Eating by numbers

Living with Martín is a bit like living with your maths teacher. Every story gets turned into sums and numbers. Instead of talking about the wonder of skiing down a mountain, Martín might work out the time ratio of how long it takes to go down on skis compared to the time spent on lifts. While others might marvel at a full-bodied red wine, Martín would do the sums to tell us the profit made on each grape squeezed into it.

His brain simply works a lot differently from mine. Sometimes this is a pain in the arse and sometimes it is endearing. But at least a few times a week, you're going to hear me saying to him: "Can we stop reducing everything to numbers?"

(A quick aside here. I truly understand the value of numbers. Especially those involved in my bank statements and wedding budget.)

Anyway, this weekend we decided that instead of going out for dinner we would roll our sleeves up and bring the restaurant to our place. It would be good bonding time in the kitchen, as we hadn't seen each other to speak to during a demanding week. We chose two new dishes to make which tickled our taste buds: Greek greens followed by a Spanish mixed paella. We headed out into the drizzle of Ealing on Saturday afternoon to search for the ingredients.

After a trip to the fishmongers and Tesco we had bags full of king prawns, mussels, pork belly, parsley, spinach and sourdough bread, plus much, much more.

"This is a great idea of mine, isn't it?" he kept saying, as if it was the first idea he had ever had. I wondered where all this enthusiasm for fresh ingredients and home cooking was coming from and going.

Then I saw the Look of Numbers. "Well, we have all this food and have spent less already than we would going out for dinner," he remarked.

That was true. I couldn't argue with that. And the wine had been a bargain, which is what always kills us when we go out. But it didn't stop there.

Anyway, onto the starter. This was a delightfully fresh tasting spinach, and red onion combination on warm bread flavoured with crushed cherry tomatoes. Simple and divine. Topped off with Greek oil and some Greek music, we imagined ourselves on a balcony in Santorini.

"And all for just £4" he delights in sharing.

Now, I have to point out, Martín is no penny pincher. He's not tight. He's very generous. It's just his obsession with numbers.

Onto the paella. This was real teamwork and it tasted amazing. Which is a good job as it was full of flavours and food. So much food! I thought my wok would explode with all we kept adding to it and as we tenderly nurtured every paella rice grain, turning and turning them. But it worked. Credit to us.

But there was a lot of it. Piles of paella. Mountains to munch on. It was inevitable that those words would come out of his mouth again:

"We've made so much here. How long is this going to feed us for?"

Three days.

"And all the other ingredients we bought, how many meals is that?"

Well, at least another five of these and then some.

He leaned back, full of paella and economic pride. When food at home tastes this good, the numbers really do add up.

Winter has left the building

Spring is here and I, for one, am very excited and happy about it. Mother's Day is around the corner, Easter egg hunts are being planned (or, in London, are already underway) and there are brushes of colour along each pavement. Daffodils have sprouted in the middle of my lawn, crocuses are poking their purple and yellow heads out from all manner of places and the blossom on the trees is getting ready to party. Our heating times have already been shortened, the bbq has been cleaned and the patio furniture is ready.

Yesterday after I had done some gardening, planted some flowers, sowed some seeds and cut the lawn we had our first bbq of 2012. What a heavenly moment: sitting in the garden in the sun, reading the Sunday newspapers with the smell of meat cooking over coals.

Welcome Spring! It reminded me of this poem by Sidney Lanier.

Spring Greeting

All faintly through my soul to-day,
As from a bell that far away
Is tinkled by some frolic fay,
Floateth a lovely chiming.
Thou magic bell, to many a fell
And many a winter-saddened dell
Thy tongue a tale of Spring doth tell,
Too passionate-sweet for rhyming.

Chime out, thou little song of Spring,
Float in the blue skies ravishing.
Thy song-of-life a joy doth bring
That's sweet, albeit fleeting.
Float on the Spring-winds e'en to my home:
And when thou to a rose shalt come
That hath begun to show her bloom,
Say, I send her greeting!

Eureka!

With hindsight, it's so obvious. Why didn't I see it coming? Why did it take me this long to get to this moment?

Some people believe in love at first sight and dive straight in. And it works. Others are great friends for years before they realise the love of their life has been next to them all along. I don't think it matters how you get there. As long as you get there.

Last night, a moment similar to this happened to me. Martín and I went to the pub for a drink and talked about the new class I had started teaching that day. As the conversation went on, it was clear to both of us what should happen. It's not just that I love teaching. I am also really good at it. It always happens. I leave my classes with a spring in my step and a love for what I do; for what my students are learning; for the creativity and energy I give and they give me back.

When we moved to London in July 2010 from Buenos Aires, it would be an understatement to say I was a little sad. I loved my life, my job and my friends in Argentina. The most difficult thing that I knew I would have to change was my job. How would I be able to have the life of an English teacher I had there here in London? I didn't see it.

So I did something else. Something else I became good at. And I liked it. I didn't love it, but I learnt a lot and I realised it was an option for me. And it involved writing, which is something I love. But I missed the buzz of teaching; the constant creativity; the new faces and different problems. I missed putting my own weeks together, directing my own work life.

So, EUREKA. Now I am going to do it again. I am going to drive my professional life here in London as I did in Buenos Aires. When it clicks, it clicks. I am older and I have more time, resources and patience. I have more knowledge, more experience and the guts to do it today that I didn't have before.

Understanding the lessons of life aren't always straightforward. But they are always there. And the moment the penny drops is as sweet outside the classroom as it is inside. As a teacher, I should know that.

And I do.

Being inspired

Today has been exciting and fun.

I have had the first of my Games Maker training sessions: the orientation session. Along with 10,000 other volunteers, who will be doing a whole medley of roles during the Olympic and Paralympic Games, I got to spend three hours being mentally prepared for what will come.

The excitement builds.

While I can't go into detail on the specifics of the training, let's just say that there was a lasting impression we all left with: inspiration. Part of our role is to inspire: positivity, teamwork, openness, diversity, culture, London and the UK. We are the faces that welcome athletes, spectators, delegates, sponsors and fellow workers at the Games. We have the chance to make our mark and leave a lasting impression.

It's inspirational stuff, and what I realised today was how inspiration works both ways; how the part we play, no matter how small, makes a difference to those competing on sport's greatest stage.

I would have thought that there was no greater inspiration needed than fulfilling the dream of standing on the podium with an Olympic gold around your neck. But there are other factors involved in all of this: the crowd, the assistance with accreditation, getting about, food, results, interviews. So many aspects of the Games, and within each sport, are in the hands of the volunteers. You feel special too, when athletes speak about their experiences and the importance of the volunteers at the Games. One volunteer, who thought and acted quickly, saved one swimmer a huge embarrassment just before their race. They went on to win gold.

It's a humbling feeling. But exciting and thrilling as well. The eyes of the world won't be turned on us exactly. Most will be being inspired by the antics and heroics on the tracks, roads, fields, pools, water, pitches.

But we will be there. As part of it. Making it happen. Inspiring, in our own small way.

Britain's Conundrum

Whilst planning one of my English classes over the weekend, I came across a survey which was in the news last week on the top 50 things that people find confusing about modern Britain.

Puzzler World 2012 questioned 2,000 adults on what they found the most difficult to understand in today's Britain. Apparently, two thirds of us hate being confused, but only half of us will actually get around to asking for help if there is something we don't understand.

Well, now I am going to put myself in that half and say that there's a lot about the results of this survey that baffles me.

There are things on the list which many people down the pub would frown at if brought up in conversation: what scientists are up to at CERN, algebra, foreign languages, the science of Stephen Hawking, politics. They'd be the one person at the pub who always ventures some know-how on the subject, but really, you'd all just be blathering on, nodding at things you have no idea about. Some people are terrible at learning languages (even their own); atoms just aren't others' cup of thinking tea; and algebra will still give some people the willies from their high school lessons (But it's maths, why are there letters?)

This is all perfectly normal and OK. We can't understand everything. What would be the point in that?

But then there are other things on the list which warn me about the state of this nation's confusion: Jedward, why Rooney bothered with his hair transplant, why Giggs' (Ryan) wife hasn't left him yet, Kerry Katona, people who crack their knuckles.

Yes, these are really things which have the minds of the UK mulling it over, working it out, thinking it through and coming up with a big fat nothing.

I am confused, it seems, about the confusion.

Why do people need to understand the likes of Jedward? Surely they would have much better luck concentrating on the other things on the list that might help them out one day: buying a house, pensions, credit cards (we are also confused about why Britain is in so much debt - I think the point speaks for itself). By making space from our pondering on the Giggs' marital status to asking for help understanding the small print, we could get ourselves out of our own sticky situations later down the line.

Which brings me back to this 'asking for help' problem. I notice that the last two items on the list are 'men' and 'women'. If we don't understand something (or someone) it's highly unlikely we'll go straight to them and ask them to explain themselves to us. Especially when it concerns the opposite sex.

Now that is a conundrum.

Happiness, happiness, the greatest thing that I possess

I loved Ken Dodd as a kid. It was even better when I started to understand his terribly dirty jokes about turkeys and women. But the song he would always sing, with diddy men prancing around and tickling sticks going everywhere, made you feel light, bouncy, without a care in the world and... happy. And you can be any age to understand that.

The other day I was working with a man connected to my old job, doing some filming for a friend. Afterwards, he was asking me about my plans now that I am unemployed and if I missed my old job. I explained how I missed those I had worked with closely, but that we are all friends and will continue to be. I told him that I did not miss the job; and that I was thinking of trying to teach more. I have always loved teaching, and although I continue with students and partners at LBS, I miss it as I used to to do it Buenos Aires.

His reply was, "But there's no money in that."

I was surprised by his reaction. I have always had respect for teachers, not just because I was brought up by two of them, but as a job goes, no matter the subject, the age, the place, there is no other feeling like giving someone the confidence of knowledge, and how to use it.

The other thing I was surprised about was how he was measuring my job choice in monetary value and little else. I'm not idealistic enough to think that the simple joy of teaching will pay my food and rent (and travels!) alone, but neither would I take ever take a job I know I am not going to enjoy just because it pays well. A job's pay, it's value for your work, is not the value you have (sometimes it's not even the value you 'earn') as a person. I don't care if I never earn loads, but I care being judged on it and I certainly care about being miserable.

Crap economy, crap job prospects, crap and high university fees, crap management, crap, crap, crap: this isn't how young people and those out of work should be thinking. This isn't New Year's thinking - it's life thinking: finding something you love to do and being happy most of the time doing it. If it makes you rich, tired, poor, stressed, fat, thin, smarter, wilder, it doesn't matter. It's your choice.

The measure should be if it makes you happy.

My reply to the man last week was in that vein: "Teaching makes me happy, though," I told him.

He frowned, shrugged and made a weird little noise. I don't think people consider their own happiness enough.

A Christmas feast in January

I am standing in Tesco with Martín on January 2nd 2012. He loves supermarkets; perusing the aisles for things we'll never eat, need or use. I am used to this, and usually work round this by sending him off on a very specific mission, which takes an age, but means I can get the majority of the shop out of the way while he thinks about buying 18 cans of peaches.

But yesterday I could not budge him from a super-saver-end-of-aisle-Christmas-is-over-fest.

Salmon, cooked hams, fine cheeses all on offer. He couldn't get over it. He had to buy them. And there were three things in his favour, which means he won.

The first is simple: they were things we love to eat. Our weekends are not complete without a King's Breakfast of salmon, spinach, mushrooms and eggs piled high on toast laden with cream cheese. As pork addicts, everything pig related gets a full seeing to in our house and nothing is spared. And cheese? Martín would eat a whole whale carcass if it was covered in the stuff.



Keep it simple: fondue for Christmas dinner

 The second was that we don't have a normal Christmas. There's no platter of little biscuits with salmon; no turkey and stuffing; no ham and potatoes; no Christmas pudding and cheese board. By going skiing, we eliminate ourselves from the supermarket slog for Christmas food and escape to the mountains where we let ourselves be satisfied with a simple pile of French beef, a pot of hot oil, some dips and chips. Therefore, come the New Year, we are not already bored of these foods which were overbought and have been sitting wrapped in foil like fallen asteroids in the fridge ever since.

The third reason why Martín got his wicked bargain way was because these foods were half price and half again. True bargains you can only dream of before Christmas when these items are on your shopping list.

And then it got me thinking. Why don't people have their Christmas food feasts in January? For those that love the foods more than the festival, it's so much cheaper come the post-Christmas price meltdown. Christmas can still be in the spirit of giving, time with loved ones, and you can do that with any foods you like! What do you fancy? Chinese? Go for it! Italian's your thing? Why not! There is nothing that binds us to the turkey and ham and stuffing sandwiches aside from the fact we've always done them. But with January's perfect prices for all those foods, why not delay those feasts?

Just don't tell Tesco.