Wedding number one …

As I have recently learnt, having just the one wedding when you get married is SO last year – in fact a friend in KL is having three, so I wasn’t surprised when Sam and Alice announced that they would be having two weddings.

Wedding number one was yesterday – a beautiful sunny autumn day – at the Town Hall in Islington, a very right-on sort of place, where the wedding advertisement shows the sort of marriage that would get you 50 lashes and ten years in jail in Malaysia –

The art deco interior makes for some lovely photos

 

And anybody who’s anybody has to have their jacket lining to match their buttonhole –

We did manage to make it as far as the pavement outside before the celebrations started –

And then on to that crucial part of the day … lunch.

The East India Club doesn’t usually allow women into its hallowed halls, but as long as we remained three paces behind the chaps in our unseemly scramble for the Champagne, it seemed to be ok.

I do love a bit of theatre in the dining room, so was impressed with the carving of the cured salmon –

Delicious …

and roast grouse with all the trimmings –

– a thoroughly English meal.

So … wedding number two is scheduled for next summer. Bring it on, is what I say.

 

 

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Feeding my addiction

Mindful that I will be leaving KL at the end of the year, and will be cut off from my new favourite foods, I put out a plea on the local residents Facebook page –

I got a few suggestions for using salted egg powder instead of the real thing, which just wouldn’t be the same at all – a bit like asking for authentic pasta recipes and someone suggesting that you open a tin of Heinz spaghetti hoops.  But then  I got a reply from a young cook who’s running a pop-up restaurant on the site of a former car wash, and he offered to teach me.

 

So off I went, with my notebook and my phone, ready to learn the secrets of salted egg.

When I arrived, he’d got the ingredients all ready, like a cookery demonstration, and we were away –

– the dish we were making was salted egg butter chicken.

Unfortunately, I have a real problem with chillis, and as soon as anyone starts frying them, there’s some irritant released which makes me cough uncontrollably – so I had to have my cookery lesson in a mask.

It was a bit embarrassing, but I’m sure I can’t be the only sufferer, as he had a whole box of masks in his kitchen.

We made a delicious sauce, and then added the all-important salted egg –

Whoever would have thought that such an unprepossessing-looking ingredient transform any meal into paradise on a plate?

I learnt that the all-important ingredients for making crispy fried chicken is wheatstarch, not cornstarch – and here it is in all it’s glorious, golden crispness –

along with the salted egg butter sauce –

absolutely delicious – thanks, Razali!

Am now planning to build a salted egg empire when I return to the UK, and I predict that  it will be the big food craze of 2019.  Let’s hope I’m more accurate than Nostradamus.

 

 

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White Supremacist joins KL school

I’m constantly shocked by the number of spelling mistakes in the teaching materials at the language school where I work.  In a recent lesson on Sherlock Holmes, we had two creatively spelt names to contend with –

I can only assume that Dr Whatson is a relative of Dr Who.

Then we had a worksheet on an important key skill –

– good old gammar.

Not to be outdone, one of my students then devised a painful injury –

Don’t you just hate it when you accidentally leave your crotch in a restaurant?

I was also surprised to get notification that a potential white supremacist was joining one of my classes –

Luckily, he turned out to be neither a Danish Aryan (as we know, spellings are only ever approximate here), nor a white supremacist.

I still smile when I look at the register for my class of 9-year-olds, which makes me feel as though I’ve been transported back to the 1930s, with Gladys (sister of Bernice), Mervyn, Clarice and Brian.  Then there’s Muriel, Clive, Eunice, Marvin and Calvin dotted around in other classes, not to mention the very glamorous young woman in my Pilates class called Doris.  I just hope they all decide to stay in Asia, where these names are obviously very fashionable for the upwardly mobile middle classes.  In England they’re likely to be mistaken for an elderly charlady or a second-hand car salesman.

There was also a pleasant surprise this week, when I taught my weekly class at the Chinese School, and we looked at Irish myths about leprechauns.  They had to write what they would wish for if they met a leprechaun and, of course, there were the usual materialistic, grasping desires –

– although a terraced home seems rather modest in comparison with the other wishes here.

But then I came across this one –

– and my faith in humanity was restored.

 

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