London calling!

I've been meaning to write about this for a while, but haven't had the chance: I'm moving to London in the fall! Tom got a job in the philosophy department at University College London and I'm going to go do my dissertation work at the British Library and Museum, where they have all of the things I work on in manuscript form. Sources tell me that the Science reading room is the place to work at the BL, rather than the Humanities room (apparently scientists practice better hygiene), so I'll probably be splitting my time between there and other study spots. And of course Borough Market, where I'll have to start wearing disguises so the vendors don't refuse me samples after my umpteenth return.

I'm really happy about the move -- well, okay, maybe not about the move itself, but happy about the reasons for it, and glad that I kept the boxes from last year. I guess this means that I'll have cause to keep up The Queen's English. I'll be sending dispatches from Berlin and Chicago this summer, and then from England in the fall.



There are many reasons I'm going, of course, but first among them is Tom. He's wonderful. For those of you who haven't had the chance to meet him yet, I hope you do soon. Come visit!

Reading

The other day I was reading a short piece in the London Review about Google Street view, which has just been put up for the UK as of this March. It's written by a journalist who isn't too keen on the idea of having these pictures up online, which is either ironic or entirely reasonable (take your pick) in light of the fact that there are more security cameras in the UK than anywhere else, I think, in the world. It turns out that wearing a hoodie is actually a practical measure if you're trying to avoid having your profile recorded on camera. I had no idea.

Anyhow, the piece begins with a reference to Stendhal: there's a memorable moment in The Red and the Black where Stendhal describes the novel as a mirror being carried down a road:

"Look here, sir, a novel is a mirror moving along a highway. One minute you see it reflect the azure skies, next minute the mud and puddles of the road. And the man who carries the mirror in his pack will be accused by you of immorality! His mirror shows the mud and you accuse the mirror!"

On Stendhal's account, the man photographed leaving the strip club on Google Street view doesn't have grounds to accuse Google, but this isn't exactly the author's point. I hadn't thought of this passage for six years at least, but it immediately made me remember reading Stendhal in college. I took this one class on nineteenth-century novels, and I was reading, reading, reading all quarter to keep up with it. I'm a remarkably slow reader, especially for a graduate student, and when I had to blaze through Lost Illusions in a week I neglected my other work to get through it. But I really loved those weeks.

Maybe it's something about the French, but I've been thinking about the pleasure of reading more generally of late anyhow because I've embarked on Proust. Proust, for all of his decadence -- it's sumptuous prose, and if you're in the mood for something spartan, it just won't suit -- really understands why we read, and this makes the experience of reading him all the more enjoyable. It's adolescent, I suppose, but how to resist?

"In the sort of screen dappled with different states of mind which my consciousness would simultaneously unfold while I read, and which ranged from the aspirations hidden deepest within me to the completely exterior vision of the horizon which I had, at the bottom of the garden, before my eyes, what was first in me, innermost, the constantly moving handle that controlled the rest, was my belief in the philosophical richness and the beauty of the book I was reading, and my desire to appropriate them for myself, whatever that book might be."

Making jam

Last week, I found myself with another bunch of rhubarb; I have no willpower when it comes to the farmers' market, and the piles of rhubarb looked too pretty to pass up. Since it's not exactly something you can snack on, I needed to come up with something to do with it. I had half a mind to make it into a dessert for Kate's birthday, but I made Kate a chocolate cake instead, so I still had to use it up. This is where Tom's grandmother comes in. I've never actually met her (I take it that meeting Granny is sort of like being allowed into the Mormon temple in Salt Lake City; you've got to be a member, and suffice it to say that I'm not, at least not yet) but I've eaten many of her specialties. Cakes, jams, flapjacks, apple sauce, cabbage, soup, fish pie, entire canisters of chocolate: the whole lot. She seems to be someone who believes in expressing love by feeding everyone around her, to excess. Tom can't visit her without returning with a crate of things she's made. And she's the one who taught him to cook, too, so judging by her prodigious output and the quality of her students, I think she's got some serious culinary prowess.

So when I opened the fridge for the umpteenth time and saw that rhubarb staring at me, once again, I thought: I should make Granny's ginger rhubarb jam. I got the recipe (Tom has access to the temple, you see), and made it on Sunday morning. I haven't tasted the results yet, but I think they look pretty promising.



Rhubarb and Ginger Jam

2 1/2 lb. rhubarb, trimmed and chopped (prepared weight)
2 1/2 lb. sugar
Juice of 3-4 lemons (reserve peel from one lemon and seeds from all lemons)
1 oz. fresh root ginger
4 oz. preserved or crystallized ginger, chopped

Put the rhubarb in a large bowl in alternate layers with the sugar and the lemon juice. Cover and leave overnight.

Next day, crush or bruise the ginger root slightly with a rolling pin and tie in a muslin bag with the lemon peel, chopped, and the seeds.

Put the rhubarb mixture into a pan with the muslin bag, bring to a boil, and boil rapidly for 15 minutes. Remove the muslin bag, add the preserved or crystallized ginger, and boil for a further 5 minutes or until setting point is reached.

Remove any scum, then pot and cover in the usual way.