Schadenfreude, anyone?

So here I come again, after the umpteenth day of wandering around in search of an open library. Who would have guessed that May 2nd was Bank Holiday? Good for you, vacationers; my Easter holidays terminated today.

Wait: did I say holidays? Actually, during the last two weeks I have been more busy than I have in the previous two...months. And I utterly, definitely, completely, absolutely loved it.

As I said when I started this off, most of my happiness is all about keeping my brain busy. Because I'm a heavy thinker with an unpleasant tendency to pessimism, yes; but also because I 'm more brawn than brain, I love doing things and I hate the eternal, optimistic wait of the day when I will finally be able to achieve them.
Surprise surprise, that's not at all how life happens. Not mine, anyway. I know people who are constantly overwhelmed with opportunities, cues and  chances; I call them lucky, but perhaps there's a little envy, here, and they're just more competent and bold than I am. More, how'd you say it? Entitled: to do what they do, to be who they are, to get what they want.
Yes, I'd so much like to learn how to become the right person at the right time; unfortunately, as Jonathan Coe writes in one of my all-time favourite books, "it is my destiny always to be offstage whenever the main action occurs, always to wander away at the most important moment, drifting into the kitchen to make a cup of tea just as the denouement unfolds".

See, when I say that thinking too much is my doom you can definitely believe me. And yet I've been born, bred and raised to be a thinker; you'd laugh to tears if you saw the reaction my mother has every time I mention to her that I'm definitely not going to study for the rest of my life, as she'd like me to.
"But sweetheart, why don't you apply for that other Master, you know, just to have one more chance to..."
Sure. I'm twenty-four (right, almost), living away from home since when I was nineteen, and all I have been doing is taking one dead-end road after another, rushing to reach the end of one-way streets I entered from the wrong side, and thinking, and thinking, and thinking to escape the count of the hours remaining before the day when I finally would stick my hands in the batter and build a life of my own. And that's how you advise me? Another Master? Thank you, Ma, that was helpful.

It's not that I'm not already trying; probably, one more time, I'm simply doing it wrong.
Again, that's one of those things that would make you roll on the floor laughing if it wasn't happening to you.
In the last six months, I applied for almost any job I thought I could do - any one, from ice-cream seller to press officer, from part-time biscuit cutter to receptionist to editorial unpaid intern -; have a guess on my percentage of success?
Zero, yes.
I can hardly believe it - and careful, not because a disproportionate self-esteem keeps me from realizing that I'm unsuitable for anything but reading academic manuals and losing my sight typing essays I will never pass. What I mean is...come on, do you really  need proof of two years' experience to hire someone who'll sell ice-cream behind a counter? Do you truly ask for relevant experience for an internship...which is supposed to train me? If you're so keen on talking nonsense, sit down, let's have a chat about the green dragon standing right behind the staircase. Sure as hell, it's as real as my chances to find a job before I reach the pensionable age.

At least you've got creativity, says my mother each time I mention a new improbable job I applied for.
Oh, true, I never lacked creativity. That's the one thing I'm proud of, if there really has to be one.
Still, the amount of application received was very high and the quality level outstanding, we're sorry to tell you that we rejected your application for the Creative Writer position. Sincerely yours, the Big Chief Editor of Whatever Serious Publishing House You Just Contacted.

No, please, no more constructive lectures about the utility of dedicating seventeen years of my life to studying. Just give me a good excuse to close my coursework files and have a walk in the sun, and I'll be ok, I swear.

(on air: Arcade Fire - Suburban War)

Brain drain.

My initial proposition was, write at least once a week. Then my lazy brain decided that at least sounded quite bad, and cut it off. Well, write once a week looked way more affordable, didn't it? And here I am, I missed my minimum standard again.

I'll warn you right from the start: I'm about to post a recipe. Which means, sorry readers, that before it you'll have to put up with a little gloom. I'll be quick, promised: I just got to get this off my chest before going to bed - to write my end-of-term scriptwriting project, of course, who ever mentioned sleep? - and I'll be fine.

I'm just, once again, disappointed by how my brain works. You know, when a child spends hours on a drawing, and then hands it to you as if it was the most beautiful and meaningful thing in the world - and you cannot even fake a smile, as all you see is a disorderly maze of nonsensical lines? Well, tonight I feel as if I was the child. And no, taking a breath and repeating myself you're fuckin' 23 and a master student, you should have quit feeling like this when you left middle school isn't of any help.
My adulthood (please forgive me for using such a word) equivalent of the drawing is the presentation I gave tonight for my business class: such a ridiculous thing that no one will ever convince me to speak in public again - not even if any unforeseen event leads me to fame, in that case I'll just pay a stunt and that's it.
No point in talking about it, anyway, I just want to put down in words this recurring thought I have about how my brain works. About how annoying it is, actually, to be so perfectionist not to tolerate that anything that comes from me is less than flawless, and to be so presumptuous not to accept that what presents itself to my mind like a brilliant idea might prove to be irrealistic, or worse, weak, or worse, silly.
It's not that I lack ideas: I just have too many, and they're all too good to be true. You, the normal people who are used to seeing the big picture rather than getitng attached to unimportant details and inconsistent hopes, you can spot unlikelihood since the beginning; I can't. Maybe it's true, like my father says, that I'm an idealist. Or maybe I'm an utopist, not sure whether that's actually different.

Screw it, just give me sun, a fresh drink and a slice of cake and I'll be the happiest person ever.
Oh, shit, it's as cold as in February. And I should take a healthy break from sugar; do you mind enjoying some for me?

This is the first cake I made that was both pretty and tasty at the same time, so it means quite much to me.
So much that I put it on my Powerpoint's first page, as the logo of my crappy made-up cooking school, perhaps hoping for a good omen. Well, what is it that they say? Better luck next time? Sure. Now eat.

Strawberry orange-flavoured semifreddo:

Crust:
Melt 1 egg yolk and 30g brown sugar in a double saucepan, whipping until they become very soft.
Remove from hob and continue the whipping, until the melt has cooled down. Add 30g flour, 1 tablespoon olive oil and some lemon juice.
Roll the batter in a mould; pre-heat the oven to 190°, then bake for 15-20 minutes, remove from mould and set aside to cool down.
Finally, put the crust back in the mould, which in the meantime you will have lined with cling film. If you want you can put some strawberries on the bottom as a sort of filling for the cake.

Cream:
Leave 8g gelatine leaves soaking in cold water for 10 minutes.While you wait, mix 250g ricotta cheese with 125g low-fat natural yogurt, 50g honey and 1 tablespoon orange zest, until you have a soft batter.
Warm up the juice of one orange in a saucepan, then melt the squeezed gelatin into it and add to the batter. Finally, add 2 beaten egg whites as well.
Pour the batter on the crust and put the cake into the fridge, where you will leave it for at least 6 hours. When ready, take out of the mould and decorate with strawberries.

(On air: Imogen Heap - Hide and seek.)

Spring cleaning.

Among all the things that made up my flat and peaceful north country life, there’s almost nothing I regret leaving. However, things happen at double the speed, here in London, and sometimes it’s just so difficult to keep up with everything. I, myself, feel as if I could collapse at any moment now; and I have always been so good at endurance tests.

My flatmate and I could write a whole novel about all the crazy and dodgy people we shared houses with, and still the past two months can't be described as other than reality overcoming fantasy.

Now that things look almost on the right track, I can unveil the mystery: the Problem I mentioned in my last post was a person: a tacky orange-haired drama student, double-faced as a rattlesnake and dirty as fuck…ok, ok, no more spite, I promise. But here’s some advice, if you are keen on taking it: should you ever meet someone who fits the description, just stay away.

On Saturday she vacated her room and ran away in a rush, stealing our modem in a pathetic attempt of a last laugh. Well, honey, hope you enjoyed it: it was a nice try, but see, we’re all still here.
That during the very next half hour we were utterly and literally upset, it’s a fact that I won’t deny. But how come, then, that hardly one hour later we were already sitting in the kitchen, laughing out loud while we were restoring the civil appearance it had lacked for so long and pulling jokes about the amount of junk food she left behind? (yes, if you ask, we have also eaten tons of pizza and drank white wine. But that came later…)
Memory, you’re a bitch as few others. But let me grant you some credit, here: as if it hadn’t been for your power of erasing bad sensations and keeping the good ones, I would have shot myself not too long after discovering that the whore left us without the modem that’s in my name.

So here I am, now: enjoying a moment of pure peace, looking at the sunny day that’s shining outside my window, inviting me to a liberating stroll. Mrs. Guilty Conscience warns me, and the dialogue is quite surreal:

- Come on, girl, you really shouldn’t, how about your studies then?
- Come on, Mrs. C., it's Sunday.I dare you to find an open library now, and as you probably know I can’t work from home…
- Huh, so what’s your plan? Dressing up and going shopping in town? With a presentation due in two weeks, that you haven’t even started yet?
- Exactly, I’ll treat myself to a pair of shoes. To your face, to the face of the modem thief -  and yeah, of the business teacher as well.

It’s as if I had forgotten that I’m only 23, and forced myself into an adult shape in which I don’t fit at all. I cannot count for how long I have been waking up in the morning, repeating to myself no more weight of the world on these shoulders, please, not today…and at the end of the evening, there it was, again. 
Well, it’s over – alright, it’s not, it never is; but everything looks clearer, without the mask of Gloom on my face. And today, this week, I want to spoil my child inside.

I’d like to have endless runs in the fields, have rides at the fun-fair, walk in the sun eating a frozen yogurt topped with huge amounts of candy – as England’s no land for proper ice cream, alas.
I  miss my mother’s hugs, light-hearted promises, plans for holidays, feeling free. Just like when I was a child, I think – and here she comes again, the traitress: for I can tell you my childhood was everything but that. 

Sure, it had its delightful moments, but I should be aware that for most of the time it was about being called drag and fat geek by other children, and being chosen last at team games because I was the one who ran the slowest. Not to mention the fact that, if I asked my mother for a frozen yogurt while walking in a park, she would reply with a glaring look and a harsh keep quiet, I’m surely not going to waste money on that. I’m not sure she even had the time to take me to parks, for that matter. So what the hell?
Memory, who else. She did a damn good job with me, that’s sure.

I must thank memory if I keep writing, and if I don’t break down even when I’m sure that I have reached the lowest of lows. If I’m here, patiently waiting for lunchtime in a room that hadn’t felt so reassuring for months, going through all the wonderful times I had here in London and yes, those I had in the past as well.
I’ll thank memories if I get my beloved shoes today, and if I come back home with the feeling that I have to celebrate the end of the hardest of times rather than sitting down and creating a new modem from scratch as if I was called McGyver. Eventually, I’ll thank memory if I’ll ever get my frozen yogurt, because I hadn’t been thinking about that for ages, before it came out of nothing the other day.

(on air: Bright Eyes - At the bottom of everything.)

I don't care if Monday's blue...

I can't count the people that have told me slow down, you think too much, and I can't count the times I tried to justify myself; well, game over, I publicly admit it: I'm neurotic and paranoid.
My head is always spinning forsennatamente, looking for solutions to issues I can't solve, or even to problems I do not have yet.

Now here's the point: I do have a problem, unfortunately named after a person whose appetite for destruction runs still too close to my quest for peace. And, since the very notion of life seems to be inseparable from the punchline never forget to fear for the worst, I can't solve it on my own: on the contrary, things have come to a head during the past few days. A weekend that I prefer to remember only because of the  films I watched during the breaks I took from moping alone on my bed, to be clear; so, now that Depression has ended, what's the next phase? Acceptance, sure. And Resolution, if I may add.

Quite a long time ago, someone told me how it feels to wake up in the morning and feel brand new. I tried to figure it in my mind, but nothing, no way - I have tricked myself so many times with that, only to find out that it is just the beginning of the next wrong start.
He mentioned raising your head, at first slowly and without conviction and then more and more boldly; he said it was like when you learn to swim, and you're not sure that you will manage to keep breathing, but then you do, and it feels as if something tore you up from and cleansed all the filth you kept inside. I didn't know the sensation - do I, after all? For sure, yesterday morning I thought I did, and it felt like an unexpected gift.

I mentioned Resolution, and indeed yesterday I took a lot of them. The point is that I'm desperately trying to find a bright side in my current situation, and when I say desperately I mean that really anything goes. So, let's think it over: what's the bright side of having my nerves threatened by someone who lives in my own house? Sure, spending more time outside. Not worrying about getting home on time, enjoying long walks in the city,  with just my earphones or someone dear - priceless, now that the sun is starting to show. Besides, that will acquiesce that damn thing - I think they call it conscience - that warns me each time I think about food.

Walking madly and eating afterwards, two things that I love at the price of one: isn't this the perfect life?
Well, I guess that I'll have to consider studying, at some point. Hey, good one, how come I hadn't thought about it earlier? My Problem will make me a better student, just because I'll have a good reason to jump out of bed and go to the library instead of procrastinating at home with mellow music and breakfast in bed. Right, right, and if my grades will be higher than last semester's I'll send her a note on perfumed pink paper: thank you, Nuisance, for pushing me at my best; sincerely, now go and get lost for ever.

I won't lie: deep inside, I'm probably still the same old psycho. But if I survived the past weekend - and I did, although I still wonder how - I guess I made a step forward, at least a little one.
This should serve as a lesson for the future, although actually I know myself too well not to be sure that it won't. Still, let's keep it working, as long as it feels good. There's a huge chocolate muffin here beside me...oh, wait, there was.
Right.
Now, sleep.

(on air: The Raconteurs - Steady as she goes)

Serotonine wanted. Urgent, call during meal hours.

I imposed myself a quite strict rule when I started this blog; no intimate confession or personal rants, it read. Still, today I have this terrible urge to write something, and anything I produce is of no use other than unleashing the gloom I have been in since the past couple of weeks.

It's just one of those moments when I'd rather have anyone around me disappear with a snap of fingers, and what I get in return is four happy-merry-drinking-buddies sitting in the kitchen, eating delicious fish and looking at my frozen pizza with pity and contempt.
Yes, frozen pizza. With a glass of tap water and an episode of Twin Peaks: tonight is's Lonely Single Night, even if I have no reason to be either of the two.
Social skills have fallen below Zero Kelvin, today; reviving them looks like an effort too big to be worthy. And, in case I forgot to mention, those people are laughing out so loud that their damn cheerfulness reaches the most remote corners of my brain - which makes me even more grumpy, as a reaction.
Well, I guess there's nothing to do about it: I'd better keep writing, if I want to avoid a chocolate overdose .

There is a lot that I have been thinking about, these days. No surprise, when what you're reflecting upon is people: something adds up everyday, and frankly, if you can manage to remember what you learnt yesterday you can consider yourself to be quite lucky.
Today, for example, I resat an exam I thought I had successfully passed long ago. That is, "how to cope with those annoying human beings who seem to be alive just to throw their happiness into your face".
I know, I know, I'm unfair. And unbalanced. And radical. After all, that's something everyone does, from time to time.
Besides, age and practice made me pretty good at telling who does it on purpose and who is just extremely, undoubtedly happy; the problem is, that I still can't figure out which of the two attitudes I hate the most. But, again, that's not what I wanted to write about in the beginning. And I see it, clearly - the risk of jumping into something too ardently biased for the time and place.

Let's turn karma around, then: I have spent the week attempting to cook - which is usually my favourite cure for the bad mood - but almost anything I tried turned rapidly into the Disaster.
So, before another Julie-Powell-like meltdown occurs (I swear, I really look like that when I fail a recipe), I'll share with you one of my past successes. Nothing special, of course, but enough to raise my self-esteem, and hopefully give you a little treat, too: ready for some biscuits?

Ingredients:
150g all-purpose flour, sifted with 1 pinch of salt;
60g butter;
50g finely chopped almonds;
50g sugar;
1 tablespoon orange zest and 2 tablespoons orange juice;
1 egg yolk, whisked;
125 g dark chocolate.

Recipe:
Mix the butter with the sifted flour and salt, until you obtain a granuloso paste.
Add the almonds, sugar and orange zest; then, add the egg yolk and orange juice.
Put the batter in the fridge, and leave it there for about 30 minutes. Then, roll it out to about 5mm of thickness and carve it out with cookie cutters.
Pre-heat the oven to 180° and bake for other 30 minutes. Let the biscuits cool down, and melt the chocolate in a double saucepan; finally, dip one half of each cookie in the chocolate melt, and leave them on a grid until the icing becomes solid.

I'm not a great fan of oranges, but I can assure you that they're lovely. Perfect with a little coffee after lunch...well, well, no more words from my part, just enjoy and let me know if you every try them. Alright?

(On air: Queen - Bohemian Rhapsody)