Thursday, September 5, 2013

No... honestly.... they are not mine.......



For those that know me well, you will already know of my ability to lose my wallet on a depressingly frequent basis. You may not, however, be aware of my propensity for embarrassing moments. Maybe my 3rd grade teacher was right when she said I would need a nursemaid, or at least someone who could help me extricate myself from the messes I can get myself into.

For instance, my son left for his first day of 4th grade yesterday and left his swim suit and towel in the dryer. How inconsiderate of me to wash and dry his clothes and forget to put them in his school bag. The wheel has almost come round full circle as I pull everything out of the dryer and prepare to head into school to drop the offending articles off at his new class.



As I get out of the car, I find a pair of my wife's panties stuck to the towel. God bless static electricity.


As I am also in a hurry, I stuff  the red silk underwear into my short's pocket.



I call into the office and get my security clearance, together with my visitor badge and hide the AK45 in the towel and head off upstairs to his new classroom.

So far, so good.

I knock politely on the door and I am waved in by his new teacher. I tell her I have just dropped in to bring his swim suit. We exchange polite conversation and I hear how delighted she is to have Legend Jr in her class this year and then I turn to leave. I pull my car keys out of my pocket and out pops a pair of, well, let's just say they wouldn't pass for a handkerchief. She looks at the floor, then at me, then back to the floor again as I retrieve the offending article.

"I do rather like the color red," I said, as I opened the door and beat a hasty retreat back to the office to sign out. I did catch a glimpse of her doing a very good impression of a Guppy with a speech impediment just before the door closed.

And so another good start to the school year unfolds.

I think I will keep my distance for a while. Maybe until High School


Wednesday, August 7, 2013

SIM Card Hell



Back in February, I went back to England to visit my Dad. I have an old unused Blackberry, so I thought I would just take it with me, buy a SIM Card,  on account of the last trip and the extortionately large bill I received when I got back to Vashon for using my US phone for 1 call.

Simple idea, but as it turns out, it was a nightmare to arrange. I ended up buying a new cheap phone in England, and apart from the problems setting it up through T-Mobile a carrier who shall remain anonymous. I mean, their input template wouldn't recognize a period FFS. Have you ever tried to type in an e-mail address without being able to use the "." function? I ended up opening a word document, typing in .com, and pasting it in to the required field. Several sweary words later, I managed to open an account and make a call.

When I got home, I decided to give the phone to my 9 year old son, who is getting more independant by the day. I thought, mistakenly as it turns out, that if I bought a US SIM Card, it would work just fine. $10 later, I installed the new SIM Card, only to get this error message, "Not Compatible."

What is not compatible?

The phone, the card, me and my wife, or some other piece of nonsense?

It didn't say.

By now, the normally sedate Legend's blood pressure was causing my eyes to bulge as I headed off Island to find a card that would work. I popped into Target and was helped by a nice young man who wanted to be my best friend, and couldn't do enough for me. He promised that if the T-Mobile card  didn't work, he would refund the money (another $10), an option I partook of the very next day because it was the wrong f***ing size.

By now, my heart was keeping time to a Gloria Estefan Conga as I headed towards a T-Mobile store, fully intent on doing someone bodily harm if this was not resolved.
The salesperson took the phone, opened it up, inserted the right size of SIM Card, opened the account and handed it back to me and said, "This should work now." I paid another $10 for the new card, and a $10 top up for service.

I switched it on and got a "No Service" message.

"It appears to be NOT working now," I said with only a slight hint of malice.

"Oh, did you say you bought it in England?"

"I did."


"Oh, It is probably locked for use in England and won't work in the USA."

I grabbed him by the throat and flung him to the floor and started to beat him senseless with my English f***ing useless phone. Actually, I didn't do that, but I SO wanted to. Instead,I asked him politely why he sold me the new card and accepted my money if he KNEW it was not going to work.
I think there may have been a few expletives in there also, on account of the manager coming over to intervene.

He apologised, and then offered to sell me a phone that would work which would cost another $49.99.

I offered to insert it up his rectum.

I left the store in a mood that, let's say, could only be described as uncharitable, and went to search for a new phone. This was my last chance to avoid a hefty jail sentence as a result of strangling someone, so I headed off to the Seattle Mall.

I did find one, and paid the more reasonable $29.99.
I now have to charge it up. Of course, the charger doesn't fit any of the other devices we have, so I have to buy something that will work in the car too.

Sometimes good ideas just don't work that well.

Tuesday, May 28, 2013

Cruel and unusual punishment


Several weeks ago, my dear wife asked told me to sign Jr. up for T Ball, the pre-curser to baseball for children, so I duly paid the fee and signed my name in blood. We have tried to get our son interested in team ball sports, but apart from kicking a soccer ball past his own goalkeeper during an English soccer camp on the island, he has so far failed to show either prowess or interest, which is fine by me. Playing team sports here requires the logistics of the last crusade, the patience of Mother Teresa, and the time that only the seriously driven parent can afford.

Zero out of 3 so far.

So it was with a certain amount of trepidation, I drove him to his first team meeting.
After corralling the  future Allstars in the bull pen, the coach gave them all a little talk on what to expect. They had to run to first base to be allowed on the team, which they all managed to do with a little help from eager parents. The coach then handed out their uniforms and told us to be at the High School for opening day of the baseball season, uniforms on and raring to go at 9.00am sharp.
Saturday morning at 8.30am, we were still hunting for elements of the uniform that had disappeared as soon as we got out of the car from his first practice. Not an auspicious start.
We arrived there 5 minutes late, and discovered (not for the 1st time) that the word "sharp" on Vashon, really means "approximately."
The fairly pleasant weather of the last 3 weeks had changed overnight to a blustery, chilling and downright dirty day. We stood in line for 20 minutes for the team photo, by which time some of the younger kids had been taken home with frostbite.

 

 Parents huddled round cups of coffee to keep warm while the coach encouraged her new recruits to jump, stretch, wrestle run on the spot to ward off hypothermia.


There were 5 other T ball teams there, as well as all the teams from the middle and high school, and all of them were programmed to play a short game each, before the parade could start. Needless to say, there was an awful lot of standing around. As if to add more misery to the plot, the wind picked up speed and sent anything that wasn't screwed down scurrying across the sports field, including mini tornadoes of dust from the pitch.
I hid sheltered in the dugout and watched as their first game progressed, shivering as the realization that this might be what my life was going to look like took hold. It didn't help that my wife had just told me that our friend Jim had been to every practice and every game his two sons had played, and then stated, "Now that's a real Dad for you."
As the game progressed, I found myself getting more involved, as kids ran around the diamond with scant idea of what or where they were supposed to be doing or going.


"Throw the ball to first base.....yes the ball in your hand.... throw it to......OK, run over with it....to 1st base.....that's 3rd base......good throw."

It wouldn't be an opening day for anything in America without a parade.
While the compere chatted and the grand stand filled up with parents and sponsors (yup, even T ball has sponsors), the assembled teams stood off in the distance, freezing their little butts off.


It took over half an hour before the assembled masses were ready to watch, by which time, many more of the smaller children had been carried off by their parents. Eventually, the word was given and they trotted past the stand and assembled on the running track, team by team. I had to take a photo of the flag at the corner of the field, as this will give you something of an idea of how windy the day was.


 After all the teams had assembled, they reserved the last bit of torture to close the parade. I am of course referring to the singing of the Star Strangled Banner. Like all dutiful and patriotic citizens, the children and parents, coaches and teachers, all solemnly put their hand over their heart except for Legend Jr (mine were over my ears), as a lady, who I did not recognize, murdered the national anthem.


Who knows where this might lead. So far, he is enjoying his foray with a bat and ball, and I have enjoyed watching. However, I may not have what it takes to be a real dad:)



Tuesday, April 9, 2013

Tart Tatin challenge


I have had many several people ask if I will continue with the Legend Blog, now that I have a foodie blog on the go. The answer of course is yes....sort of......when I get the time. So I am going to cheat and combine a post here with a post from "the cook in your kitchen" blog.
There is method in my madness, and it is not altogether a lazy cop out. Just bare with me, while I explain.

Are you sitting comfortably?

I have set myself a quest to find the perfect Tart Tatin recipe. It has eluded me for years, ever since I took my first bite of this most scrumptious, addictive concoction. In the cooking blog, I bare one of my attempts to make this dish with mediocre results. I can never re-create that first chewy, sticky bite. Maybe it was the atmosphere, maybe the company, maybe the large amount of alcohol consumed. Whatever it was, my efforts to date have not met my ideal. SO, in order to get there maybe a bit quicker, I have set a challenge, laid down the sticky caramel encrusted glove, so to speak, and finally asked for help.
With only 9 followers for the cooking blog so far, whatever help might be forthcoming will be in small supply. This is where you come in. Have you made one before, is it fool proof, and can it be replicated?
Send me your recipe, and some photos if possible and I'll collate them all and post the results.

Legend will resume normal service as soon as possible as soon as I can wash the toffee off my face.
xx

Monday, February 25, 2013

Legend goes walkabout (Part 2)

 

Legend Jr fell asleep on the RER train back to the airport in Paris and was comatose on the journey to Geneva and our subsequent transfer from the airport to Les Carroz.  I believe I had been serenading the shuttle driver with a symphony of snoring, as we bounced around in the back seat. We woke up just in time to greet our hosts for the next 2 weeks, (let's just call them Mr and Mrs La Ruche, on account of their chalet name. I try and protect the innocent as much as possible, as well as avoiding costly law suits) who were patiently awaiting our arrival. The Chalet was full until the end of the week, so a good friend of theirs who lived over the road, had kindly offered to accommodate us in her spare ground floor apartment. After many hugs and kisses, which had been saved up for 15 years, we took our luggage to our new home to unpack and get a wash. 24 hours of travelling was starting to take its toll, on me anyway. Jr had found his new wind and was out sliding on a skating rink that doubled as a driveway during the day.
Our first temporary home

I made up the Futon on the floor, took a quick shower and headed back over to meet the Guinea Pigs  guests, for whom I would be cooking for.
Mr La Ruche was in the middle of serving dinner, a four course delight which consisted of (I have my notes for reference) Asparagus Panacotta, Tuscan Chicken, Cheese Board and Lemon and Lime Tarte to finish it off, all washed down with copious amounts of wine. After dinner, he introduced me to their guests. There were 11 adults and 15 children, all one party, and all from Scotland. The realization of what I had let myself in for started to dawn on me as we exchanged good hearted banter. Mr La Ruche would be a hard act to follow.

Jr and pals

 Legend Jr had already found friends, and my role as parent started to recede, as they welcomed him into their extended family. He would reappear occasionally when he was hungry, or when he needed some help carrying his skis, but most of the next 2 weeks he was fairly self sufficient, thankfully, as I didn't have much time to keep him entertained.

Jr woke at 4am and kissed me on the cheek. "Daddy............" No response. "Daddy.......I can't sleep any more." Still no response. "DADDY...... I need the toilet, where is it?" This got my attention, as I rolled off the futon and banged my head against a chair which I had moved near the bed so I had somewhere handy to put my alarm clock on. It took me a little while to get my bearings, as Jr hopped from foot to foot. "Hurry Daddy, I'm going to BURST."
I was vaguely aware of a little body shooting past me as I found the light switch and looked at my watch.

Jesus, this was going to be a long day.

We watched French cartoons in silence because I couldn't get the remote to work. After this got boring, we read for a while and I answered all his questions he had about why we were here and what we were going to be doing, all the while snuggled up in our warm duvet. It was bliss.
We met Mr La Ruche at 7.15 just outside of the chalet so he could take me to the Boulangerie and introduce me to the owner. I would be strolling up here every morning in the silence of a sleeping ski village, the quiet broken only by the avalanche blasting and the occasional passing figure huddled up against the cold.

I had one day in the Kitchen with Mr La Ruche, before he headed into hospital for his prostate operation. We had a lot to catch up on, so we did as much yapping as we did work, a point not missed by Mrs La Ruche, who's work load was about to increase dramatically.
The first day I was left on my own, I woke up at 3.15am. I had forgotten to pre soak the porridge, as instructed,  so a trudged across the road to the chalet to rectify the problem. I went back to bed for a bit more shuteye, and woke up at 7.15am.
Shit, shit, shit. I was going to be late for my first morning. I bundled Jr up and shot across the road, doing impersonations of Bambi on ice on a very slippery drive, and just managed to get him dressed and up to the Boulangerie in time to pick up the bread before the 1st guest came downstairs.
Porridge on... Check.
Bread cut......Check.
Coffee brewed, Juice out of the fridge, butter, jams, ........Check.
"Good morning Wally, Sleep OK?  The kids will be down in a wee while. Any chance of some Porridge?"
I gave Lorna her porridge, and had just poured myself a coffee, when I heard what would be my morning wake up call for the rest of the stay.

15 hungry and boisterous children + Jr can make an awful lot of noise, not to mention mess.

By the time breakfast was over, I was slumped in a chair by the door wondering if it was too late to escape. It was going to be a long 2 weeks.
Burgers anyone?

I did the shopping down at Carrefour, 2 days a week. It is an interesting shop, or maybe just an indication of day to day life in rural France. The clothing, furniture and house furnishings all looked like something you would get at Woolworths, but the food section was like Fortnum and Mason, especially the deli. Pastry encrusted Terrines of Duck or Salmon, wonderful Salad Composées and Saucissons of every variety lay side by side, and the cheeses.... oh the cheeses, many of which are banned in the USA. Apparently they might harm us. We can buy AK 47s without too much trouble, but not un-pasteurized cheese? WTF.

I had imagined that I would blog all of the food I made, as I prepared to come over to France. However, I had not taken into account the amount of work it would take.
I wasn't even close.
He was in awe of the sheer scale of the skiing

I did have a few hours off in the afternoon, but these were taken up with getting Jr up and running on his skis (Except for one afternoon which is recorded here http://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=1550213239021072844#editor/target=post;postID=7873447427906095834  )

By the time I finished at night, it was all I could do to get to my bed,
I know I left it here somewhere last night
 
Every night, we would get 8-10 cms of new snow. Mrs La Ruche took the kids up to ski school in the van which had to be cleared of snow, and then she would clear the car park with the snow blower, followed by cleaning, laundry, baking and being a Mom to 2 wonderful daughters. She did all of this, and looked after my needs and questions with  grace and good humour. She's a living Saint.
What a great crew. Cheers Nori

The second week, was much the same as the first. Lovely guests, friends for Jr, and long days in the kitchen. Jr joined the ESI (International French Ski School) and is now the proud owner of his bronze badge. I got to ski with my God Daughter on the last day, or should I say I got to see her back disappearing into the distance. She is a very beautiful and talented young lady (so is her sister) and I'm glad I got this chance to connect after all these years.
The lovely Genevieve

I learned a lot, including not filling the Tartiflette (Savoie speciality) with too much cream, as it boils over and stinks out the oven until it is cleaned (sorry), don't let the kids food touch on the plates, and don't forget to steep the Porridge.
Some of this may still be on the oven floor.

We made it back to Seattle without any incident. Mr La Ruche has had a successful operation and is back in charge of his domain, and Mrs La Ruche is probably needing a holiday right now.
We miss you and hope it will not be another 15 years before I get a chance to burn your oven.......

Tuesday, February 12, 2013

Legend goes walkabout (Part One)


Several weeks ago, I received a text from a very good friend who I had not seen in 15 years. I am his youngest daughter's God Father, so we are quite close emotionally, but distant geographically, hence the no-see situation. His Prostate problems had escalated into a sudden need to have it removed, which might not have been too much of an issue if he had a normal job, but he and his wife had bought a ski chalet many years ago. As the sole operators, removing him for a week or two would have been problematic, especially as he is the Chef. They are always booked in the winter months on account of their location  (Les Carroz) and the fact that they offer supreme value. They specialize in catering for families and make it easy for parents to enjoy their holiday too.
Anyhoo, he texted me to ask if I could come over for a week or two and chef for him, on account of me doing nothing (his words) at the moment. I couldn't say no, but I had to ask Mrs Legend first.
She said, "You've got to go," so I texted him back and asked him to give me the dates. My wife also suggested that I take Legend Jr, as it would be too good of an opportunity not to miss.

I booked the flights, and a week later, we found ourselves on a Delta flight to Geneva.

 
When we told Jr that he was going to France, he informed us that he had always wanted wanted to go and see the Eiffel Tower. We had no idea we had such a well informed son with such interesting ambitions, so we made sure it was on the Agenda.

 
We flew into Paris and took the opportunity of a 6 hour lay over to take the train into the center. We hadn't slept on the flight, so we were both a tad tired, but excited non the less to go on our little adventure. His teacher had created a little packet of math questions about the tower and had asked him to keep a journal of his travels.

"No problem," I assured her, "we'll have lots of spare time to carry this out."

We surfaced from the underground in a square, surrounded by tall buildings. Very elegant and historic buildings they were, but non of them looked anything like a tower. As I spun round in circles, trying to see the tower that was supposed to be there, I became aware of a little hand pulling at my jacket.
"You've got us lost Daddy. I knew this was going to happen."  Spurred on by his confidence in my ability to get lost, I dragged him down one street and then another, until finally we turned a corner, and there it was.
 
I turned to my son with the air of a man vindicated in his abilities to navigate in a large city, and was just about to blow him a few raspberries, when he looked my square in the eye and said, " Luck, pure luck."
It is amazing. We stood next to one of the pillars with an elevator. Hmm, it looks pretty quiet, I thought, until I noticed the closed sign on the fence.

Pillar A was fermé.

Pillar C was not fermé, but it was surrounded by half of the population of Japan. As we only had six hours to spend, we decided to go over to pillar D which had the staircase, and as a result, was much less crowded. We paid our entrance fee and started to climb the steps. I was weighed down by our carry on luggage, so it wasn't long before I was gasping for air like a climber at the top of Everest.

 
 By the time I got to the first level, Jr was already finished and was wanting to go back down to find a bathroom. I took a quick photo, then trudged back down as his little body disappeared from sight.


"Don't you two get separated now," said Mrs legend, as we left her with the car at the airport. "Don't worry," I replied, "He will be safe with me."

I could hear these words throbbing in my ear as I tried to catch up with the little bugger, but he was too fast. When I eventually got back to the ground level, wheezing like an old bellows, he was no where in sight. As I stood there weighing my options (Join the foreign legion, embrace monastic life, emigrate to Iceland), I heard a gentle voice behind me asking if I was Monsieur Bell. I turned to face a tall young Gendarme who informed me that he had taken my son to the bathroom and had promised him he would find me. I thanked him and then asked him if he would take me back to the station now and book me in for assault, as I was going to crucify the little sod when I saw him next.
He pointed me in the direction of the toilet, and wished me luck.

We made it back to the airport in one piece, or at least Jr did. I think I may have lost a few pounds. He fell asleep on the train, and I had to carry him through check in and on to the plane for our final leg of the trip to Geneva. He isn't getting any lighter.




More of this story to follow.

Monday, January 7, 2013

Razor Clamming 101

Did you all manage to survive the Christmas and New Year's mayhem?  It was Bedlam at Legend Mansions as usual, so we took an offer from some good friends to go Razor Clamming for a few days and relax. How hard could that be?


We were told we didn't need any special equipment, just our wellies (rubber boots) and some warm clothes, and perhaps a 5 gallon bucket to hold our catch.
Suitably impressed by the apparent ease at which we would obtain our  catch, we packed our car with essentials, some food and a LOT of wine and headed off to Long Beach, at the bottom west corner of Washington state. We had booked a condo to share with our friends, and after an uneventful drive, we fronted up to our new home. The Lighthouse Resort turned out to be just about perfect for our needs, Indoor tennis (Mrs legend happy), Indoor Pool and Air Hockey (Legend Jr happy).
The rooms were big enough to be comfortable, and situated right on the sand dunes with a knockout view of the Pacific waves that were crashing down onto the wide and flat beach that stretched for 25 miles end to end.

I know that, because a large sign at one end said, "Welcome to the World's longest beach, 25 miles end to end."

Now I don't want to sound uncharitable, as it was a very nice beach, but the local council really do need to get out of the state a wee bit, as there are MUCH longer beaches in MANY other parts of the world, but I digress.

We all assembled at the appropriate time (1 hour before low tide), dressed in  clothing befitting the razor clam experts we all felt we were after reading the instructions on the Clam Guns we were now sporting. Clam guns, for the uninitiated, are hollow tubes about 4" in diameter and about 2' long with a handle at 1 end and a small air hole near where your thumb would be if you were to hold it like bicycle handlebars.


As we left the comfort of the resort lighting, the head torches we had purchased revealed themselves to be totally inadequate. We blundered our way through the dunes, out onto a wide expanse of wet sand and searched in vain, bodies bowed to the ground, for the tell tale signs of razor clam hiding spots. I could only just make out two large dark blobs at the end of my body which, as soon as the 1st large tidal swell came rushing past me, turned out to be my feet. The water surged up my legs and flowed back down again, filling my new rubber boots my wife had bought me for Christmas. As I tried to run back up the beach, the water sloshed out of the top of each boot, and made wet fart like sounds with each step.


We stayed out for another hour before squelching our way back to the Condo for some liquid consolation.
Our total haul in two hours?

2.

2 rather small, measly f**cking razor clams.

Hardly enough to share between 6 hungry clammers, so we raided the fridge for all the Christmas leftovers and plonked our damp bodies in front of the fire for the rest of the evening and vowed to equip ourselves with better lighting for the following evening.


After a wonderful walk the following day, along the beach in scorching sunshine (I know, we couldn't believe it either), we headed into town to buy some serious wattage. Our friend Richard, emerged from a camping store with a spotlight you could have seen in Japan. "This will do the trick," he confidently exclaimed, and ushered us all back into the truck for the journey home.
That evening, armed with our new "There's no where to hide" Clam spotlight, we headed back across the dunes, ready to do battle.


It didn't make the slightest difference to our ability to see the clam holes. Not one jot.
Frustrated, I stumbled off into the dark, muttering to myself like a demented homeless person, when I suddenly realized, there were two older gentlemen standing right behind me. "There's one there," one of the men said. "There's another one. Come on, get digging."
It took a wee while to realize that they were talking to me and not to each other. "I can have this one?" I asked, half expecting them to disappear in a puff of smoke. The older, more grizzled one of the two just pointed with his clam gun, and said "you'd better get digging."
Within 15 minutes I had my quota of 15. My two, new found weather worn friends stayed with us until we all had our quota, and then disappeared into the night just as quickly as they had appeared. They had a standard storm light which cast light sideways so you could see the shadows in the sand, instead of direct light (no shadows) and this made the clam holes visible. That's my story and I'm sticking to it.

Feeling a bit more triumphant and not so useless, we headed back to the condo to clean and cook our catch. The clams were cleaned as per instructions we had found on the Internet.

 

 They seemed overly complicated to me. They could have just said, "clean and cut out anything that looks like shit," and the results would have been the same.
Never mind.
 

We floured, egg washed, and bread crumbed the clean clams and popped them in hot fat for a minute. Drained and ready to serve with a chilled Viognier and some Wasabi sauce, they were sublime.

Happy New Year.