Music Monday: Johnny Clegg

I have no concrete reason for today’s choice. It may be a combination of the cheering effect that African music has on me, especially in times like these past several days, when illness seems to have settled for good in the house, and a whole lot of little things I’ve read or heard recently about the way people manage to divide themselves into ‘them and us’, as if coexisting all together were a scarier prospect than constant bickering for no apparent reason.

Either way, here’s a white South African who dared perform with black bands, back in the apartheid years, when he could have paid very dearly for flouting what was state law at the time. That, people, takes a lot of gumption – risking one’s freedom, or life, even, literally for a song (or a hundred). The video for ‘Scatterlings Of Africa’, particularly, makes me tear up.

The Haunted Orchard (part 2/2)

I had lived in the old house for about a month, when one afternoon a strange thing happened to me. I remember the date well. It was the afternoon of Tuesday, June 13th. I was reading, or rather dipping here and there, in Burton’s Anatomy of Melancholy. As I read, I remember that a little unripe apple, with a petal or two of blossom still clinging to it, fell upon the old yellow page. Then I suppose I must have fallen into a dream, though it seemed to me that both my eyes and my ears were wide open, for I suddenly became aware of a beautiful young voice singing very softly somewhere among the leaves. The singing was very frail, almost imperceptible, as though it came out of the air. It came and went fitfully, like the elusive fragrance of sweetbrier—as though a girl was walking to and fro, dreamily humming to herself in the still afternoon. Yet there was no one to be seen. The orchard had never seemed more lonely. And another fact that struck me as strange was that the words that floated to me out of the aerial music were French, half sad, half gay snatches of some long-dead singer of old France, I looked about for the origin of the sweet sounds, but in vain. Could it be the birds that were singing in French in this strange orchard? Presently the voice seemed to come quite close to me, so near that it might have been the voice of a dryad singing to me out of the tree against which I was leaning. And this time I distinctly caught the words of the sad little song:

“Chante, rossignol, chante,
Toi qui as le cœur gai;
Tu as le cœur à rire,
Moi, je l’ai-t à pleurer.”

The Haunted Orchard (part 1/2)

Spring was once more in the world. As she sang to herself in the faraway woodlands her voice reached even the ears of the city, weary with the long winter. Daffodils flowered at the entrances to the Subway, furniture removing vans blocked the side streets, children clustered like blossoms on the doorsteps, the open cars were running, and the cry of the “cash clo’” man was once more heard in the land.

Yes, it was the spring, and the city dreamed wistfully of lilacs and the dewy piping of birds in gnarled old apple-trees, of dogwood lighting up with sudden silver the thickening woods, of water-plants unfolding their glossy scrolls in pools of morning freshness.

On Sunday mornings, the outbound trains were thronged with eager pilgrims, hastening out of the city, to behold once more the ancient marvel of the spring; and, on Sunday evenings, the railway termini were aflower with banners of blossom from rifled woodland and orchard carried in the hands of the returning pilgrims, whose eyes still shone with the spring magic, in whose ears still sang the fairy music.

Foodie Friday: Mixed Vegetable Chow Mein

Serves 4
Ready in about 15 minutes

Ingredients:
300g dried egg noodles
200g Quorn Chicken Style Pieces
1 red chilli, deseeded and finely chopped
1 large carrot, cut into matchsticks
1 large courgette, peeled and cut into matchsticks
100g mangetout, thinly sliced
1 red pepper, deseeded and cut into thin strips
150g shiitake or chestnut mushrooms, thickly sliced
12 spring onions, cut diagonally into 1in/2.5cm pieces
200g water chestnuts, drained and rinsed
50g beansprouts
2 garlic cloves, crushed
1cm piece fresh root ginger, finely grated
4 tbsp soy sauce
2 tbsp rice wine vinegar
Fry Light
A handful of fresh coriander leaves, chopped

Method:
1. Cook the noodles according to the packet instructions, drain well and then set aside.
2. Meanwhile, spray a large, non-stick wok or frying pan with Fry Light and place over a high heat. Add all the ingredients except the noodles, soy sauce, wine vinegar and coriander, and stir-fry for 8-10 minutes, or until just tender.
3. Stir in the noodles, soy sauce, vinegar and coriander and toss together to mix well. Serve.

Cook’s note: For a Thai-style variation on this recipe, use dried flat rice noodles instead of the egg noodles and add 1 level tbsp of sweet chilli sauce if you like.

Wordless Wednesday: Burns Night supper

Music Monday: Latinas

Over the weekend I got to listen to two Putumayo releases from several years back, Latinas: Women of Latin America (2000) and Women of Latin America (2004). Like the vast majority of the Putumayo material I have heard, they are both overall excellent albums, showcasing the best from several Latin American countries, especially those that we don’t get to hear much from, over here in Europe. Everyone knows about the Cuban, Mexican and Brazilian music scenes, but what about Peru, Chile, Colombia, the Dominican Republic… You get my drift.

These are only a couple of my favourites from each album; if I posted everything I loved, I’d have to have two dozen videos up here. There’s more on YouTube, though, so go sample, and then go buy before the sale ends!

The Mass of Shadows (part 2/2)

“Catherine Fontaine felt that she was under the observation and the influence also of her mysterious neighbor, and when, scarcely turning her head, she stole a glance at him, she recognized the young Chevalier d’Aumont-Cléry, who had once loved her, and who had been dead for five and forty years. She recognized him by a small mark which he had over the left ear, and above all by the shadow which his long black eyelashes cast upon his cheeks. He was dressed in his hunting clothes, scarlet with gold lace, the very clothes he wore that day when he met her in St. Leonard’s Wood, begged of her a drink, and stole a kiss. He had preserved his youth and good looks. When he smiled, he still displayed magnificent teeth. Catherine said to him in an undertone:

“‘Monseigneur, you who were my friend, and to whom in days gone by I gave all that a girl holds most dear, may God keep you in His grace! O, that He would at length inspire me with regret for the sin I committed in yielding to you; for it is a fact that, though my hair is white and I approach my end, I have not yet repented of having loved you. But, dear dead friend and noble seigneur, tell me, who are these folk, habited after the antique fashion, who are here assisting at this silent Mass?’