Poornima Manco

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experience

Tequila! (part 2)

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“Mezcal is Tequila’s big, beefy brother.” Promptly, little shots of Mezcal were sent out to everyone attending the cocktail masterclass. I declined mine just as promptly, sipping demurely on my non alcoholic beverage. If the little brother had done such a number on me all those years ago, I wanted very little to do with Big Bro!

Steve covered a lot of facts about Tequila. For instance, Tequila comes from the heart of the Blue Agave plant. The agave plant is not a cactus, even if it looks like one. Blue Agave plants can take 8 to 12 years to harvest. This can be a costly business as there is no predicting whether demand will equal supply. To get around this, a lot of Tequila can be mixed, with only half containing the Tequila from the piña (heart) of the Blue Agave, and the rest being liquor of unknown provenance. These are also the ones that leave you with the killer hangovers! The best Tequila is 100% agave, and aficionados drink theirs neat, without any help from salt and lime. As for the salt and lime, that’s used to mask the taste of bad tequila. So, guess what, if you were doing the salt and lime routine, you probably weren’t drinking good quality Tequila!

Of course, even as I sat and absorbed all this information like a sponge, the people around me were having a party. With every new bit of information he imparted, more shot glasses filled with a variety of Tequilas were sent out to everyone. Each one I politely declined, wondering if I could order a glass of wine instead. Who would hear me above this rambunctious crowd?

Then came time to start making the cocktails. Six random people were picked to go behind the bar and practice a bit of cocktail mixing. From icing, rimming, stirring and shaking, six lucky people got to demonstrate their skills under Steve’s watchful eye. He dealt with mishaps and clumsiness with good humour and jocularity. More drinks were sent out.

Steve caught my eye after one round and said “YOU I will get to soon!” Of course, everybody in the room now knew that I was the numpty with the Tequila allergy. A bit like being the only atheist in a room full of believers. Earth open, swallow me whole!

Amazing what a bit of alcohol, freely imbibed, can do to people’s inhibitions. This room full of strangers was now a room full of friends, ribbing each other, exchanging tips on drinks, war stories on hangovers and bonding over all things Tequila.

“Time to make a good Old Fashioned.” Steve pointed at me. “Come on over.”

With a bit of trepidation I walked behind the bar with five other selectees.

“Can you drink bourbon?”

Heck, yes! I nodded enthusiastically.

“Only the best for you sweetheart.” Steve gave me a bottle of his finest bourbon to add to my Old Fashioned. Who says patience doesn’t pay?

A cocktail broken down is really a mix of alcohol, sugar and bitters or citrus. My Old Fashioned had sugar syrup, two shots of bourbon, four dashes of Angostura bitters, lots and lots of ice, even more stirring and finally the oils from an orange rind to top off the exquisite taste of my very first cocktail of the evening. Boy, did I savour it!

From that point on, the evening got better, but the details got hazier.

I remember sniffing quite a few Tequilas. I remember Steve saying we have about 6000 taste buds in our nose! Who knew? I remember filming V doing her own bartender routine, and giving that shaker a good, almighty shake, whacking the glass on the side, upturning it and pouring the cocktail into the glass. All done with consummate ease (I think?). I remember Steve debunking the popular myth of the worm in the bottle. Legend has it that if a worm was added to a bottle of Tequila and it decomposed, then the liquor wasn’t good enough. The worm would stay preserved in high quality alcohol. But Steve said that was nonsense, and was it Tequila or Mezcal? I remember it getting noisier and friendlier. I remember Steve saying the most popular drink made with Tequila was named after a daisy.  A daisy?

“What’s it called folks?”

And everyone shouting in unison- “Margarita!!”

The two hour masterclass came to an end much too soon. I stood in awe of this man who had not just held our attention but also kept his head having drunk alongside the class the entire time. This was his second cocktail masterclass of the day. Hollow legs or what!

As far as Birthday experiences went, this was right up there with the best. Maybe doing a class with a spirit I could actually drink would push it to the top slot?

V & I talked about our next planned experience, my birthday pressie of a Segway ride. I wondered if we could practice our new found cocktail making skills afterwards. A nice Old Fashioned after trundling through the forests would do very nicely indeed.

And this time, with all due respect to Tequila, I would stick to a spirit of my choice. This worm would turn and how!

 

 

Tequila! (part 1)

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In the ‘spirit’ of all things adventurous, I decided to gift my BFF a cocktail making class. We had long ago agreed, that in our frenetic lives we had to try and make time at least twice a year to experience something together. Having known and loved each other since the age of seven, we pretty much had a handle on what sorts of things the other person liked or disliked. Since neither of us had any dislike for alcohol whatsoever, a cocktail making class seemed an inspired choice.

Goat, in Chelsea, runs these classes every Wednesday and Thursday. As the voucher had been delivered to V (my BFF) back in March, I abdicated all responsibility for booking the evening to her. A few hurried whatsapp messages confirmed that we’d meet and eat at the restaurant downstairs first before heading upstairs to the class that began at 7pm.

Both of us were running late, and as I grabbed an Uber at Clapham Junction, my very sweet Turkish driver informed me that Goat was a very au courant restaurant. Brain child of Steve Manktelow and partners, it is a restaurant cum speakeasy-style bar, where twice a week he conducts cocktail masterclasses. So far, so good.

I arrived earlier than V, and requested a table outside in the evening sunshine. Skimming through the menu my eye was immediately drawn to the pulled goat pizza. Coupled with goat’s cheese, grilled tenderstem, caremalised onions and fresh oregano, it seemed the perfect palate pleaser. V arrived, and after our customary hugs and breathless ‘how are yous’, we ordered our drinks and meals.

The trouble with trying to catch up over a meal is that there is never sufficient time to eat, drink, talk, complain, moan about our lives or set the world to rights. How we miss our school days where we spent weeks in each other’s company, and still never ran out of conversation!

Cocktail making hour arrived much too soon, and as we made our way upstairs, we promised each other another day of catching up very very soon. Promises we make each time we meet, and then the usual happens: Life takes over.

Parking ourselves at a little table, we were greeted by Steve and a welcome drink. V took herself off to the Ladies while I tentatively enquired what was in the white, frothy looking mixture. He reeled off a list of ingredients out of which two jumped out at me- Coconut (yummmm) and Tequila (Nooooooo!).

“Ummm, I’m sorry, is there anyway I could get this as a mocktail? You see, I’m allergic to Tequila.”

“Allergic to Tequila?”, he goggled at me, “You do know this is a Tequila cocktail making class?!”

Actually, I did not. In all fairness, neither did V. When she had booked, she had assumed, as had I, that we’d learn to make a variety of cocktails. Of course, logic dictates that only one spirit would be demonstrated in all its avatars, so that we wouldn’t literally be mixing spirits while mixing cocktails. Duhhhh!

“I’ll see what I can do.” he informed me brusquely.

“No, no, no…..please don’t worry on my account!” I implored. “It’s my friend’s birthday pressie, and I’m quite happy to just watch. I’ll just sip on a mocktail.”

“Hmmmm”, he looked at me assessingly and walked away.

The bar was filling up pretty rapidly, and it looked like nearly thirty people had turned up to watch, learn and drink some fancy tequila cocktails.

V looked at me sadly. “I had no idea!”

“I know. Don’t worry, it’ll be fun anyway.”

Many moons ago, when I was still a novice drinker, I had had an encounter with a jug of Margarita which hadn’t ended well. Consequently, I had stayed far away from Tequila and all its permutations ever since. Fate had conspired to bring me cheek to jowl with it once more. Only this time, I would be an observer, not an imbiber.

…..to be continued……

 

 

 

A bit of Llama drama

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“Come on Cluedo…come on boy” I said, tugging vainly at the leash of my eccentric llama. To say I hadn’t envisioned this outcome to my day was an understatement. I had taken many a dog for a walk in my time, but taking a llama for a walk was nothing short of an exercise in patience.

You see, a while ago, in a flash of inspiration I had decided that birthday gifts were passé. What we needed were birthday experiences. So when my younger daughter turned 14, I hunted high and low for something (anything) to do with llamas. She had been obsessed with these funny/cute creatures for a while. So much so, that her sister had even baked her a 13th birthday cake with fondant figures of her getting married to Shawn Mendes (her other obsession) and the entire ceremony being officiated by a llama.

Hence, when I stumbled upon a llama walk, I thought, perfect! Her excitement knew no bounds, and she was ready to go pronto. I had to convince her to hold off, as January is probably not the best month to go tramping through the fields with a 6 foot animal. A bank holiday Monday in May when the sun was shining and the temperature was a balmy 28ºC was. So, we set off at a quarter past nine to arrive in time for our 11am walk with these curious creatures.

Our briefing was done by a soft spoken young chap called Will, and it consisted of how to hold the leash to the llama’s harness: don’t loop it around your wrist because if the llama decides to take off, it can go from nought to 35mph in minutes, and guess what- you’d go with it! Additionally, not to stand behind a llama in case it decided to kick you with its hind legs, and finally not to pat it on it’s head. Anything below the harness was fine.

With all that said, we were handed the leash to our respective llamas. The girls got the gentle giant Nero. We got the perky Cluedo. Perhaps the name should have been a clue to what lay ahead, but truthfully, most of us (except second daughter who was totally clued up on llama facts) were llama novices.

Will led the way, and Nero refused to follow. Nero’s disposition being quite pacifist, he preferred being second, third or last in the queue. Cluedo had no such qualms. He quite happily took the lead, trotting alongside me with a been-there-done-that air. I kept a leash length distance eying him warily.  His gentle demeanour and Bambi lashes put me at ease, and just as I was settling into my pace, he veered to the left and decided to take a five minute grazing break on the lovely grass a hundred metres away from our starting point.

The whole procession of 6 llamas and ten people ground to a halt. I tugged at his leash to no avail. Will looked at me and shrugged. “Yeah, they do that a lot. You may have to be firm with him.” Firm or not, Cluedo took his own sweet time, and when he’d had his fill I had to turn around in a circle to get him back on track.

We trudged on, with Cluedo taking his grass breaks every five minutes and I doing the whole tugging and turning around in a circle routine to get him moving again. Honestly, I felt a bit of a fool, particularly as the rest of the llamas seemed a more sedate lot, content to walk with their partners with little or no drama.

Maybe I just wasn’t very good at this taking a llama for a walk thing. I mean, sure, dogs stopped to sniff and wee in many places during the course of a walk, but goodness, who knew a llama could put away so much grass! I kept trying to catch hubby’s eye to palm the llama off to him, but he was too busy clicking photos, and so, Cluedo and I were stuck with each other for the foreseeable future.

Soon we reached an open field with buttercups that stretched to the horizon, and the tower of a hotel that used to be a convent looming up in the background. Will reached into the back pack of one of the older llamas and pulled out bags of carrots that he handed out to each of us. This was their little treat for the day. A reward for putting up with us pesky humans. He demonstrated feeding them by placing the cut up carrots in the palm of his hand and holding it up to the llama. The llama sniffed and then gently nibbled them up from Will’s hand. Then Will placed a piece of cut up carrot and leaned towards the llama. He wanted us to see what a llama kiss looked like. Of course, animals, much like children, refuse to cooperate at the most opportune times. Christopher, the llama, gave him a dismissive look, and went back to grazing on the grass. After much wheedling on Will’s part, he finally gave in, and took the carrot delicately from his mouth.

I looked at Cluedo, who looked back at me impassively. No, I didn’t think either of us wanted to get that intimate with each other.

“Where do they put it all?” asked a lady in our party.  Llamas have three stomachs,  Will explained, a lot like cows that have four. And even though, they have the grace and the pulchritude of deer, they are more closely related to camels.

These amazing animals are native to South America, and were domesticated and used as pack animals over 4000 years ago by the Peruvian Indians. Llamas are hardy, smart, easy to train and well suited to harsh environments. Their fleece is used in textiles and their wool is warm, light and water repellant. They are social animals that like living in herds, but don’t get on their wrong side or you’ll end up being spat at. In all fairness though, they are more likely to spit at one another in annoyance or a display of machismo.

“When does it all come out?” asked another lady. Right on cue, her llama bent its hind legs and proceeded to display the workings of his intestines. Smart, huh?

An hour into our walk, I was glad to notice I wasn’t the only one encountering difficulties with a recalcitrant llama. Two of the ladies in our party had been dragged through the brambles and shrubberies as their respective llamas enjoyed the sensation of being scratched. I looked at Cluedo and sighed with relief. A greedy llama was better than an itchy one.

Handing the leash over to the husband, I went over to the girls to see how they were getting on. Nero was a dream. Docile as a lamb, he didn’t mind the girls stroking him, dancing with him or doing silly poses. He put up with all of their antics with the patience of an old grandpa.

Another carrot and water break later, we ended up switching llamas. Husband and Nero took off at a stately pace, and daughter number one was left to go around in circles with Cluedo. As we neared the farm, Cluedo’s pit stops increased in frequency till we were lagging so far back to practically lose sight of our group and Will.

“Let’s jog with him” I suggested. I had tried that earlier and he’d responded well to my prompting. Daughter proceeded to put the plan in action. Cluedo jogged a bit and stopped. Then he decided to graze for an inordinately long time. The entire party had reached the top of the hill, and were waiting for us to catch up.

“Come on Cluedo….come on boy!” I urged. Cluedo gave me a disdainful look and kept chewing. A little girl came up to him and offered him a handful of buttercups. He ignored her as well. This was one heckuva stubborn llama. We just had to wait it out.

Finally, in his own good time, Cluedo decided to rejoin the party. As we led him and Nero to their shelters, and handed them over to Will, I felt a pang of sadness. Without meaning to, I had bonded with these lovely llamas. There was something quietly soothing about walking in step with these majestic animals. Although, the Peruvian Indians must have had a few tricks up their sleeves to get anywhere in time with these strong willed mammals.

Our llama adventure over, we picnicked outside, marvelling at the glorious sunshine we had been blessed with. Husband leaned over and said “Babe, don’t take this the wrong way….”

Uh oh!

“You’ve certainly made me experience some strange and wonderful things.”

We smiled at each other and I thought, Well, that’s alright then.

 

 

 

 

 

A story of many strands – Becca Robbins

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I have always had a deep passion for crafts. One of the first skills I learned, at the age of seven or eight, was knitting.

I love everything about knitting: that physical frisson of excitement felt on just seeing a selection of new yarns, sensing the creative potential they conceal; its hypnotic rhythm, the click of busy needles, that magical manipulation of a length of fibre into something tangible to be shared (sometimes not! 😆), the wonder when I stop to look at my progress in a project and the Joy in its completion, knowing that the whole is dependent on each and every stitch, that one stitch cannot exist without its “neighbours” and that together they are a beautiful collaboration to be enjoyed and to be loved ❤️ So the cycle begins again …

In July I visited a local yarn festival, Fibre East. From the moment I arrived and made my way to the entrance, excitement was already building as groups of visitors chatted to one another along the way. I chuckled to overhear someone say, in the context of a discussion about being interrupted as she worked on a project, “Back off! I’m knitting!”. Peals of laughter ensued amongst her companions. So the joyful tone was set for what was to be a glorious day bathed in sunshine, immersed in an endless sea of colour and texture, temptation dangling before me like a fisherman’s bait … and I was hungry!

I had recently enrolled for an international wool and yarn online seminar featuring ten of the hottest knitted fibres designers from around the globe. We patiently, and with mounting anticipation, awaited the release for sale of exclusive, hand-dyed skeins produced especially for the two week event and a rush to buy them was the main topic of conversation online. On the day the first release of these Knit Stars yarns became available I was fortunate to be at home when the email was sent. I went straight to the online store and even went so far as to pick out a couple of skeins I liked. For a number of reasons I decided to restrain myself and not dive in. Later that day, I had another look but decided not to buy. I opted to follow my habitual mantra, “Dare to be different” and put my trust in the hands of the yarn angels to bring me what I would need.

Certainly Fibre Fest did not disappoint. There were dozens of independent dyers with their wares proudly on display, a veritable feast for the eyes of any yarn enthusiast. Knitters, weavers, spinners demonstrated their skills. The positive energy was palpable: there is just something about this craft that catches the imagination, a happiness, a Joy entangled inextricably in threads destined for handmade things of beauty.

I sat and marvelled at a demonstration of hand shearing by a gentleman from New Zealand and pondered the fact that I was one of the first to ever see the inside of the glistening, golden fleece as it tumbled onto the stage. I reflected on the journey this luscious fibre would now take as indeed had all of the yarns for sale in the nearby marquees. From raw material to finished product, each skein had a story to tell, so many and so varied were the indie dyers present.

I spent ages just looking at the wares, appreciating the efforts that had gone into making them all come into being, the hours spent devotedly teasing fleece or plant matter into irresistible yarns. Now those yarns awaited new hands that would, in turn, gently coax them towards their destiny.

When I had bought my ticket at the door I’d noticed a beautiful flower arrangement, a great big, yellow bath duck. I was told that it was to honour a much-loved, young exhibitor of previous years who had passed away very suddenly, very unexpectedly a few months ago. Eventually I made my way to the stand that had once been the pride of this same young designer. Her family and friends were there, bravely selling all remaining skeins and I knew then that any purchase I made that day would be from this, the last remaining Sparkleduck range.

I had an opportunity not only to buy something unique but to honour and indeed remember the young lady through whose hands these yarns had so lovingly passed. This moved me enormously at the time and even now, I feel my eyes prick with tears at the thought that never again would her heart leap at the first sight of the yarns as she tenderly created them. Never again would she rejoice in sending them on their soft and colourful way to bring happiness to so many.

With those yarns I purchased each stitch I loop around my needles will give me cause to reflect on so many emotions. Bereavement in my close family has taught me to lead a life filled with Joy, adventure and discovery. I hope also that these emotions will inspire me infinitely in my creative practice, that the ensuing shawls will prompt discussions to keep the designer’s legacy alive and who knows, maybe even spark in another, a new interest in that beautiful craft for which I have a deep affection.

After making my purchase I sat on the grass in the field, surrounded by huge molehills and had my lunch and a cup of tea. With precious cargo at my side, the subterranean mammals digging blissfully unaware beneath me and the sun shining warmly on my face I was thankful for life and all the opportunities and potential therein.

For me, art and crafts are a means of drawing together the complex strands of life, a way of expressing their meaning to me in a concrete form, that in turn makes room for the inevitable wave of inspiration that falls perpetually at my cerebral shore. It has a rhythm all its own that never ceases, never waits for “the right moment” to present itself. It is a blessing for which I am ever and always grateful. It is a veritable Möbius loop of mental twists and turns, like stitches around a needle (be careful you don’t drop one!) ❤️ So begins the artist’s cycle once more …

 

Becca in her own words:”Creativity is fundamental to who I am. I have been a Flight Attendant for almost 25 years but primarily I am an artist, and have been all my life. Bombarded with inspiration by all of my senses, I express those sensations most effectively through my art practice. This can take the form of digital photography, designing textiles and more recently in writing, which allows me to paint a vivid, detailed picture in ways that, for me, the spoken word cannot. Someone once asked me, “Art? What are you going to do with that?”. The truth is, I cannot imagine being without it .”

Blinded

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I have always believed that if there was one sense I would be unable to live without, it would be sight. Of course, the loss of any sense would be devastating, but I am such a visual person, that somehow I could not imagine not being able to see. Last night, I was temporarily blinded.

It all started a year ago. A friend was cataloguing an intriguing variety of dates with her husband on Instagram. I asked her what this was about, and she explained that she had stumbled upon this concept on Pinterest. Ah, the power of social media! Basically, whoever took the lead, planned an annual marathon of monthly dates. They could be as simple or as complicated as the planner wanted. A lightbulb went off in my head, and I asked her if she didn’t mind my poaching her idea. My husband’s 50th was approaching, and I was sorely lacking in funds and imaginative gifts at the time. This way I figured, not only could I spread the love over the year, but also the expense.

The idea took root in my mind, and I started looking for interesting experiences that we could do as a couple, and even as a family. I sat and mapped everything out. I looked at the calendar, figured which dates would have to be indoors, and which (weather permitting) could be outdoors. I tried to make each date stand out, and be different from the previous one. Some were simple- like a picnic in the great outdoors. Others were more complicated- like a weekend away in Bath. The organisational control freak within me rose to the challenge with glee.

I did not want any evidence laying around, so I made a list on my phone. I then went and bought some pretty cards and proceeded to write a clue in each one of them. Not only was the date a mystery, but my husband also had the fun job of trying to guess what that mystery was. I then piled all the envelopes atop one another and tied them up with a pretty ribbon. On D day I presented this little pile of envelopes to him with a flourish. So far, so good.

On the 1st of every month, he would have to open the envelope marked with that particular month, and then play the guessing game, which I really enjoyed. Him, not so much. I thought my clues were really clever. He just found them impenetrable. Hey ho! The first couple of dates went without a hitch. Our kids are older, so we were finally able to venture farther than the local Pizza Express, for some romantic couple time. I was starting to feel quite smug. Then disaster struck.

My phone crashed and died. Along with it went my list. Of course, clever clogs here had no manual back up anywhere. Now, I was stuck with ten dates to book, and nary a clue as to what or when they were! I hastily scrambled together a list and once again went through all the mental gymnastics that it had taken to plan the dates the first time round. Eight I managed to retrieve by a combination of guesswork and dumb luck. Two still remained elusive. The mysterious dates were going to be a mystery even to me!

Eating humble pie was the only recourse. On the 1st of December, I asked hubby dearest to please open the envelopes for January and August too. Bemused, he did. I quickly took note, and shoved them back in his hands satisfied. And so followed a year of weird and wonderful experiences.

From ice skating to outdoor cinema to wine tasting to nude sketching, I dragged my half-a-century-and-proud husband the length and breadth of the United Kingdom. To his credit, if he complained, it was under his breath.

For our final date, I picked dinner in the most unusual of places. The clue in the card was: “Let me take you to another world”. Impenetrable huh?

As our Uber driver dropped us off, my husband looked at the heaving pub, and the people spilling onto the pavement, and asked, “Is this it?” He was genuinely confounded that I would bring him an hour and half into London to go to a pub. Not quite.

Right next to it, discreetly darkened windows, a black awning, and an unpretentious door beckoned. Dans le Noir? In the dark?
He was still in the dark as he peered at the menu in the dim lighting. “What is this place about?”,he whispered. “Shhhh, you’ll soon find out”, I whispered back.

Our hostess took our meal orders, told us to put all our belongings in the locker provided, remove anything with lights (watches, mobile phones etc), and then wait to be led in. Presently, we were asked to walk behind our host, sort of conga-style (walk not dance), each of us placing our hand on the shoulder of the person ahead of us. We were led through three sets of curtains, into a completely darkened room. This would be where we would eat our dinner.

Dans le Noir? has featured in a movie called About Time. Although not entirely accurate in its representation, it gives one a fairly good idea what to expect. One, as in, me. Hubby was totally dumbfounded. To suddenly and so totally be deprived of sight is a pretty disconcerting experience. Other senses get heightened. You are acutely aware of how vulnerable you are without the sense that gives you your bearings.

There were no subdued whisperings like in the movie. Everyone was talking, and talking LOUDLY. All spatial awareness disappeared. We had to touch and feel for our napkins and cutlery. Pouring and drinking water was a challenge. Food ended up on the table or the lap more than it did in the mouth. Every morsel that did find its way into the mouth was delicious beyond compare. Abandoning cutlery for fingers and propriety for hunger, I marvelled at what a sensuous experience eating food in the dark could be. The flavours, the textures, the aromas took on an added dimension.

We were sat next to a very young couple, and as we exchanged pleasantries, we found ourselves opening up and revealing more of our lives than we had intended to. Darkness provided a sort of anonymity. They were similarly uninhibited. We tried guessing what each of us looked like. We swapped notes on how bizarrely wonderful this dinner was turning out to be. We talked, we laughed, and Roz, the girl, even commented on how, after having shared this intimate dinner in the dark, we could walk past one another on the street and not recognise each other.

For someone who has always believed that sight is the sense I could least live without, it was a strangely comforting experience. Yes, I was disorientated. Yes, I spilled my food, and drank my husband’s water accidentally. But I did not find the dark oppressive or scary. On the contrary, I found it liberating. For once, I felt I was not being judged on my appearance or skin colour or how short I was or what I was wearing. I was just me. And people were just disembodied voices. Some lovely, and some abrasive, some funny and some annoying. Just people.

The blind waiters were kind, helpful and understanding of our helplessness. For a change, they were in their element and we were not. They live with their handicap in our world. I wonder if we bother to extend them the same courtesies.

Thus, my #12datesinayear came to a close. It was an illuminating experience for the both of us. Whilst all our dates are happy memories, this one was extra special. It reinforced to us how very lucky we really are. How nothing, least of all our faculties or our senses, should ever be taken for granted. And yet, truly, even with being deprived of a particular sense, life is still wonderful, and worth living and experiencing.

Even if it is dans le noir.