Sometimes one must ignore the intensity and speed of youth, and keep on about carrot juice and gnocchi and each particular of a life lived to get to the meat, which to my mind, is looking out of the window and thinking of other things "– mostly memories – which I study now with an intensity I never did before as if trying to reclaim my life even as I almost lost it." This may seem to you a product of having lost your mobility in one fell swoop, but it's also the result of aging, something I have spent my 60s doing. Mostly I have rewritten and reclaimed myself quite successfully.
Why do so many middle-aged (and older) people yearn for repetition in their food until they're sick of it? Safety in familiarity? You know you're going to like it. My carer brings me the same breakfast every day: two spoons of natural yogurt on my porridge, one diced prune, four raspberries, and six blueberries, with a mixed teaspoon of sunflower, pumpkin, and caraway seeds sprinkled over them for texture. It's delicious every time. Occasionally I spot a resident robin on the ledge outside looking hungrily through the window. Last week we ran out of Yogurt, I had to have a slice of toast, it almost spoilt the day. I love how you and Carlo discuss the cubes of carrot juice, for him, it is a boring minor point but to you, it is a life-affirming detail.
Underlying your light hearted trips to discover new cuisines, is the reality of the energy and focused intent it must take to prepare, dress warmly, check the batteries, gather supplies, carry the ramp and navigate the city’s obstacles. I applaud you both for your adventurous spirit to explore. I’m perfectly capable of doing the same and yet I sit in my own home rather than gather the oomph to go out in the cold. You’ve inspired me - there’s a new restaurant in town - I’ve no more excuses - I’m going.
DH: You were lucky to have a RESTAURANT! I’m stuck in bed eating phytonutrients !
HK: Ohhhh we used to DREAM of being in bed eating phytonutrients! Woulda’ been cordon bleu to us. We used to eat white bread in a bathtub. We got woken up every morning by having a load of rotting vegetables dumped all over us! Phytonutrients !? Hmph.
DH: Well when I say “bed” it was only a hole in the ground covered by a piece of tarpolin, but it was a bed to US.
HK: We were evicted from our hole in the ground; we had to go and live in a lake and eat tadpoles!
DH: You were lucky to have a LAKE! There were a hundred and sixty of us living in a small shoebox in the middle of the road eating toenails …..
The way you write ensured I was invited to partake in each restaurant with you, somewhat walking behind or as an observer nearby, and even try the carrot juice and definitely with no ice cubes. Thank you Hanif for these pieces. So real.
Farmer J’s looks pretty nice - I hadn’t heard of it before. This is a useful sort of chain restaurant for office workers. I have the misfortune of working in an office located in Westfield Stratford, and although there’s now many office workers there, the food offering is kind of doughnuts, ice cream, McDonald’s. It’s awful. I resent working in a shopping centre. Today I ate in a really nice cafe in Kentish Town which I’d recommend except it’s kind of not on the way to anywhere.
Whilst I applaud the use of 'macaroni' rather than the egregious 'mac', the 'and' is redundant; it is simply, macaroni cheese. Down with US cultural imperialism!
It is very pleasing to read that, not only are you enjoying aspects of your life, but that these pleasures are a long way from passive; they are not activities that are being imposed upon you in an attempt to cheer you up. Start delegating in that direction and before you know it, you are living in an old people's home, where a visiting class of well-meaning school children are giving a spirited rendition of The Lambeth Walk, Henry The Eighth and other East End bar-room staples from a bygone era of flat caps and trousers large enough to accommodate a Catholic family.
Meanwhile, in the rarefied metropolitan air of 21st century Hammersmith, you are actively seeking new places to eat, while furtively abandoning those that have fallen from favour, and looking forward to the reopening of other establishments. Whatever state the body is in, the mind and the spirit appear to be doing well. Isabella is a dear patient woman. Carlo can take solace that you are not a writer in the manner of Proust, where musings over an ordinary glass of carrot juice might expand, like a newly birthed universe, into pages of reminiscences that transport everyone concerned hundreds of miles away, and decades back in time, to a garret in the Netherlands and the plight of a consumptive chambermaid named Mathilde. Genet would have would have seen his way clear to an unsavoury comparison between the carrot juice and some underage boy who had been ensnared in the trawler nets of his obsession. There is much to be said for a writer for whom a glass of carrot juice is just a glass of carrot juice, and a thing to be enjoyed. I will only consume the orange vegetable out of politeness as a diner guest or, from my own volition, when it is presented to me in cake form. I regard the presence of broccoli as a naked declaration of war, as decisive as receiving the kiss of death from a Mafioso boss, or taking delivery of the black spot from man whose ensemble comprises a three-cornered hat, an eyepatch, and a wooden peg leg.
During the COVID lockdown, David Lynch, the idiosyncratic film and TV director (among other things) amused himself by releasing a daily meteorological forecast on Youtube; one that focused on what the weather was doing in his locale (California) at the time of filming. A cynic might call this little more than looking out of the window and reading off a thermometer. Lynch's presentation was characteristically opaque; too genial to be described as deadpan; but was it joke, or an expression of his eccentricity, or something that genuinely interested him? It was hard to tell. Although he is not from California, he is apparently a resident there, and many of his recent films were made there. He reminds me of another eccentric West Coast genius – Brian Wilson of Beach Boys fame, who is now sadly in the grip of dementia. Together they embody two potent parallel mythologies of the Californian dream; one idyllic, sometimes sorrowful or reflective; the other dark and so lacking in definition that even narrative and general cause and effect are called into question. It is as though the two men are different aspects of the same person and that if they were together in the same room you would be able to see evidence of the fracture where they had been split apart.
For decades, Lynch has gone for long periods where he has eaten exactly the same food daily. For a while this was a salad with very specific ingredients, blended in a food processor so that every bite was the same. For an extraordinary seven year period, he consumed a chocolate shake at Bob's Big Boy diner, every day at 2:30 pm. This has gone on far too long to be a crowd-pleasing affectation. Lynch is a very odd duck. I was recently watching some of the behind the scenes footage from Twin Peaks: The Return, which put all other TV to shame when it came out. Covering for some gruesome CGI effect to be added post-production, and brandishing a pair of blue balls on sticks, he informs his actors – a young man and a young woman, both of whom are naked and entwined on a couch: “I'm going to be hitting you with these blue balls. I'm going to smack you in the forehead...”
Lynch, despite being a creature of habit in certain regards could not be described as either stolid or risk averse. His more recent films are practically avant garde. Unlike, J.J Abrams – a film maker who popularised the mystery box format but who does it very carelessly, with Lynch, even in a film like Inland Empire, which is utterly baffling the first time you see it, you can dig down into it and there will be a foundation. He's not just stringing you along with nonsense.
Perhaps, in order to be creatively free, one requires points of normalcy that act as anchors, whether it's a glass of carrot juice, or a seven-year supply of chocolate milk.
Reading your descriptions of Shepherd's Bush makes me nostalgic for our years there... when it was still quite shabby. I miss the Nut Case on Uxbridge Road in particular, as well as the Yemeni restaurant! (Our happiest years were in Yemen). Love and fortitude to you. Bon courage, Jennifer
I love this so much and am the same way about food. I eat the same thing till I’m done.
If I ever get to London again, I’ll have to rent an AirBnB with a kitchen, for the sole purpose of making you my hummus. I’ll deliver it wherever you tell me. I can say with confidence I make the best Lebanese-style hummus in the world, and would like you to try it. 💞
Sometimes one must ignore the intensity and speed of youth, and keep on about carrot juice and gnocchi and each particular of a life lived to get to the meat, which to my mind, is looking out of the window and thinking of other things "– mostly memories – which I study now with an intensity I never did before as if trying to reclaim my life even as I almost lost it." This may seem to you a product of having lost your mobility in one fell swoop, but it's also the result of aging, something I have spent my 60s doing. Mostly I have rewritten and reclaimed myself quite successfully.
Thank you for this exquisite piece of daily life.
Why do so many middle-aged (and older) people yearn for repetition in their food until they're sick of it? Safety in familiarity? You know you're going to like it. My carer brings me the same breakfast every day: two spoons of natural yogurt on my porridge, one diced prune, four raspberries, and six blueberries, with a mixed teaspoon of sunflower, pumpkin, and caraway seeds sprinkled over them for texture. It's delicious every time. Occasionally I spot a resident robin on the ledge outside looking hungrily through the window. Last week we ran out of Yogurt, I had to have a slice of toast, it almost spoilt the day. I love how you and Carlo discuss the cubes of carrot juice, for him, it is a boring minor point but to you, it is a life-affirming detail.
Underlying your light hearted trips to discover new cuisines, is the reality of the energy and focused intent it must take to prepare, dress warmly, check the batteries, gather supplies, carry the ramp and navigate the city’s obstacles. I applaud you both for your adventurous spirit to explore. I’m perfectly capable of doing the same and yet I sit in my own home rather than gather the oomph to go out in the cold. You’ve inspired me - there’s a new restaurant in town - I’ve no more excuses - I’m going.
DH: You were lucky to have a RESTAURANT! I’m stuck in bed eating phytonutrients !
HK: Ohhhh we used to DREAM of being in bed eating phytonutrients! Woulda’ been cordon bleu to us. We used to eat white bread in a bathtub. We got woken up every morning by having a load of rotting vegetables dumped all over us! Phytonutrients !? Hmph.
DH: Well when I say “bed” it was only a hole in the ground covered by a piece of tarpolin, but it was a bed to US.
HK: We were evicted from our hole in the ground; we had to go and live in a lake and eat tadpoles!
DH: You were lucky to have a LAKE! There were a hundred and sixty of us living in a small shoebox in the middle of the road eating toenails …..
This is like a Seinfeld/CYE episode!
Maybe Isabella can find a different way to eat with you - give you a spoonful and then she takes one - this way her food wont always get cold. 🩵
The way you write ensured I was invited to partake in each restaurant with you, somewhat walking behind or as an observer nearby, and even try the carrot juice and definitely with no ice cubes. Thank you Hanif for these pieces. So real.
Farmer J’s looks pretty nice - I hadn’t heard of it before. This is a useful sort of chain restaurant for office workers. I have the misfortune of working in an office located in Westfield Stratford, and although there’s now many office workers there, the food offering is kind of doughnuts, ice cream, McDonald’s. It’s awful. I resent working in a shopping centre. Today I ate in a really nice cafe in Kentish Town which I’d recommend except it’s kind of not on the way to anywhere.
Whilst I applaud the use of 'macaroni' rather than the egregious 'mac', the 'and' is redundant; it is simply, macaroni cheese. Down with US cultural imperialism!
It is very pleasing to read that, not only are you enjoying aspects of your life, but that these pleasures are a long way from passive; they are not activities that are being imposed upon you in an attempt to cheer you up. Start delegating in that direction and before you know it, you are living in an old people's home, where a visiting class of well-meaning school children are giving a spirited rendition of The Lambeth Walk, Henry The Eighth and other East End bar-room staples from a bygone era of flat caps and trousers large enough to accommodate a Catholic family.
Meanwhile, in the rarefied metropolitan air of 21st century Hammersmith, you are actively seeking new places to eat, while furtively abandoning those that have fallen from favour, and looking forward to the reopening of other establishments. Whatever state the body is in, the mind and the spirit appear to be doing well. Isabella is a dear patient woman. Carlo can take solace that you are not a writer in the manner of Proust, where musings over an ordinary glass of carrot juice might expand, like a newly birthed universe, into pages of reminiscences that transport everyone concerned hundreds of miles away, and decades back in time, to a garret in the Netherlands and the plight of a consumptive chambermaid named Mathilde. Genet would have would have seen his way clear to an unsavoury comparison between the carrot juice and some underage boy who had been ensnared in the trawler nets of his obsession. There is much to be said for a writer for whom a glass of carrot juice is just a glass of carrot juice, and a thing to be enjoyed. I will only consume the orange vegetable out of politeness as a diner guest or, from my own volition, when it is presented to me in cake form. I regard the presence of broccoli as a naked declaration of war, as decisive as receiving the kiss of death from a Mafioso boss, or taking delivery of the black spot from man whose ensemble comprises a three-cornered hat, an eyepatch, and a wooden peg leg.
During the COVID lockdown, David Lynch, the idiosyncratic film and TV director (among other things) amused himself by releasing a daily meteorological forecast on Youtube; one that focused on what the weather was doing in his locale (California) at the time of filming. A cynic might call this little more than looking out of the window and reading off a thermometer. Lynch's presentation was characteristically opaque; too genial to be described as deadpan; but was it joke, or an expression of his eccentricity, or something that genuinely interested him? It was hard to tell. Although he is not from California, he is apparently a resident there, and many of his recent films were made there. He reminds me of another eccentric West Coast genius – Brian Wilson of Beach Boys fame, who is now sadly in the grip of dementia. Together they embody two potent parallel mythologies of the Californian dream; one idyllic, sometimes sorrowful or reflective; the other dark and so lacking in definition that even narrative and general cause and effect are called into question. It is as though the two men are different aspects of the same person and that if they were together in the same room you would be able to see evidence of the fracture where they had been split apart.
For decades, Lynch has gone for long periods where he has eaten exactly the same food daily. For a while this was a salad with very specific ingredients, blended in a food processor so that every bite was the same. For an extraordinary seven year period, he consumed a chocolate shake at Bob's Big Boy diner, every day at 2:30 pm. This has gone on far too long to be a crowd-pleasing affectation. Lynch is a very odd duck. I was recently watching some of the behind the scenes footage from Twin Peaks: The Return, which put all other TV to shame when it came out. Covering for some gruesome CGI effect to be added post-production, and brandishing a pair of blue balls on sticks, he informs his actors – a young man and a young woman, both of whom are naked and entwined on a couch: “I'm going to be hitting you with these blue balls. I'm going to smack you in the forehead...”
Lynch, despite being a creature of habit in certain regards could not be described as either stolid or risk averse. His more recent films are practically avant garde. Unlike, J.J Abrams – a film maker who popularised the mystery box format but who does it very carelessly, with Lynch, even in a film like Inland Empire, which is utterly baffling the first time you see it, you can dig down into it and there will be a foundation. He's not just stringing you along with nonsense.
Perhaps, in order to be creatively free, one requires points of normalcy that act as anchors, whether it's a glass of carrot juice, or a seven-year supply of chocolate milk.
The older I get, the less I care about abstractions, the more I care about descriptions. A life is made of specificities
I enjoyed reading your article.. it’s full of real
Reading your descriptions of Shepherd's Bush makes me nostalgic for our years there... when it was still quite shabby. I miss the Nut Case on Uxbridge Road in particular, as well as the Yemeni restaurant! (Our happiest years were in Yemen). Love and fortitude to you. Bon courage, Jennifer
The perils and pleasures of everyday life...it's reassuring that even geniuses embrace the banal and the necessary....lots of love....xx
I love this so much and am the same way about food. I eat the same thing till I’m done.
If I ever get to London again, I’ll have to rent an AirBnB with a kitchen, for the sole purpose of making you my hummus. I’ll deliver it wherever you tell me. I can say with confidence I make the best Lebanese-style hummus in the world, and would like you to try it. 💞
I value the mundane sprinkled in with the wonderful. It’s poetic and necessary and a testament to the sacred rhythm of life.