Decoupage Pig: Or How I Spent My Sunday Afternoon

Meet the newest addition to our just-unpacked-flat: Decoupage Pig.  Yes, that's right. We walked into Cass Art looking for picture hooks and walked out with a 1 litre bottle of PVA glue, a flat brush, a pre-formed pig and some scraps of expensive tissue paper.

It wasn't my idea.

I wanted to go downstairs for the sale items and John got distracted by the giant decoupage giraffe featured in the corner.  "Look! Look!" he said, voice full of awe. "WE CAN MAKE A ... [wait for it] DECOUPAGE PIG." A small boy, probably around the age of 4 or 5 was also tugging at his mom's hand and pointing to the pig.  I'm pretty sure John's enthusiastic sales pitch helped.  "What the hell are we going to do with THAT?" I snarled.  "Use it to decorate our flat!" he said, completely convinced.  And once John's convinced, there's not a lot you can do.  "Fine," I said, snatching pieces of expensive tissue paper at random.  "No, no, we have to think about this," John said, carefully selecting sheets according to color.  So I stood to one corner with my hand on my hip, sighing and rolling my eyes dramatically until he finished making his selections and then we trundled back upstairs, where I made him pay for his ridiculous pig project (it wasn't cheap).

But then I must admit - when we returned to the flat, put the stereo on, squeezed the glue into an empty Gu ramekin and started patching up Decoupage Pig, it proved to be a highly entertaining and fun afternoon activity for a rainy day.  Now, I used to be an ultra-arts-and-crafty-person who would have jumped at the first opportunity to make a decoupage anything - but now I've realized I'm just a bitter, jaded 9-5 commuter who's forgotten the joys of getting one's fingers sticky with gold flakes and PVA glue.  I read my friends' crafty blogs over at Art, Like Bread and Le Petit Elephant with a mixture of admiration and envy.  "I want to make another one!" I shouted at the end of the project, disappointed that our creative work was over.  John gave me a strange look.  "I think one is enough," he said, carefully placing Decoupage Pig on the shelf to dry.

Now, the special thing about Decoupage Pig is that it also double as a PIGGY BANK.  Yes, John actually used that as rationale for buying the thing when trying to convince me of its merits: "I can put all my loose change in there!  You'll never yell at me for having coins around the house again!"  Now, not unlike a 5-year-old, he comes in from work, takes off his suit jacket, pauses at Decoupage Pig while rifling through his pockets for change and gleefully deposits his coins into the slot on Decoupage Pig's back.  Sigh.

Afternoon Tea and Birthday Cake @ Number Sixteen

Can you think of a better way to spend a rainy, gray London afternoon than sitting in the beautifully decorated drawing room of Number Sixteen hotel in South Kensington, eating mouthful after mouthful of freshly prepared (and perfect) finger sandwiches (cucumber, smoked salmon, egg cress and mayo, in case you wanted to know), macaroons, fruit tarts, brownies and scones washed down with the tea of your choice (I had jasmine)?  Um, I can't.

We gathered at the small boutique hotel in West London to celebrate a friend's birthday and I left feeling that I wanted needed to treat myself to a weekend there - it was slightly nauseating just how perfectly our party dresses matched the decor which matched the candy-colored macaroons and cakes.

Not to mention the actual birthday cake (also crafted by the hotel), which was - I'll have you know - carrot cake covered with the most delectable buttercream and cream cheese icing and adorned with (YES!) edible flower petals, served with champagne and a drop of creme de cassis:

Lush?  Yes. Luxurious?  Yes.  Over the top?  Never.

Aside from the marvelous cakes:

I was absolutely in love with the plump cushions (which prompted one guest to kick off her patent heels and tuck her legs under) and ultra-thick embroidered silk cushions which made you feel instantly like Alice in Wonderland - minus the Mad Hatter.  Plus, I was particularly taken by this piece, hanging above our heads:

Essentially, it's a room I want to have in my house.  Someday.

So even if it's not your birthday, I'd recommend dropping in to Number Sixteen and taking your tea in the garden, which I heard is even lovelier on a sunny day.

There's No Place Like My Local Curry House - I Mean, Home

There are certain routines - rituals, even, people have to make their home feel like home.  For me, a place doesn't feel like home until I've put books on my bookshelf and hung my favorite prints on the walls.  But since I've moved to London, I've discovered one vital part of moving to a new area:  immediately seeking out the nearest and best Indian restaurant.  In Whitechapel, it was Tayyabs; Shadwell, East Is East; Maida Vale, Meghna Grill in St. John's Wood and now that we're in Islington, it's got to be Zaffrani.  Finding the perfect place for your Thursday night jalfrezi is as essential as registering at your local GP (in fact, I still haven't done the latter).

The best part about discovering your soon-to-be-favorite local Indian restaurant, however, is the realization that none of them can be compared to the other.  John may be forever loyal to Tayyabs and convinced that it is the best in London (and admittedly, Tayabbs is somewhat of an institution among both common folk and celebrities), but I loved every dine-in and takeaway experience I've had at each restaurant equally.  Fact.

So what makes Zaffrani so special?  We rushed to its tucked-away premises on Cross Street on a Wednesday evening for a quick meal together before my rehearsal with the Polish Chamber Orchestra in London (another story for another time).  "I don't think I'll have time to eat," I said, tapping my watch nervously as I balanced my violin case against the wall.  "How much time do you have?" asked the attentive waiter.  "Um ... half an hour?" I mumbled, embarrassed.  He quickly took our orders (Dumkamurgh and a peshwari naan for me and Murghi Jalfrezi and a plain naan for John, with a rice to share) and instructed staff to rush them through.

Within ten minutes, our food appeared - and I was highly skeptical that this wasn't the work of Mr. Microwave - until biting into the most tender, succulent pieces of chicken marinated in a creamy, spicy tomato-based sauce with generous helpings of coriander, onion and garlic.  I melted.  My peshwari naan was prettily arranged into four slices (not for those who prefer ripping off huge fluffy chunks themselves - I personally like mine to be less overwhelming and cut just so) on a long, thin plate.  The texture was less fluffy but slightly crispy at the base and mouth-wateringly soft at the top.  As a result, I didn't feel completely weighed down by the naan (which I often finds turns itself into an indigestible lump once it hits my stomach) but instead, found it served as a delicious accompaniment to my highly enjoyable curry.  John was equally impressed.

So impressed, we visited for a second time this week, when the restaurant was buzzing.  The couple seated next to us were immediately recognized by their waiter as a regular and he rattled off "their usual", much to their amusement.  "Oh no, I can't have naan anymore," the lady crowed.  "Why's that then?" asked their server.  "I stopped eating carbs since January!" she proudly (and perhaps a little too loudly) proclaimed.  I felt eyes drift over to our table.  My hand froze over my naan momentarily, before I decisively scooped another two spoonfuls of rice onto my plate and ate the warm, coconut and sultana filled treat with slow, gloating pleasure.

Aside from the high quality food offered at Zaffrani, I can't help but notice how incredibly polite and accommodating the staff are - making for a more pleasurable dining experience.  From the smart decor to the serious attention of the service, it's obvious that Zaffrani seeks to distinguish itself from that "local curry house" feel I was describing before to a place reserved for fine dining.  That being said, its cuisine and ethos is entirely different to, say, the revered Cinnamon Club, which gives the restaurant an overall more relaxed and comfortable atmosphere.

And this is most certainly reflected in the price: our bill, on both occasions, including drinks and service, came to an even £25.  But for the food and attentiveness, Zaffrani is worth so much more.

Zaffrani is located at 47 Cross Street, Islington, London, N1 2BB.  

I May Not Be Going To The London 2012 Olympics But ...

... I got a souvenir!  Well, sort of.  Sadly, we didn't get any tickets that we applied for (I was certain we'd be in for the canoe slalom event - I mean, WHO THE HECK GOT THOSE TICKETS??), like the majority of our friends.  But John arrived back from his business trip to Berlin late Tuesday night and proudly thrust a gift bag bearing the London 2012 logo on it into my chest. "What's this?" I asked, rubbing my eyes blearily (after all, it was past my bedtime of 9:30 pm.  I kid you not, folks, I kid you not).  "A present!" he said happily.  I peered into the bag warily (which is mean of me, I know) but was ecstatic to pull this out:

That's right, a London 2012 Adidas running top with the Olympic logo on the front and back from the official London 2012 shop at Heathrow (and if you click on the link I've just provided, you'll see that my major girl crush, heptathlete Jessica Ennis is wearing the same one, but in yellow. *swoon*).

It's fashionable, fantastic to run in and even bears some words of encouragement on the lower back, which just might help me along during my non-Olympic feat of running to work (which is a measly 3k) every morning:

Maybe those words are meant for a marathon runner instead.  But still, it was some consolation after discovering the bitter fact that I would be subjected to heaving crowds of tourists during the summer months of 2012 and still only watching the Olympic games from our flat.  At least we have a projector.

Pubs I Feel Incredibly "Meh" About: The Duke of Cambridge, Islington

Since I've moved to Angel, everyone has been waxing lyrical about this organic pub located on the corner of Rheidol Terrace and St Peter's St, but after having dinner there on Saturday night, I'm just not so sure.

First of all, £17.50 and upwards for mains?  You gotta be kidding me.  I don't care if you caught the fish and brought it to me flapping personally from Loch Whatever, but those prices are quite high for pub fare, in my opinion - even for an "upscale" pub. £12-£15 I can understand but once you hit £20 and over, I'm just not amused.  My beer battered cod was certainly not worth the price and worse yet, gave me an upset stomach.  The chips were soggy, cold and flavorless.  Perhaps the only redeeming aspect were the mushy "somethings" (not sure if they were peas, but rather some kind of unappetizing grey matter that resembled jail-house slop you see in cartoons) that were quite tasty if not a tad too garlicky.   Dishes were given a similar rating by friends: good, but not remarkable.  No one exclaimed, "Delishush!" while chomping on morsels of pork belly, salmon or roast chicken.

I asked John for a Diet Coke and he returned from the bar apologetically with a "sparkling cola drink made with vegetable extracts and natural ingredients".  "It's like the cheap stuff but way more expensive!" he said enthusiastically while plonking it down on the table, referring to the Timothy Taylor pubs that serve their own brews (though strangely, I'm a huge fan of those and don't mind drinking tiny sarsaparilla-flavored beverages.  For my after-dinner treat, I didn't dare stretch my pre-payday wallet any further with an overpriced dessert, so I settled on a Bailey's - only to be told there wasn't any (or anything like it - not even an imitation made from vegetable extracts and natural ingredients) and was given a rather disgusting chocolate liqueur to sample instead.  Retch.

There's no doubt it's a gathering place for the cooler-than-cools - everyone is impeccably groomed and seemingly outfitted by Reiss.  But it's just not my cup of tea - or should I say, glass of bitter?  Seems like I'm not the only one who thinks it doesn't live up to the hype.

Why My Phone Bill Is So High (Or, How I Came To Find Myself Locked In A Fitting Room For 45 Minutes)

One Friday evening, I found myself locked in the Covent Garden H&M fitting room for over 45 minutes.  Don't worry - this lock-down was entirely voluntary and, to make matters even stranger, I seemed to be mumbling at my phone and letting out frustrated "tsks", willing it to send an urgent email.  Four urgent emails, that is - all to my mother.  Each had a photo of me, not unlike the one below, attached with, "Yes, no, maybe?  Is it too short?  Is it too boring?  Does it wash me out?"

"Send," I pleaded quietly with my Blackberry, seething with jealousy as I overheard the voices in the cubicle next to me where a mother was giving her sound opinion to her equally opinionated daughter.  "Darling, it's TOO tight," the mom countered as her daughter tried on what I imagined to be a dress. "No, it's NOT, MUM," her high-pitched daughter yelled.  "I CAN BREATHE STILL."  I considered flinging open the door for a minute and asking brightly, "Excuse me, my own mom isn't here, but would you mind telling me what you think of this ..." but quickly realized I might be escorted from the store for strange behavior instead.

Too impatient to wait any longer (I had been in there for 45 minutes, after all), I pressed call and took a deep breath.  When my mom answered, she sounded deep in sleep.  It was 5:30 a.m. in Seattle.  "What?" she asked, not unkindly, but slightly annoyed.  "Mom," I whispered, urgently. "I need you to go to the computer, NOW.  I've been walking around with the same skirt in my hand for an HOUR now, mom, and I DON'T KNOW WHETHER TO BUY IT OR NOT!!!" I realized that I was now shouting, in the middle of the shop floor at H&M.  I was becoming hysterical.  "Okay, okay, let me see," my mom said, opening her emails.  "Oooh, that's quite special," she said, referring to the skirt. "YUCK!  Definitely NOT," she said, referring to a maxi-dress.  We quickly hashed over the final decisions again, before I made my way to the till.  Sorted. 

Yes, I'm one of "those" - women in their late 20s approaching 30 (and yes, I know I look about 15 and still get asked for ID when buying alcohol IN THE UK) who still, incredibly, remain staggeringly close to their mothers and seek their approval over nearly decision (especially those involving sartorial choices).  I think, every morning, when I complete my work outfit in front of the mirror, "Would mom like this?"  I reach out hesitantly when selecting a skirt from the rail at Banana Republic to try on, desperately wondering what my mom would say if she was there.

You see, we have traditions when I go home to the States.  And they all involve shopping.  From Ross to Nordstrom, we hit every store within a 1-hour drive radius from our house - we don't stop unless hunger or foot cramps force us to.  It's may be sickening, but I'm pretty sure that there's nothing in the world I enjoy more than shopping with my mom.

But it's not just clothes I have a hard time deciding over when I'm without my mom.  It's those important life decisions as well.  Should I change jobs?  Should I move to a new area?  Should I go to Cyprus or Croatia for my beach holiday?  It's not that I can't decide for myself - it's that I want my mother's approval, whether tacit or explicit.  I want her to say she loves my newish long hair as much as I do.  My heart soars when she tells me my holiday looked "relaxing and luxurious".  I breathe a sigh of relief when she emails me back to say, "Great that you've joined a book club now."  It doesn't mean I won't do things I still want to do without my mother's approval, it simply means I'll think twice before doing it.  And in the case of clothes, I just won't buy them.

I'm sure there's a Dr. Phil out there or other self-help psychiatrist who will say, "You need to let go, honey," but I don't think there's anything wrong with continuing to seek my mother's approval - as long as that desire doesn't rule my life.  Perhaps it's my way of coping with how much I miss her.

Yankee Doodle Dandee: Royal Philharmonic Orchestra Performs 'American Classics'

I knew as soon as I received the Cadogan Hall brochure earlier this year that I wanted - no, HAD TO - go to this concert: Bernstein, Gershwin, and Copland all in one place?  Not gonna miss out on this rare opportunity.  So just because no one wanted to go with me (cue sobs) didn't mean I couldn't go - I just went by myself.

Upon arriving at Cadogan Hall, however, it was clear that I had totally misunderstood the seating chart on the online booking screen. What I thought was the back of the auditorium was actually the front, facing the stage, so I basically ended up in the first violins' armpits (which is not necessarily a bad thing, but the sound is a bit out of balance - however, it did allow me to notice, for the first time, what a vital part the harp plays in the Overture to Candide - who knew?).  The last time I was this close, I was sitting with my mom under Julian Lloyd-Webber's nose, as he performed Faure's Elegie.  Good times, good times.

Next to me was an attractive older man in an expensive business suit who was also unaccompanied. We both stole sideways glances at each other as we fiddled with our Blackberries before the concert began.

Finally, the doors closed, the lights dimmed, the winds, brass and strings tuned and the concertmaster (sorry for any UK readers, "leader") took his place. Dmitry Yablonsky, the conductor (and also a world renowned cellist) appeared on stage to luke-warm applause (it didn't seem as though the audience was familiar with him, though his not-small-in-size stature caused two little old ladies behind me to titter, "Oh MY, he's BIG." Tact, ladies, tact.  Even if you're just whispering) and I braced myself for the opening of Berstein's Overture to Candide as it's quite a gutsy introduction, not to mention an incredibly, incredibly difficult piece to play (I've sightread it once).  And it was wonderful - so wonderful, it moved me to tears (and that was within the first page of the score - oops).  The ensemble was absolutely spot on, the sound solid, though I questioned a certain lack of playfulness which the piece requires.  Nevertheless, I was thoroughly impressed and happy to see many audience members around me also smiling and enjoying the piece.  American music - it's toe-tapping stuff.  You can't expect to sit there in thoughtful meditation when imitations of car horns are blaring (Gershwin) or gun shots are being fired in a Western shoot-out (Copland).

The Overture is possibly my favorite piece - ever.  Controversial, I know, but I can't think of another piece that makes me happier, hopeful and in an instant good mood.  And it's the best kind of piece to hear performed live.  Blasting it on even the best hi-fi stereo system won't do it justice.  But like a dessert you never want to end (what - am I the only one who experiences that in restaurants? A sad regret that you didn't enjoy every morsel a tad bit slower?), the piece was over as soon as it had begun and we had reached the next piece, the also highly anticipated Gershwin Piano Concerto in F Major, featuring pianist Farhad Badalbeyli.

Now, I'm not familiar with Mr. Badalbeyli, but I found he had a rather interesting posture when sitting at the piano which involved him gripping the fall, often with both hands, during the rests or before his entrances, as if bracing himself for a job to be done.  How a pianist behaves on stage and in concert is part of what makes him unique, I feel, but for whatever reason, I didn't particularly warm to Mr. Badalbeyli's playing.  That's just my opinion, so don't chastise me if you disagree.  Technically, he executed a flawless performance, but again, missed the playful, jazz-infused, mischievous character of the concerto.  He did, however, after two rousing rounds of applause, return to the stage to play an encore.  Before he had nearly sat down on the bench, he began a serious of arpeggios in the right hand: was it Liszt? I questioned.  No, too modern for Lizst.  Somewhere In Time?  No, not soap-operatic enough, although it did sound akin to a movie score.  So I tweeted RPO frantically (the suspense was killing me) to find out what he actually played and the answer was this: his own composition.  How ... nice?  Despite my slightly unimpressed attitude however, the audience loved him and he returned the favor by bowing deeply and gripping something other than the fall - his heart, which was a lovely gesture of gratitude, I felt.

During the intermission, I exchanged a few pleasantries with my seat partner and he asked (in a voice eerily similar to Javier Bardem's), "Are you involved in music?" "Well, yes, I mean, no, I mean, yes, sort of - I play for the Royal Orchestral Society," I answered.  "And you're American?" he remarked, with a smile. "Yes! I am," I replied. "And these are my favorite pieces!" I said emphatically, pointing to the program. "And you?" I asked, not wanting to offend a famous musician or conductor I had no knowledge of.  "Are you a musician?" "Me? No," he laughed.  "I'm Brazilian. I own a business in Brazil but left it in the hands of my partner so I could go on a 2-month sabbatical.  I lived here 20 years ago and used to come here all the time."  I switched my Blackberry off.  "And you," he said, "Are like me ... always 'on'," he said, gesturing towards my phone.  "Oh no," I said, blushing thinking of my minute-to-minute updates of the concert to Udita and my mom (as in: 'ZOMG, I'm in the front row, right under the firsts' and 'ZOMG, American in Paris is on the program!!! LOLZ').  "Yes, but this is personal, not for work," I assured.

Suddenly, the man in front of us swiveled around and took the opportunity to chastise my new Brazilian friend for "bumping his knee into the back of his chair".  "It's constant, it's like ... like ... like being on a ship," the incensed man spat.  My eyes rolled up to heaven.  I gave a death stare.  There are more polite ways to put forth complaints, you know.  "Oh? Did I?" the Brazilian said, very surprised and deeply apologetic.  "I'm so sorry, I didn't know, I hope you didn't think I was doing it on purpose." "Yes, well that's the problem," the man continued ranting before turning around. "You didn't realize what you were doing." The Brazilian looked at me and shrugged helplessly.  "Would you like to trade seats with me?" I hastily suggested to my new acquaintance.  "There's more room here since I'm in the aisle and you'd be more comfortable."  "Oh thank you," he said, acquiescing.  "That's very kind."  Then the lights dimmed and the orchestra commenced with Copland's Billy the Kid.


I lost myself once again in the music (a disgusting, cliched phrase I hate, but sadly, true).  Having played El Salon Mexico and the Red Pony Suite during my days as a first violinist in our highly competitive but local youth symphony in Washington, I had forgotten how accurately Copland's vast, sweeping melodies (and dissonances) paint a picture of the American landscape.  Copland, of all the American composers, is the only one whose music makes me feel nostalgic for America; I am so easily moved by the stillness and quiet of his pieces and simultaneously wrenched by the jarring dissonances of conflict within as well.

But the gem of the evening, and what I had been really looking forward to (aside from the Bernstein), was Gershwin's An American In Paris.  My own memories of this piece involved playing it at a youth symphony summer camp, having been given only one week to prepare and perfect it, under the nose of a terrifying conductor who'd thwack his baton on a black, metal stand whenever he got annoyed we couldn't transition smoothly between the various time signatures and syncopated rhythms.  Picture a symphony orchestra comprised of 16-18 year olds, squinting at an impossible score while being scared shitless by a man who threatened to make you play difficult passages on the spot before you could have lunch.  But it was still a happy memory.  So happy, in fact, that when the familiar, whistling opening theme started, I got goosebumps up my arms.  


I was too shy, but if I could have mustered up the guts to give the RPO a standing ovation from the second row, I would have.  They played as one throughout piece after demanding piece and with an intelligence and sensitivity I haven't yet experienced from any of the English orchestras I've seen so far.  The wind and brass shone (as they usually always do) but the strings were really remarkable, creating a velvety sound that was maintained from the leader to the last stand.


This isn't the RPO, but Leonard Bernstein himself conducting Candide - I hope you enjoy it as much as I do, even if you're not a classical music fan:





Photo source