I’ve got this little rule that I don’t drink coffee after half past nine so that I’ve got some hope of sleeping sometime around midnight. Not that I fall asleep around that time anyway, but I’m not gonna be the one to deprive myself the possibility. I usually don’t turn off the lights until the two a.m’s, when the sounds of the night are crystal clear ’cause the background noise has consumed itself just like the consciousness of the day walkers. So here I am, five to ten, drinking decaf from the cafeteria.
What does that mean? I only get a bad stomach and a heart attack?
Well, I guess you can’t have it all.
Still, I’m doing at least three things at the same time here, leg’s shaking like a junkie in the candy store. First of all I’m introducing myself to my new camera. It is sweet. I’m intending to learn as much as I can about it, to push the right buttons, so that I can be sure my money was well spent. And you know what the ladies say about us? "Watch how he’s treating his finest toys, ’cause that’s how he’s going to treat you." I can tell you, baby, I’ll handle you with silk gloves. And then I’ll wrap you in a plastic bag when I don’t use you, so that you aren’t bothered with moist and dust.
Second, I’m uploading a new database-based gallery system so that all those years of photography I’ve put behind me so far can come to some enjoyment. Even though it’s only amateur photography, I always had in mind a wider audience. Put some real shit out there. And some real good photography too. Damn, I think this decaf coffee’s beginning to kick in here. On a side note, all the photos are not going to be available to just anyone. Since my cousin is hosting this for me for nothing but a handshake and a beer the next time I see him, I won’t put too much pressure on his bandwidth limitations.
Third. I’m blogging. Doh! … and reading up on php.
I’ve just got up from my afternoon nap, after a really heavy dinner. I’ve begun my journey into the culinary land of foodage, that is, foodages that are not pizza. You might say that I began a little light, using a few pre-prepared ingredients, but a man like myself has to start from somewhere. Preferably with easy-to-follow instructions.
So I made a Spanish caserole with chicken and macaroni, adding some spices of my own choice. I was initially going for rice as trimming, but then I recalled having Pakistani on Saturday and Indian on Sunday, so I opted for a cheesier option. The girls in my appartment were delighted, and mused on my heavy consumption of frozen pizza.
To some of us, that ain’t so funny. The easy access to pre-processed food is like a handicap. But I often stay at work until I’m so starved that my eyes are only facing straight forward, and my stomach feels as empty as an endless well. This makes it even easier to buy easy tv dinners. And I’ve never owned a tv. Good thing we’ve got a brilliant cantina here. The chef is always making sure I have enough to eat.
The idea came to me as I was walking around the frozen pizza isle, and I was thinking about my new year’s resolution about learning to make some real dinners. Combine that with my new camera and what have you got? A pretty funny hour in the kitchen. But I’m sorry to tell you that I spent so long attaching the camera straps the right way that I eventually gave up the photographs. That’s right. The damn straps! But I’ll make it up to you. When I get home tonight I’ll browse through the chicken section of the cook book my grandmother got me for x-mas. I’ve still got around half a kilo worth of chicken breast to eat. And the camera straps are masterly attached.
In all fairness, I must say that today’s cooking was a success. Since I didn’t have any sour cream to dull out the taste like the instructions on the back told me to, I just went with water and let it cook for so long that it had a digestible consistency, before I added the fried chicken. This made the caserole really taste of something, which is not very common considering the Norwegian palate is so sensitive against spices. After all, we’re a nation of potato eating mountain dwellers. It’s only in the big cities like Oslo you’re likely to get some real spicy food, and then you have to ask for it. Madras hot, please.
As I said, it was great. Until about two hours later, when my after dinner coffee and cigarette sent me rushing to the bathroom with explosive diorrhea. I’m prone to think that it was the macaroni, IF – and that’s a big if – it had anything to do whatsoever with my brilliant cooking. So much for my afternoon nap, though.