marinade for about 20 minutes.
Roast the potato slices in a baking tray with a little oil until they have softened.
 Boil or microwave the carrots in a little butter and a little soy sauce until they begin to soften.
Cut up squares of parchment paper and tin foil, according to how many packets you want to make.

 Now it’s time for assembly.
 Place a tin foil sheet on the table, and the parchment paper on top. It’s good to have all the ingredients laid out to facilitate this fiddly part of the procedure.
Use 2 or 3 potato slices as a base, put 2 or 3 meat chunks with some of its juices on top, then assemble all the rest, topping the mound with the feta cube, adding a little oil, lemon juice,  salt , pepper,  and oregano to taste.  Tightly wrap this up in the parchment paper, then in the tin foil. Pop all the packets on a baking tray and cook for an hour. They will stay hot for quite some time, or can be easily reheated just before your guests arrive. Now you might, like my friend Margaret on the Shetland Isles, decide life is too short for all this bother (!) but once assembled that’s the job done and all that is needed is a fresh green salad as accompaniment. Iceberg lettuce with a mustard, balsamic vinegar, honey, oil and blue cheese dressing is our favourite with klephtiko.

                                                         
People are always impressed when the tray of silver-wrapped, surprise packages is served. You can eat straight from the packets or use the invert-and-empty-onto-plate method, as demonstrated below by H and some  dinner guests from earlier times. What you do need to have to hand is a bag to collect the wrapping refuse.




 It seems strange for me to cite this dish, given that recently I had the unique experience of having a guest who ate not a morsel of this very dish. Nor of the oatcakes with vegetable puree starter: one of fava - like a  pease-pudding - and one of our olives mixed with feta. In fact the lady in question ate only ice-cream, eschewing our accompanying home-grown, home-made cherry sauce and shortbread fans. As H observed, the only thing she ate was the only non-home-made item. No sweat: her loss. Others asked for seconds.  Doggie, Leon, delighted in all the left-overs.

 Why I mention her was that she was remarkable in another area: at the table she regularly made negative statements about her husband and son: the former could not drive at night; her son did not socialize with people of his own age, did not eat x, y and z, could not climb ladders – and clearly neither of them spoke up for himself. The strange thing was that she seemed to take pride in making these pronouncements. It was as if in ‘disempowering’ her men folk, by dwelling on their inabilities, she established some form of authority over them. There was something almost narcissistic about it all in that somehow the focus remained on her.
Now I have never adopted the role of motherhood – undoubtedly a demanding one – but as an educator I have seen many instances where it has gone wrong and this is one case in point. Where instead of the child being encouraged to develop and become self-reliant, its weaknesses are indulged and remarked on, perhaps to foster dependence on her, to empower her rather than the son.
 A much better example of motherhood is Helen whose daughter was born with a serious heart condition and spent the first three weeks of her life at Yorkhill Hospital in Glasgow, undergoing two major operations. To express her gratitude for all the care and treatment her daughter had, off went the bold mum and signed up for the London Marathon in aid of the British Heart Foundation. This she duly ran earlier this year, so far raising in sponsorship over five and a half thousand pounds for research into cardiac disease.  

Let me introduce you to Meg, the Marvel – isn’t she a cutie? And one who is clearly thriving on all the special care and attention - both medical and familial - she has been given.
                                        


Helen tells me that the fundraising page is still open, so if anyone would like to make a contribution to this very worthy cause, here is the link:

 Incidentally, as well as kindly allowing me to use their family snaps, Helen suggested that I factor in the father role to the family equation. Certainly, our dad-dinner-guest bears some responsibility in not trying to keep mum’s narcissistic tendencies under control. What Helen wanted to stress was how important her husband and family’s support was in her endeavour. Beforehand her husband kept the children while she went on her regular training sessions and, on the day, he shepherded   round a busy London to cheer her on. And in pointing this out, Helen demonstrates perhaps one of the most important features of good parenting: the selflessness that means putting your child’s needs first.   

In this happy family snap of Helen and family it is clear that Meg, the babe-in-arms, has an excellent support system. May all the members go from strength to strength and continue to derive joy from family life.  



                                                 

On our home front we are enjoying summertime. Two of the tres in our garden I think are particularly beautiful. Our young magnolia tree is developing into a lovely cup-shape and behind it the acacia tree has produced its beautiful ‘powder puff’ flowers. 



 








                                                        






May you relax over the summer months and bask in the warmth of the sun and in good company
of friends and family.

Tuesday, 24 June 2014

Trip to Saudi Arabia 2



As-salaam ‘alaykum!

So there I was at breakfast, contemplating desert. To the east of Riyadh extends Al Rub’al Khalil, the Empty Quarter, the largest sand desert in the world. This is an extremely hot, arid area stretching down to the Yemen; it is a vast wilderness whose area is larger than that of France! That was no MERS symptom that had me coughing, just the dusty, dry atmosphere.

Over coffee I struck up a conversation with a local lady, a dress designer who was holding an exhibition of her creations at the hotel. Naeema Al Shuhail very kindly invited me to view her beautiful exhibits and graciously even allowed me to try a dress on - imagine! No model, me - I think the gorgeous sandy-pink linen dress draped better on the hanger than on moi. There was a mouth-watering array of cotton. linen, silk garments in soft dusky pink, blue, grey and beige hues, reflecting the muted, natural tones of nature. Others radiated gem-bright colours, guaranteed to make Saudi ladies with their dark skin tones  look like exotic birds of paradise.


 


                                            
 Here is Naeema standing before her stunning evening gowns - the bodice on the left apparently inspired by traditional Japanese styles. She was originally interested in collecting traditional Saudi clothes and in 2005 began making jackets with elements of these vintage pieces incorporated into them. Her extended range of garments – elegant evening gowns and swirling day-dresses – is all in natural fibres. Her pieces are frequently bedecked with beading, appliqué, embroidery created by employees she selects for their traditional skills. In this way, she is offering a life-line support to some who are often living in difficult or constraining circumstances. How admirable to cater for glam gals and at the same time support the less privileged. Bravo, Naeema, it was a pleasure to meet you! By simply googling her name you can view access to her latest collection.

 In my last posting I focused on the Arab male headdress, so now it’s time to talk about the Hijab, the general term for the dress code for Muslim women.
While I was there, a large, fine black scarf served as an Abbayya to cover my hair. The fact that I wore this drew some comments of disapproval from acquaintances in Europe who don’t agree with the concept of the Hijab. Passing judgement on a Middle–East convention, seen through a western perspective, as it invariably must be, can often lead to simplistic or superficial observations being made. At the airport I did see a few isolated cases of western women kitted out in close-fitting clothes, without any head-covering. I must admit I don’t applaud that approach. The real issue is very simple: if the life-style is not to your liking, you simply don’t go there. My take on it is that I chose to go to SA and I believe my opinion on their ethnic /religious dress-codes is neither here nor there. I was on their turf and opted to wear my self-styled Abbayah in response to and to show respect for local sensitivities. In return, I was treated in a courteous and considerate manner.  

                                                                  

 Continuing on the theme of fashion, I was intrigued to see that as young girls came into our male-free hotel-haven, many would immediately shrug off their head-covering, secure in the knowledge that no male was be there to object or to require their covering up. While enjoying my evening meal, I was treated to entertainment from the balcony: two feisty dames – one on keyboard, the other vocals - were rehearsing for a wedding party (presumably ladies only). What they were hammering out was very dancey indeed. In the dining room there were several groups of young girls, meeting up for a chat over coffee, soft drinks, or a snack. It struck me as very interesting that though the Abbayyah had been abandoned, the Chador, or full body cloak, was allowed to gape open but was never taken off. To my great delight I spied one young girl sporting a T-shirt and ripped jeans, but what really made me grin was the cool ‘dudesse’ decked out in a crop-top , crotch-sagging rapper trews, finished off with a pair of scruffy base-ball boots - why not? Go, gal!

Incidentally, the cell-phone is just as much in evidence as it is elsewhere. When I visited the girls-only college for the assessment I was to do, I learned that there was an adjacent boys-only college, with the students following the exact same courses and sitting the same exams, but with never the twain meeting. In theory. In reality, the cell-phone allows for ….lotsa liaison!

Two more shots of Riyadh : one of a prestigious eye hospital with those glorious  palm trees nearby and
               

 a dusty, desert cityscape. Can you see some of Naeema’s subtle tones in there?

                         
My departure was very early and as I left the hotel it was to the sound of the ‘Allahu Akbar’ dawn call to the faithful. The sound transported me back to my time in Yemen where a mosque lay just beyond my kitchen window. The Sana’ani call to prayer was a particularly melodic, soothing undulation.  My sun-up-in-Saudi snap gives the sense of just how dusty things can get out there.

                                                                    


Returning through Istanbul, I had time to enjoy entertainment laid on by young men in cheery traditional costume - ice-cream vendors extraordinaire. Featured on You-tube, they can be seen wielding long-handled cone-holders from which they decant ice-cream ……or don’t! It’s with sleight of arm, rather than of hand, that the vendor, like a majorette, performs magic in the air. Just as he offers you your cone and you go to grasp it, it flies beyond your reach, swooping and diving, not a jot being spilled. Then you do manage to grab it only to find he’s left you with a second empty cone from the base of the holder, while once again your ice-cream is tracing kite-like manoeuvres mid-air. They had a group of coy, oriental ladies reduced to embarrassed, school-girl giggles. Brilliant marketing skills as their antics drew a great crowd of spell-bound kids and amused adults.


                                                                      

       With that my Saudi sojourn is drawn to a close – it was a veritable adventure.


                                                          
The mosque with its dusty backdrop provides a fitting final note. You can just hear the Muezzin’s voice soar into the cool early-morning air as he recites the adhan and calls everyone to prayer.
                                    
                                            Ma’a salama …… Peace be with you!

Friday, 23 May 2014

Trip to Saudi Arabia 1


Back when I was working in pre-Iraqi-invasion Kuwait I found myself in a very unusual and awkward position. The British Embassy has assigned me the duties of regional officer which entailed my communicating with the British citizens living in my area and calling them to muster points in the event of an evacuation. Since the Iraq-Iran War was still blazing away, the evacuation route would have been through Saudi Arabia. And therein lay the irony: strictly speaking as an unmarried woman and without male family members to accompany me, having helped others to safety, I would not have been allowed to travel through Saudi Arabia! 

 While I was working in The Yemen Arab Republic I had been denied transit travel through SA since the stop-over period between flights extended beyond one and a half hours. I never did fathom what heinous crimes I could commit beyond that time limit that I couldn’t easily perform within 90 minutes!

Anyway, when I was recently asked to assess a lady on a post-graduate Diploma in Teaching English as a Foreign Language, I decided to accept. Firstly because this was one of the few Arabian countries I hadn’t visited and, secondly, since they were asking me to go (or at least looking for a lady assessor for a lady candidate) it seemed that might redress the imbalance of the past - I was up for the adventure! To get things started, an official professional invitation had to be issued, then the visa application procedure could begin. Flowing, non-provocative clothing was selected from my wardrobe as were comfie flatties - strappy heels are not what you want in heat and sand. 

A Greek who had worked in Jeddah had immediately been hospitalized on his arrival in Athens in April on presenting symptoms of coughing, running a fever, and generally having breathing difficulties.  So we knew about the danger of the Middle East Respiratory Syndrome (MERS) and that it was wise to take precautionary measures when travelling in that area. (As of May 7th, the World Health Organisation had been informed of 496 laboratory-confirmed cases, 229 of which were in S.A.. There is neither vaccine, nor treatment for this corona-virus. What is also significant is that over 60% of those infected have died. These are not statistics to ignore!)   

 I had been advised to take protective measures and off I went to buy a 50 ml. antiseptic gel. Now the salesgirl was good at her job - she realized this was the permissible size for in-flight hand-luggage and asked me where I was travelling to. So full marks to her for trying to sell me something else for my trip, but not for her recommending a strong sunscreen - that is not the place to go if you want an all-over tan!

My flight was via Istanbul and the Turkish Airlines catering is definitely to be recommended : menu cards were issued  before every meal which was served with metal cutlery – not that useless plastic rubbish! It was an evening flight and seeing the city lights far below as we flew over Kuwait brought back many nostalgic thoughts of the good life we had enjoyed there.  Now I don’t know how this can be explained but it did strike me as strange. On the screen charting our south-easterly progress, there at the top was the UK. Britain can frequently suffer the reductive indignity of being referred to as England, which in turn is often further diminished with reference  made of the capital city only.  But there on the map was no trace of London, no mention of Manchester, and Auld Reekie was not in the picture at all. Alone on the island kingdom GLASGOW was resplendently plotted - yes!! – another sense of redressing an imbalance!

 And eventually we touched down in another kingdom, that of Saudi Arabia.  On my trip there were really only two occasions when I felt I’d moved way out of my comfort zone, both of them at the  King Khalid International Airport. On arrival, eventually coming to the end of the queue for the passport control, proffering my passport, and visa, head suitably swathed in long black scarf, I felt confident I would be waved on through. Not so! The problem was as a first-time entry I was obliged to be electronically finger-printed and remove my scarf to have even more photographs taken. Wow! - CSI, Miami stuff with really-high tech. equipment.

My second nasty moment ( and these happen basically when you do not understand what is being asked of you ) was on departure when me and my baggage had gone through a  general electronic security  check, then gone to check-in, and finally arrived at a  second security check point. This time they take my bags and send them into the scanning machine but they physically block my way through the scanning frame. This happens twice – I am a slow learner! – and I am signalled to go in the opposite direction from my luggage which has long since disappeared. Before me I see only a wall and cannot comprehend what they want until I spy a grubby grey-green curtain. Thankful of my anti-infection cotton gloves, I charily step through into an empty area. Now what do I do?  Nearby I hear a lively exchange on a cell-phone, and once that comes to an end the uniformed lady in question cursorily waves her device over me and propels me towards another grubby curtain: the exit of the female screening bay!  No signs and every comment way beyond my Arabic comprehension capacity. It was only as I anxiously went in search of my hold-all and handbag I realised that I was viewing the situation from a very western perspective. My anxiety was unfounded since there is very little crime here and that since there were so few women around, these items would not readily be picked up by anyone else- certainly not a Saudi gentleman in full guthra and iqal!  And how striking they are !
                   

                                      
Above you see the standard Saudi red and white head-covering, the guthra, along with the iqal, the black rope circlet which keeps the guthra in place. In Kuwait H used to be fascinated by the different and intricate ways the guthra (white in summer and grey in winter) was worn – how the ends of the material were draped and the different types of peaking or folding of the material on the forehead, so I was delighted to find an article showing basic draping styles in the March issue of the Destination Riyadh magazine, an extract of which you can see below.  I love the range of design appropriacy: from the intricate styles for formal occasions, to the winter/desert style which is more wrap-around, affording protection from wind and dust.
                                              
                   
Anyway, back to my arrival. I was very glad to see the hotel driver display my name; he then whisked me off to my unique accommodation – a spa hotel which accepted women guests only. Certainly the chef was male, but he had to call reception to check that the coast was clear and that he wouldn’t be disturbing any lady guests when he emerged from his kitchen at duty-end! 
  

 








                                            
In the foyer the beautiful Arab script is incorporated into the décor and, if I remember rightly, these two designs in the wall-tiling represent the concepts of life and air.

 

                                                            
 In the basement area lies the spa with all sorts of exercise facilities, but if you really want to pamper yourself there are staff on hand to give you massage and a wide variety of make-you-feel-good treatments. A veritable oasis in this desert city, or was that city desert?
Exhausted, I call it a day and rise bright-eyed next morning for a tasty breakfast cooked by chef unseen. 
  

                                                    
Through the window directly in front of me I caught my first day-time glimpse of Riyadh: desert, desert, and then, for good measure, some more!