Antwerp Central Station never fails to put a smile only face. Lots of trains? Let’s stack ‘em! (Taken with instagram)
Unsolicited attempt by younger son to gain extra time on the iPad. Angry Birds has taken the males in the household by storm (read: I’m halfway through, the boys have finished all the levels)
One change, 500% increase in iPad value to the user
Gem of a popup from the Aegean Airlines check-in page: the country list text is in Greek, but the sequence retains the English order. See if you can find the sequence Cyprus - Czech Republic - Denmark - Djibuti - Domenica - Domenican Republic - East Timor. These people are professional designers?
Boy taking liberties with dog in front of Antwerp cathedral
Sounio, temple of Poseidon
![[For T, to impress Her]
Season with plenty of salt, pepper, oregano. Drive spit from the asshole all the way through the skull. Mount bolts to hold the spine on the spit, then sew the belly shut, seasoning further as you go along. Leave overnight.
The next morning start at 7 am with a good, large fire; let it settle to a substantial mound of charcoal, then (about an hour later) mount high-ish and rotate quickly; you *need* to be able to run the spit at multiple heights, otherwise just don’t bother. For the next six to seven hours make sure the heat is high, and regulate by moving the spit higher or lower. Keep seasoning and basting with olive oil.
When it looks ready, it’s not. Ignore all calls to “look at the time”, it’s ready when it’s ready. All four knees must have split open, and the spine will be soft before you can consider removing from the fire.
Take carefully off the fire, place a big tray on the floor, and rest the spit vertically on it. If you’ve done the job right, the weight of the meat will rip it off the spit, straight into the tray. The smell alone will have caused all conversation to pause.
You don’t need to be a meat-eater yourself to bask in the satisfaction that you’ve awakened in your table mates a gustative and olfactory pleasure with roots lost in the first eras of humanity.](http://27.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_l04bgj1CVJ1qzzm18o1_500.jpg)
[For T, to impress Her]
Season with plenty of salt, pepper, oregano. Drive spit from the asshole all the way through the skull. Mount bolts to hold the spine on the spit, then sew the belly shut, seasoning further as you go along. Leave overnight.
The next morning start at 7 am with a good, large fire; let it settle to a substantial mound of charcoal, then (about an hour later) mount high-ish and rotate quickly; you *need* to be able to run the spit at multiple heights, otherwise just don’t bother. For the next six to seven hours make sure the heat is high, and regulate by moving the spit higher or lower. Keep seasoning and basting with olive oil.
When it looks ready, it’s not. Ignore all calls to “look at the time”, it’s ready when it’s ready. All four knees must have split open, and the spine will be soft before you can consider removing from the fire.
Take carefully off the fire, place a big tray on the floor, and rest the spit vertically on it. If you’ve done the job right, the weight of the meat will rip it off the spit, straight into the tray. The smell alone will have caused all conversation to pause.
You don’t need to be a meat-eater yourself to bask in the satisfaction that you’ve awakened in your table mates a gustative and olfactory pleasure with roots lost in the first eras of humanity.
Our Eye-clock is a proper Vitra item, not a copy. And the movement says “Made in Germany”. But the clock is dead silent for the first 20 seconds, then starts a loud, dry knock; diminishes slightly, picking up again around 40, then stops abruptly at 45 seconds, to finish the rotation in absolute silence. When I am in the kitchen alone reading, it drives mad.
Take that, Met Office… we climbed the Pen y Fan on Saturday, in cloudy but dry weather; the wind, picking up speed, should have given us a clue. The very moment we hit the summit, a snowstorm erupted on our heads, driving sideways into every opening our clothes allowed. By the time we got back to the Storey Arms, not even the skin between our toes was dry. The kids, like young Douglas Mawsons, braved the icy slope and the penetrating wind chill, three steps to our one. Today they all remembered how they had walked into the clouds.
My father used to travel frequently for business, but one airport welcome, when I was twelve, I remember most vividly: on the luggage trolley was a brand new Technic 8860, the biggest, most complicated model you could get your hands on. This was 1980, and at that time in Greece Lego Technic - let alone the big, kick-ass models like this one – were pretty much unobtainable. I fed its pieces to my imagination for years to come.
My childhood Lego is half a continent away, for son and nephews to share, so a gazillion new models found a home here. But aunt eBay called, (she had a few oldies floating around), and I’m not sure the new models have shifting gears and a differential transmission…
