More stitch details

This is a small detail to show how intricate and hectic the stitching
on this piece is. I really loved this. It has scraps of everything on
it, even bits of old stockings and fur and carpet. The stitching
remeinded me of Kantha gone mad with the heavy wrapping of threads
around edges, and occasional lines of dull beads.

Onyx walls

Photographed en route to the bead suq last week.

For those wondering why I keep changing the spelling of suq - there is
no right way except in Arabic! It rhymes with Luke, but ends in a q,
not really a K. In Arabic you can hear the difference as it is further
back in the throat.

Boxes for Sale

Inlaid wood and mother of pearl boxes with wonderful quilt pattern
ideas on their lids.

A puddle of pearls

This was rejected last week by the webhost which looks after my
photos, as was a closeup of the duck - the batta balady. I suspect the
problem with the duck was its caption. I have no idea why the pearls
bounced (no obvious comments please) so am trying again.

Champagne and Caviar

I have had an interesting and busy week. Our social life has gone from steady to busy, with frenetic on the horizon. I am aware that being an Ambassador’s wife is, in the eyes of many, a wonderful string of parties and entertainment, at others expense. There are times when that feels like the truth. The fact that this is a public forum and can be accessed by anyone restrains me from some of the behind-the-scenes stories that you might find hilarious. Buy my memoirs – after I am dead!

Two nights ago we had had a drinks session – hot and cold running waiters, cheese platters, blinis (made by me of course as we still have no cook and are unlikely to have one) and caviar, mushroom tarts and feta and mint crisps. Fifteen people and Bob and I were a happy and convivial group. We like these arrangements as they are easier than dinners, cost a lot less so we can see a lot more people in small groups, and both of us manage to talk to everyone and this doesn’t happen at dinners.

Let us go behind the scenes.

Let’s look at the blinis and caviar. The blinis were tiny pikelets and I had made them. Aside from the fact that it took me two weeks to find a source of baking powder, and that you buy it by the teaspoonful in tiny packs, they were fine.

I had been told that the shop on the corner had sour cream so went to get some. No – they didn’t and had never had it. OK. Sour cream was obviously not available so I would think of a substitute. Four days earlier I had bought Philadelphia Cream Cheese here and that would be fine. “Sorry – we don’t have it and had never had it”. OK. Philadelphia Cream Cheese that I used for a dip was obviously a mirage - even though a tiny bit with the remnants of its sweet chili and mint topping was still in the frig.

I was offered a local substitute. They happily opened the sealed container, scooped out a lump on the end of a vicious looking knife, and offered it to me. I tried it. First taste was fine – coolish and creamy. Then the salt hit. It was almost strong enough to make me gag, and I only had half a teaspoonful. I declined and watched a bit amused as they folded the foil top back down and put it back on the shelf.

Now I was walking to Alfa – a bigger supermarket about six blocks away, but long blocks by Aussie standards, over execrable pavements, and I was in a hurry. I would buy pistachios while I was there as theirs were cheaper than my corner shop.

As I walked out of the shop and started to cross the road a taxi swerved at me (it certainly gets your attention) and beeped. Great – I would take a cab. I climbed into the back, legs wedged tightly in the minimal space there is for legs in Egyptian cabs. I had forgotten that the one way streets meant that the simple and direct walk to Alfa now became a long and winding road halfway around the island, choked with after-school traffic. In the middle of a road which was surprising free of traffic the driver reached back and casually grabbed me by the thigh, kneading as if he was punching down a loaf!

I am a grandmother of five, of generous proportions, graying in stripes, and well past my use-by date, and I was so shocked that for a minute I just froze. Then he turned and looked at me so I opened the door. I very nearly collected a car trying to squeeze into a tight parking spot – but it made the driver stop and I jumped out. I have to say that I get cabs all the time here and the drivers range from delightful to helpful to silent – but this was a first. I haven’t even heard of too many problems for other westerners.

Now I was a long way from Alfa, and just gave up, decided it was now peanuts instead of pistachios and I would rethink the caviar. On the way home I found a tiny cupboard of a shop which had Vache Qui Rit and decided that would do. Laughing cows seemed appropriate at that point. I was hot and dusty, fed up, and still had a really unpleasant and brackish taste in my mouth from the salty cheese. It reminded me of a time when I managed to open my mouth in the Dead Sea.

I picked up the caviar – I keep calling it that but of course it was lumpfish roe – and a container of tiny beautiful mushrooms for mushroom tartlets back at the corner shop again. I had run through my money and needed flowers, so walked to a nearby handy-teller and put my card into it. The machine ate my card.

By now I had decided that this was not my day. I bought the few flowers my money would stretch to and decided to prop them up with green stuff from the garden.

At home I realized there was no time to make pastry now so I pushed Arab bread (the thin aish balady) into mini muffin cases brushed with oil and baked them. I chopped mint and mashed it with feta and black pepper and spread that into the centres of mini Arab breads, brushed them with olive oil and dry fried them till they were golden and the cheese melted. Cut them into wedges and put them on trays ready for baking when people arrived. I cooked the mushrooms with cumin, black pepper, lemon, a bit of salt and olive oil and wedged them into their cases, then tore upstairs to change into something a bit slinky and cocktails-at-the-residence-ish.

Back down and the Vache Qui Rit which I had opened and left out to soften a little looked decidedly different. I had left it under the fluorescent light and it was now a cemetery for thousands of almost microscopic bugs. I scraped off what I could, added a sprinkling of herbs to hide any remains, and slathered it with elegant (I hoped) haste onto tiny pikelets, I had quartered little slices of limes ready to top it, and started to gloop on portions of black roe.

Then I realised that it was about ten minutes to arrival time – and the waiter who is always at least half an hour early to set up a bar hadn’t come. Now I was charging around trying to set up the bar and wondering which of the array of lovely Australian wine in the locked basement coldroom was the ‘quaffing’ quality, and which was the ‘extra-special-Prime-and-other ministers’ quality. A frantic call to Bob’s delightful and extraordinarily efficient PA and she rang the waiter. Then rang back to say he was on his way, there had been a mix-up over the time. Then the doorbell rang and everyone seemed to arrive at once.

Needless to say the waiter did arrive, and took over the efficient serving of drinks, but I was left realizing that I can never, ever assume that things will go as planned here. What takes an hour at home might need triple that here.

This function was like Bob’s favorite definition of diplomacy – like a duck on the water – all calm and serene on top, and a huge flurry of activity and effort below.