Archive for May, 2011

Baking in China (and other improvisational activities)


2011
05.28

A few weeks ago, we were given a hand-me-down counter top oven. Not a toaster oven. Not a microwave oven. An oven oven. The kind that can, like, bake stuff and roast stuff and grill stuff. For those of you in fully developed, non-Asian countries, you may not realize the significance of this fact. I haven’t had a usable oven since I left home back in 1994 (and then left again in 1997, in 2002, etc).  Big burner+oven built-in thingies are not standard kitchen appliances in most of the world.

In Turkey, in my first flat in Kayseri in 2002, I shared a tiny toaster oven with my flat mate Elsa. We made toast. In my second year there, my next flatmate used it to melt the cheese on her crackers. We may have reheated a crappy frozen pizza once or twice.

My otantik Anadolu mutfağı. Note large bag of tea.

When I moved to Istanbul in 2004, I was ovenless for most of my first year until I accidentally invested in what I thought was a full-on counter-top oven but which turned out to be a handy storage unit for extra plates and cutlery. It held heat like an open window in winter.  I kept it for the next four years though, carting it from flat to flat to flat to flat (yes,Virginia, I did move every single freaking year– I’m restless, ok?)  I roasted a few rounds of root vegetables in it (took hours) and near the end I attempted a few skewers of relatively successful tandoori chicken (the yogurt tenderized it enough to endure the looooooooong cooking time required). I left it behind when I left Turkey, along with 85% of my other worldly possessions.

 

My last Turkish kitchen. You can almost see the oven in front of me. Yes, I had no counter. Yes, both burner and oven are set up on a lovely wooden table.

When I first moved to Shanghai and lived over in deepest, darkest Pudong, my flat had a 2-burner stove fit for woks and, well, that’s about it.  Doug’s flat in Puxi came with a device I initially mistook for an oven of some sort but it turned out to be a dish sanitizer (don’t ask), and a small microwave oven that we used for heating up milk for cappuccinos (the espresso for which was very carefully made on a massively expansive burner built for a huge wok, using a carefully bent bit of wire to keep it from plunging into the flame).

Over the past two and a half years, over the space of three different flats, we have invested in a proper rice cooker, an awesome clay crock pot, a well-seasoned enormous wok, and now, thanks to one of Doug’s colleagues who is being blessed with a BRAND NEW OVEN from her landlord, a hand-me-down counter-top oven that is most definitely not a toaster oven nor a storage unit for extra plates.

In the past week or so, I have roasted a whole pumpkin, a ton of garlic (both of which were mashed down into a lovely soup), and baked two rounds of scones a.k.a buttermilk biscuits a.k.a remarkably good improvised lumps of quickbread using available ingredients (yogurt! olive oil!).

Things I don’t have: baking sheets, affordable butter, cocoa powder or baking chocolate, mixing bowls, sieve for sifting, measuring cups (though I do have a rice scoop that claims to be one cup), a wooden spoon, granulated white sugar, spices.

Assemble possible ingredients. Note that inventory incomplete for 98% of recipes found in hand-penned cookbook.

One must make do, however. Especially when one is tasked with producing an appropriate Yay For Deciding To Stay in China gift for Unbrave Girl who made the brave decision to stay another term, against her better judgment. I knew I had to make cookies.

So I started googling cookie recipes to find something I could feasibly make with what I had scrounged up from the overpriced expat grocery store. I had flour (Chinese, but organic in theory), rare baking soda and baking powder, coarse dark brown sugar, a rare chunk of overpriced butter still rationed from our white-sauce-making binge last month, part of a jar of rare and overpriced Adams crunchy natural peanut butter, eggs, an inch of olive oil.

So I decided to go with this one, from Smitten Kitchen. The notes in [brackets] are mine.

Peanut Butter Cookies
Adapted from the Magnolia Bakery Cookbook

The brilliance of these cookies is that they have include two different formats for peanuts–three if you use chunky peanut butter. They’re crisp on the outside, and almost cakey on the inside. Bake a batch and then hide the results in the furthest and most forgettable reaches of your kitchen. You’ll thank me later.

1 1/4 cups all-purpose flour
3/4 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 teaspoon baking powder
1/4 teaspoon salt
1/2 cup unsalted butter, softened [had to mortgage the oven for this-- imported Kerrygold all the way!]
1 cup peanut butter at room temperature (smooth is what we used, but I am pretty sure they use chunky at the bakery) [finished off the jar, which can hopefully be replaced for under 75rmb...]
3/4 cup sugar
1/2 cup firmly packed light brown sugar [all brown, all coarse, rather clumpy from humidity- could be interesting]
1 large egg, at room temperature
1 tablespoon milk
1 teaspoon vanilla extract [nope but have some dried beans from Bali, unsoaked in booze]
1/2 cup peanut butter chips [nada]
1/2 cup chocolate chips [should I cut up a chocolate bar?]

For sprinkling: 1 tablespoon sugar, regular or superfine

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. In a large bowl, combine the flour, the baking soda, the baking powder, and the salt. Set aside.

In a large bowl, beat the butter and the peanut butter together until fluffy. Add the sugars and beat until smooth. Add the egg and mix well. Add the milk and the vanilla extract. Add the flour mixture and beat thoroughly. Stir in the peanut butter and chocolate chips. Place sprinkling sugar — the remaining tablespoon — on a plate. Drop by rounded teaspoonfuls into the sugar, then onto ungreased cookie sheets [no cookie sheets, used notepaper soaked in olive oil, placed over drip tray], leaving several inches between for expansion. Using a fork, lightly indent with a criss-cross pattern (I used the back of a small offset spatula to keep it smooth on top), but do not overly flatten cookies. Bake for 10 to 12 minutes. Do not overbake. Cookies may appear to be underdone, but they are not.

Cool the cookies on the sheets for 1 minute, then remove to a rack to cool completely.

This is how it worked out…

 

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A Totally Impractical Expat Interview #13: Kate Bailward of Driving Like a Maniac


2011
05.22

Welcome to the lucky 13th edition of the Totally Impractical Expat Interview series (hello baker’s dozen!). Today we have Gerald the Bear’s favourite expat, the lovely Kate Bailward of Driving Like a Maniac, a.k.a @katja_dlam.

One of the unexpected by-products of this series has been the constant shock of recognition I’ve felt when reading people’s responses. Our experiences have been vastly different and yet… similar. It’s like there’s some sort of universal expat checklist floating out there in the ether. Even when reading Kate’s story (which is very, very different from my own) I was busy ticking off the boxes in the list.

  • Feeling isolated by not being able to speak the language, aching for the ability to start up an intelligent conversation? Tick!
  • Feeling annoyed by all the crap you can understand when you finally do speak the language? Tick!
  • Fearing you’ve made a huge mistake when embarking on a new journey? Tick!
  • Being hit by wholly unexpected waves of homesickness, even after years of similar situations in which you were unaffected? Tick!
  • Making impulsive moves to possibly dodgy new jobs, with niggling doubt gnawing at the back of your brain? Tick!
  • Moving to conservative places where you’ll never fit in and quite likely have the word ‘whore’ taped to your forehead? Tick!
  • Realizing that being single, female and foreign in certain places will be viewed with suspicion no matter how much you try to behave appropriately and honourably? Tick!
  • Wanting very much to be able to settle down but only if the situation is exactly right (which may or may not ever happen, at least not in the way we imagined it)? Tick!
  • Watching from a distance as friends and family unfold their lives along a much more stable timeline- marriage, babies, homes, jobs- and realizing that you really don’t fit in? Tick!
  • Realizing that you don’t want work (especially teaching) to take up all your time and energy and that, somehow, a balance must be struck? Tick!

Without further ado, I’d like to introduce you to the lovely, brave Kate Bailward.  *Applause*

photo by Emma Fuller

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A Totally Impractical Expat Interview #12: Mohana Rajakumar of A Day in Doha


2011
05.17

Welcome to the twelfth edition of my expat interview series. I’m delighted to see how well it has been chugging along, picking up speed and steam and passengers along the way.

This instalment brings us to the tiny finger-tip nation of Qatar. I passed through there a few times when I commuted between Dubai and Istanbul a four or five years ago. I only knew the airport, alas.  Today’s interviewee is a woman who has been living there with her family for a few years, settling in for at least a little while longer, and taking the time to explore what’s around her, thoughtfully.

One of the very cool things about this interview series is that it has introduced me to a lot of really interesting, intelligent, adventurous people I might never have otherwise met- and, really, people I wish I had met when I was living in or visiting wherever they are now.  This is especially true of today’s interviewee- I think if she had been around when I was living in the Gulf, I might not have felt so isolated there.

I had a hard time relating to most of the expats around me in the UAE because I was primarily a traveller at heart and most of the people I met there were there for the work (often with gritted teeth, begrudgingly) and the money and the cushy lifestyle it provided.  There was a lot of quiet racism and classism among the Western expats I encountered at that time, lots of derogatory throwaway comments about Arab culture, Islam, Indian taxi drivers/construction workers, Filipina maids.  It made my head ache.

It left me with a bad taste in my mouth and a need to close my ears and brain to all the nattering, lest some of it seep in and cloud my own judgement.  Sometimes it’s hard for me to tell if my negative feelings are my own or if they’ve been absorbed from others.  It’s a process of separation that I have to be very careful to practise here in Shanghai because, well, there is so much complaining going on around me.

Without further ado, I’d like to introduce you to Mohana, this week’s expat. She can be found through her blog, A Day in Doha.

*cue applause*

Ladies and Gentlemen, Mohana

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14 Notes on teaching English in a Chinese university, in the middle of a quiet burnout and impending unemployment


2011
05.14

1.

Two weeks ago I renewed my gym membership, which I had let lapse about six months ago.

Work in pairs, please

Sometime last Autumn, I had  figured that the five flights of stairs I had to climb 8 or so times a day between classroom and office were enough to keep me going through winter, combined with the 5km or so I walked whilst monitoring in the classroom, and the 40 or so minutes I walked to and from work during my commute . I carried a pedometer in the classroom as a clock. I averaged 12,000 steps during a six-hour teaching day, not including my commute.  In spite of this inadvertent regular workout, I still felt drained, exhausted,  and my trapezoidal muscles hadn’t been unclenched in years. My spinal column clicked.

Just after I found out that my job was probably going to disappear at the end of June, I decided that I needed to address my clicky back, my chronic insomnia, my taut trapezoidals, my general feeling of physical malaise.  If my life was going to go up in flames, at least I’d try to salvage my health along the way.  So, I rejoined my gym.

This post is not about the gym though. If I wanted to talk to you about running, I wouldn’t have dragged teaching into it. This is a post about teacher burnout. About what it feels to be somewhere in the middle of your own burn out.

2.

At the gym, I try to do about an hour on the treadmill, just to get the kinks out and to exhaust me enough so I can hopefully get some sleep at night. I haven’t slept more than 4-5 hours a night since we moved to Shanghai over two years ago.  An hour on the treadmill is a tedious endeavour which I mask with podcasts I’ve downloaded. I’m currently midway through a lecture series from Stanford University’s history department (20th Century US Civil Rights Movement). It’s a video podcast, filmed in an actual classroom, in an actual course.  And this is where the teaching part comes in.

3.

For an hour, several times a week, I watch a teacher walk into a classroom, calmly, methodically. He greets his class. The classroom is quiet, except for the few students who reply to his greeting. He starts immediately. He elicits ideas and concepts from the previous lecture. A few students put their hands up and give well thought out answers. Most of the time he lectures, telling stories and reinforcing the sense of place and context. The students take notes. Using pens that they had brought. In notebooks that they had brought. Pins drop with a thud.  For an hour, the lecturer speaks, occasionally elicits and gets at least one or two replies. At the end of the hour he thanks them and bids them goodbye.

If you are a teacher, this is possibly a wonderful moment of pure fantasy.

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A Totally Impractical Expat Interview #11: Liv From I Eat My Pigeon


2011
05.07

Welcome to the eleventh instalment in my infinite expat interview series. I really hadn’t expected it to last this long (I didn’t think anyone would respond, to be honest) but it seems to have taken on a life of its own, slowly taking over this blog, my email inbox and a significant part of my thought process.

This interview is with the remarkable, eloquent Liv of I Eat My Pigeon. Liv is living in a small town in Italy, where her mother is originally from, where she still has relatives around her and where she can speak the language after a childhood of it spoken in her home.  Yet, even with all of these advantages, it hasn’t been the easiest move.  A lot of what she said in her interview rang true for me- about home, about movement, about friendship, about allowing her roots to dig into the earth.  To be perfectly honest, I think I would love to be where she is right now, doing what she is doing. I think she’s on a good path, even though it hasn’t been easy.

herb garden

A brief pause to enjoy my parents' window herb garden, which I aspire to have

 

I had started this series originally as a slightly pathetic plea for confirmation that I wasn’t the only one with doubts about the choices I had made to live where I have lived. I had been trying to filter through the cacophony of shouty voices out there in the intarwebs which extolled the unquestionable merits of a) quitting your soul-sucking cubicle job, selling all your stuff and travelling the world FOREVER as a digital nomad (or any other kind of nomad except the herding kind), and b) quitting your soul sucking cubicle job and moving to the marvellous general area known as Abroad to reinvent yourself and live happily ever after.

I wore that skirt for a full decade due to living out of a backpack.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I really like to travel. I do. I tend to spend most of my savings on plane tickets and hotels and overpriced cocktails in Foreign Correspondents’ Clubs in places where cocktails aren’t part of the national cuisine.  In the past two years, I’ve spent almost all of my time off running around Indonesia, Burma, Cambodia, China and, as of this summer, Sri Lanka. It’s exhilarating.  When I travel, my skin looks happier, I lose weight, my brain fog lifts and I’m generally a less cranky person than I am when staying in one place, working.

I don’t, however, want to be a nomad. Not even the kind with herds of grazing animals, though, admittedly, life in a yurt with a herd of goats certainly has its appeal. I like having stuff though. I like building up shoe and book collections. I like, as Liv notes, to have salt and pepper shakers. I like to know where I’m waking up. I used to be a lot more flexible in my 20s, waking up on sofas and on floors and in dorm beds and thinking nothing of it.

For three years in my early 20s I lived full-time out of a back pack. I didn’t think of it as a hardship, merely as an aspect of life that could be a little limiting (one pair of Docs for all occasions!).  For most of my 20s, I was constantly moving around.  I liked it. By my late 20s, I wanted nothing more than a flat of my own and a regular job, just as the current crop of restless cubicle dwellers want nothing more than to run away and travel forever.  I get it, but I also know it’s not a miracle solution.

I also really like living abroad, in spite of what you might gather from my blog posts, which is why I’ve been doing it for the past seventeen years. It just works for me on some subconscious level that I have yet to identify.  I like having an excuse for not fitting in. I like being peripheral. I like being able to take a step back and decide for myself how much I want to join in culturally, socially, intellectually, and how much I want to keep to myself.

However, as the lovely Fiona once said, living abroad is not all beer and Skittles. It’s often hard. It can be dreadfully lonely, even if you are living abroad with someone. Not only do you have to deal with the crap that normal life flings at you but you also have to do it in another language, in another culture, in a place where you may or may not really fit in. The friction is there.  The knowledge that you are not really of that place is always lingering under the surface, even on the best days. I’m not Chinese. I never will be. No one will ever mistake me for a local here. Even when I lived in England back in the 1990s my Canadian accent always gave me away and marked me as an other.

Oddly enough, in England I was usually marked incorrectly as Irish (which I’m not), which opened up a whole ‘nother can of worms in a decade when the IRA was still considered a major threat. When I worked as a cashier at Selfridges in Oxford Street in London in 1997 I went through two days of IRA-specific bomb-scare training. Luckily, I was repeatedly assessed as being from Co. Donegal (or, more specifically, Gweedore, Co. Donegal, as determined by two different old ladies I looked after when I was working for London social services), which was not so active as other parts in presumed terrorist intent.  One Jamaican nurse I worked with repeatedly insisted that we (the Irish and the West Indians) must stand in solidarity as outsiders living in the UK.   I agreed. During my time in London, most of my friends were African and most of my colleagues were West Indian.  I felt like I fit in with them more than I fit in with the general British culture.  Outsiders find outsiders, I suppose.  It hasn’t quite worked this well in China but I’m slowly building up a small, disparate group of outsiders that I feel connected to. It’s a start.

On that note, I’d like to introduce you to the lovely Liv, whose blog I’ve been reading for quite a while now but I don’t think she ever knew.  Ladies and gentlemen, I bring you the Pigeon Eater.

Photo by Liv

Here's looking at you, kid

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