Journey to the Land of Eels. Ely That Is.

This weekend, I went to Ely with fellow Petreans* Andy Woods, Olivier Gloaguen, and Erik Panzer. We visited the 900 year-old cathedral, where our College founder, Hugo de Balsham, Bishop of Ely, once dwelled and worshiped in the late 1200's. In this trip, I learned that Ely got its name from the large number of eels caught in the area -- I heard the tour guide say "40,000 in a day" -- in ancient times. The size of the cathedral is astounding, by all standards. One can get a sense of how this place was very important to the ancient people of East Anglia, as there is, literally, nothing else around Ely other than farmland and the River Cam. This point was made clearer at the top of the highest tower of the Ely Cathedral.

I wanted to see Cambridge from the distance, but it was shrouded by impenetrable clouds. Nevertheless, the trip to Ely was special; it was as if I were visiting my ancestral grounds. This is not out-of-place because there would be no Peterhouse, and in that case, me, a contemporary Petrean, if Hugo de Balsham had not founded it in 1284. In this light, I would just be some dude hanging out in Cambridge if there were no Peterhouse.

The following are images captured during my pilgrimage to Ely. They do not do any justice to the real place, but hopefully convey a sense of what the place is like, both in the Cathedral, and the town-area surrounding it. As it turned out, Oliver Cromwell lived in a house not too far away from the Cathedral.

 Left to right: Andy Woods, Erik Panzer, Olivier Gloaguen, wandering the streets of Ely.

Breakfast at Ely: a sausage, an egg, onions, mushrooms, on a baguette. Mmmmmm.

The Lady Chapel is to the right; the Presbytery is to the left.

The tallest tower is called the "West Tower."

Looking down the Nave into the Octagon and Choir Stall.

Proof that I was in the Ely Cathedral.

Looking up into the Octagon. There is a "skeleton" of an angel descending from the Octagon -- it will be hovering above a Christmas Tree which has not yet been erected when this photograph was taken.

Details of the Octagon.

Details from the impressive West Door, where the main entrance to the cathedral is.

Details from one of the beautiful windows in the cathedral.

More beautiful stained glass.

Looking down from a balcony in the lower part of the West Tower.

A contemporary installation in the West Tower.

Left to Right: Erik, Andy, Kelvin, Olivier, top of the West Tower of the Ely Cathedral.

A view of the Ely Cathedral from its own West Tower.

The Ely Cathedral's extensive grounds, as seen from above.

Andy celebrating the ascent.

Another scene of Ely, from above.

Olivier, descending from the West Tower.

Andy emerging from the stairwell upon descending from the West Tower.

My man, second from the left, Hugo de Balsham, Bishop of Ely, Founder of Peterhouse, with the Peterhouse crest below him.

A close-up of Hugo de Balsham.

Not sure what this is, but it looks similar to the Peterhouse crest. The main difference is that instead of coronets, there are Fleur-de-Lys, and instead of red stripes, there are blue ones. My only conclusion is that this is a non-Peterhouse crest.

Looking at the West Tower from ground-level.

Shortbread -- what I described as "an intense butter cookie" to Olivier, as approved by Andy -- and a cup of Earl Grey are welcomed treats on a chilly day in Ely.

Not far away from the Cathedral was Oliver Cromwell's house. We did not go in -- didn't feel like paying to see his house. Also, there were two scary pilgrim-esque figures standing outside the doorway.

*The term "Petreans" refers to members of Peterhouse, Cambridge, the oldest of all the colleges at the University of Cambridge.

Pumpkin Pie in the American Diaspora

A Cantabrigian Thanksgiving, retrospective continued.

This is the beauty that delivered me from the Pumpkin Pie desert in Cambridge. Such sweet goodness.

They laughed at the mention of pumpkin pie. A sweetened squash pie? What is that?! The same attitude primes the supermarkets to be prominently lacking of pumpkin-in-a-can and frozen pumpkin in Cambridge. I searched far and wide and, to my dismay, found neither. There were only fresh pumpkins, and even these were leftovers from Halloween, which is the only time where pumpkin pie is deemed "appropriate" in the local frame of reference.

Above all, some even took this further: by telling me that pumpkins are not for eating, only decoration, i.e. the carving of Jack o' Lanterns. I begged to differ, and engaged in discourse about the varieties of pumpkins, and how some are selected for carving, e.g. the large, watery-fleshed ones classically grown for carving and their seeds, and others, e.g. the small, round sugar pumpkins, are meant for eating. Elaborating that pumpkin can be prepared savory, e.g. in soups and raviolis, or sweet, as in pumpkin pie, precipitated blank stares.

Unfortunately for most of my friends in Cambridge, the poor example at Downing's Formal Hall was the first pumpkin pie that they had ever had. This immediately made clear to me that I had to intervene. The intervention serves a triple purpose: 1) I crave pumpkin pie, 2) I was remiss in the complete absence of pumpkin pie on Turkey Day, and 3) I had to prove that pumpkin pie is, in fact, *good*. Thus, I embarked on my mission to make pumpkin pie in Cantabrigia.

Exacerbating the challenge that many of my fellow Cantabrigians had for pumpkin pie was the fact that I was seeking canned pumpkin to make said pie. Most of them scoffed at the very idea of canned pumpkin. I believe they were reacting to their general unfamiliarity with eating pumpkins and the fact that canned vegetables are usually unpalatable. In their view, it is nothing short of ridiculous that I would look for something both strange and assumed-to-be unpalatable, let alone advocate for the wonders of a pie made from this stuff. I promised to change their minds, even potentially to change their lives with *good* pumpkin pie.

Fortunately, I had foresight and purchased a sugar pumpkin right after Halloween. I steamed, mashed, and froze it in anticipation of my craving for pumpkin. I even tried to roasting the seeds, though I literally burnt them to cinders because I was engrossed in an episode of Battle Star Gallactica when I was doing this. That aside, the frozen pumpkin did the trick -- not did it spare my friends from the horrors of canned vegetables, but provided the necessary ingredient to make what I believe to be one of the best pies on earth.

To change their minds, I posted a general message on Facebook about the availability of pumpkin pie, and made a small party of it. Seven people came over to St. Peter's Terrace, where my flat is, and tasted the thing. To their surprised, they found the juxtaposition of a smooth, spiced, almost-custard-like pumpkin filling with a delicately constructed fine-crumbed crust "very good," if not "delicious." Though I am unsure if my friends are convinced about the goodness of pumpkin, I hope I drove home the message that pumpkin pie, at the very least, is great stuff.

Lastly, as many furrowed brows as I may have received from seeking the whereabouts of canned pumpkin in England, I certainly raised brows by pointing out that I *did* find canned pumpkin in England. Not only did I find it, but it was in the pantheon of luxury goods at Harrod's, one of the most reputable, high-brow, snooty, overly expensive, extravagant stores in Her Majesty's kingdom.

Canned pumpkin is a luxury by virtue of its place in the Harrod's pantheon.

The proof is in the pudding -- a can of pumpkin in the US is often a little more than a dollar. It often goes on sale for 99¢ around Thanksgiving. But, the apotheosis of canned pumpkin, i.e. when it has a place in the shelves of Harrod's, makes its price inaccessibly high. In this light, one needs to ask if canned pumpkin is actually ambrosia, food of the gods? I see a very strong case for this being the case. Food for thought.

Here's how I made my pie:

1 9" pie plate lined with an all-butter crust*, chilled

preheat oven at 425ºF (218ºC)

Pie Filling:

1/2 cup demerara or brown sugar

1/3 cup white granulated sugar

1 generous tsp. mixed spices (in its absence, use 1 tsp. cinnamon, a pinch of cloves, and 1 pinch of nutmeg)

1/4 tsp. ground ginger

1 1/2 cup double cream (or "heavy cream" in the American vernacular)

4 egg yolks

1/2 tsp salt

1 tsp vanilla extract

1 1/4 cup of pumpkin puree (or 1 can of pumpkin)

1 cup double cream (very cold)

1/4 tsp vanilla extract

1 tsp granulated sugar

whisk these until you get soft peaks when lifting up your fork/whisk from the mixture.

Whisk yolks with sugars until smooth. Then add spices and other solids, mixing until evenly distributed. Finally, add the liquids, mixing until smooth. Pour into chilled crust. Bake for 15 minutes, then lower temperature down to 325ºF (163ºC) for 30-35 minutes, or when the center of the pie is set. Take out of the oven, and let rest for at least 30 minutes before serving. Serve with whipped cream (may be substituted with vanilla ice cream, or maple, cinnamon, butter pecan, caramel or other vanilla-based flavoured ice cream).

*I made the crust with 1 1/2 cups of flour, 1/2 tsp salt, 1 tsp sugar, 1/4 tsp mixed spices, ~400g butter, and 5-7 tsp cold water. I used a fork to "cut" the butter into the flour mixture, until it resembled a course oat meal. Then I added water, little by little, until the dough stuck together. I wrapped it in plastic wrap, and left it to rest in the fridge for about 30 minutes before rolling it out to 1/4" thickness to line the pie plate.

This Thanksgiving, I got Pennied in Cambridge

Happy Belated Thanksgiving, and Black Friday from Cantabrigia!

Above is a plate of goodness at the Thanksgiving luncheon held by the Cambridge Alumni Association and Cambridge in America in the Cambridge University Centre. Note: there is too little cranberry sauce. By the time the bowl got to me, it was practically empty. But, in the spirit of Thanksgiving, at least I had some.     :-|

Turkey day in England was fantastic. It started with an exciting development: my friends, Freja and Stine, flew in from Copenhagen to celebrate the holiday with me! However, I did have to start Thanksgiving by pardoning myself first thing in the morning: I had a supervision to go over the paper that I had just turned-in last week to my supervisor*. Fortunately, it turned out ok. Rather than being damned for turning in crap, I received the following constructive criticism: "it clearly showed thoughtfulness, despite being all over the place." Good. Thanksgiving need not be corroded into a day of worrying and self-flagellation.

The atmosphere was posh -- there were rows of fully set long tables, with wine goblets, bottles of reds and whites in abundance, and a live jazz band. A stage was also set, and the Vice Chancellor, Prof. Alison Richard, gave a speech about the significance of Thanksgiving to her, as someone married to a Wisconsonite (or was that a Michiganian?), as a Cantabrigian, and as one who finds it important to celebrate Thanksgiving wherever she is in the world. Funny enough, it was the Cambridge Alumni Association's Cambridge in America chapter that threw the event, though none of the Cambridge in American group were present, for obvious reasons -- if they're in America, how could they be in Cambridge? (yes, they could be in the other one in Massachusetts, but that is not the point!) However, there was one point that I had to differ with the Vice Chancellor: she said that it was ok NOT to have pumpkin pie on Thanksgiving. Instead, we were met with three delicious slices of other pies:

from right to left: whipped cream, apple pie, raspberry pie, pecan pie. Good as they may be, they're not pumpkin.

Also in attendance at the luncheon was my friend Martin, from Kenya:

As a cherry on top, Martin and I both share the same graduate supervisor.

After the luncheon, Freja, Stine and I went exploring around Cambridge. Martin had to run some errands in town. We explored King's College and Tit Hall (formally known as Trinity Hall).
These places are beautiful.

from left to right: Stine, Freja, Kelvin, along the backs at King's.

A beautiful sunset at Tit Hall.

Tit Hall's Hall, where Formal Hall is served. It was closed, but I had to see it.

The evening sun guilded the chimneys of Tit Hall.

details from the Chapel of Trinity Hall.

To round-off Thanksgiving festivities, we attended Formal Hall at Peterhouse. To make it extra special, I served sherry before dinner in the MCR. Here's a view from Formal Hall, before our food was served:

Because the fellows, including the master, were at High Table, I did not take any pictures of dinner. I did not want to get kicked out of Hall.
:-B

Nevertheless, we did resort to deviant behavior to avoid the College corkage fee, and to this extent, we used our gowns well. I hid one bottle in the long, pocketed sleeve of my gown, and Martin hid the other. To everyone's amusement, the bottle of red that I procured was from the South African vineyard Oxford Landing  (I think it was a Merlot...cannot remember what red it was). I chose it for its high potential to raise brows in Cantabrigia. The bottle may as well have been labelled "Voldemort." Anything with the word "Oxford" in Cantabrigian space is as racy as Yale locks in Harvard. The irony of the Oxford English Dictionary in the Cambridge Library is another fine example. Jokingly, some refused the Oxford Landing. For that, they got pennied**. You can't let the queen drown, so bottoms up!

Though wine was in abundance, there was not any turkey in Formal Hall this Thanksgiving -- they ran out. Instead, we had a beef stew, which was, in all honesty, a good one. But, it simply was not what we had wanted. But I am getting ahead of myself: instead of a soup, which is typically the first course in Formal Hall at Peterhouse, we had a bad Caesar salad. My friends made fun of me that they served a crappy Caesar as a nod to the fact that it was an American holiday. I did not know what to say to that. Then again, caesar salad is fair game as a band aid for a half-baked, if not last-minutedly-thrown-together Thanksgiving party. For dessert, I do not remember what it was, which may be for the better. But, in the spirit of Thanksgiving, we were grateful for what we had to eat. Besides, Thanksgiving is about company, and I could not imagine better to celebrate Thanksgiving with. My dinner party included me, the sole American, a Brit, two German, two Danes, a Kenyan, and a Frenchman. (aside: Strangely, at Cambridge, most of the graduate-student population is coming from outside the UK. Peterhouse already has the highest proportion of British students in its graduate student population than the other colleges.)

We concluded the evening sipping port in the MCR. Instead of the customary toast to the Queen, I raised our glass to the magnanimity of President Obama's presidential pardon for the huge turkey, and hoped that the turkey's life (rumour has it that it's sentenced to a life in Disney World) will not be a living hell (i.e. in a petting zoo, in Disney). We chatted through the evening, with conversation ranging from the future of aristocratic succession in the UK to Lil' Kim. Thankfully, I fell asleep fully sated and well.

Again, Happy Belated Thanksgiving, and, to my American brethren, I hope that your Black Friday was both productive and rewarding. Cheers!

* In Cambridge, students' graduate advisors are called "supervisors." The qualifying conversations, e.g. going over a paper that the student recently submitted, that one has with his/her supervisor are, thus, called "supervisions."

** as was previously mentioned in another entry, to be pennied refers to the drinking game where one must immediately down their glass of wine if an English penny, which has a picture of the queen on it, in order to save her from drowning. Pennies are thrown in unexpectedly. And one MUST comply with the directive to save the queen, from drowning. Alternatively, pennies may be thrown in your dessert, in which the mandate is to save the queen by immediately eating all of your dessert without utensils! Rumour has it that some moronic undergraduates elsewhere in Cambridge pennied Steven Hawking's dessert -- not cool. They were immediately kicked out of Cambridge.

Formal Hall in Peterhouse: Images

Smoked Haddock Kedgeree

There was a recipe for this dish in the British food magazine, Good Food. It is featured as a dish for "festive entertainment."
I decided to give it a shot, especially since smoked fish, in a curry infused rice sounded very good on paper. The recipe called for the use of saffron. In addition to a teaspoon of cayenne pepper and tablespoon of curry powder, I decided not to waste any saffron on this dish; it would have been overpowered. If the argument is that the saffron is to give it color...the curry and cayenne already gave enough color to the dish. Moreover, the original recipe recommended double cream for this dish. I just used 1% milk.

Here are the ingredients I used:
1.5 cups long grain rice
3 cups boiling water
1/2 tsp. salt
1 tbs curry powder
1 tsp cayenne pepper
1/2 tsp thyme
3 boiled eggs, yolks pushed through a screen, and whites chopped coarsely
2 tbs butter
3 tbs chopped parsley

for the fish, I used
1 smoked haddock fillet
1/2 cup milk
1/4 tsp salt
1/4 tsp curry powder
5 cracks of pepper

Melt butter in a milk pan, and add spices and rice. Allow to sizzle for about 4 minutes, toasting the rice and the spices. Then add three cups of boiling water, salt and thyme. Cover, and allow to boil rapidly for 15 minutes, then reduce heat to lowest setting, and let sit for another 10 minutes, until all the water is absorbed.

Meanwhile, put pepper, salt and curry powder into the milk and bring to a gentle simmer. Poach the fillet of fish about 4 minutes each side. Removed the skin before flaking the fish.  Just flake it directly in the pan, keeping the poaching fluid.

Fold the flaked smoked fish, poaching liquid, chopped boiled eggs, and 2.5 tbs parsley into the rice. Garnish with remaining 1/2 tbs of parsley.

This dish is very bland. Make sure to serve along with a loaded salt shaker. With just a bit of salt, the flavour of this dish really pulls through. The recipe recommended serving with lemon...I actually found the acidity of the lemon to be too distracting to the kedgeree. I preferred it without lemon.

I find this dish to be interesting. But, to be honest, I'm not won over by it. I'm glad to have tried it, but cannot imagine making it again. I think I'll make fish cakes with my remaining fillet of smoked haddock.

Three Crabs Later, the Skin Came Off

This Friday was the first time I rowed hard. I was in a four-man boat, and I sat in position two -- the second from the front of the boat. The bad part about being in a four-man boat is that it means that all my mistakes are amplified for everyone in the boat to see and feel -- there simply are not enough rowers in a boat this size to dilute my mistakes. We rowed hard for two long hours.

Every stroke was nerve racking. I did not know how to get the blade of the oar to properly enter the water. Getting the rhythm and flow right was very difficult because everyone else in the crew was taller than me, and so I had to really slow down in order lengthen each of my strokes in order to keep time with everyone else.

Things only get more and more difficult as my body got more and more exhausted. It became hard for me to keep time as well because my my body was reluctant to do things as quickly as I wanted it to. I had greater control of my actions when I was not so tired. I pulled three crabs* in this outing.

At some point, in the delirium of fatigue, I noticed that my right hand felt wet. This typically isn't remarkable if you're rowing a boat -- you are maneuvering over the water after all. However, none of the water splashing ever gets onto your hand...and I knew that none of it got on my hand. This portends nothing but bad stuff...and I was reluctant to look at my hand.

I looked at my hand, and it was at this moment that the pain kicked in. My skin had blistered, popped, and shredded by the friction of the blade. Effectively, a patch of skin got eroded off of my right hand. Because I was rowing stroke side, this means that my right hand is the one that turns the blade, while my left hand is the power arm that pulls the blade towards my sternum. I was clearly too tense; gripping it too hard.

For the rest of the session, every stroke was excruciatingly painful. But, the one thing that this did do for me was allow me to focus on the pain, and not on my fatigue. This made the return trip much more bearable. Moreover, at some point, my endorphins kicked in, creating quite a profound moment of "runner's high"on the way back to the boat house. This was made the pain worthwhile. Fortunately, I have next week off, thus allowing my hand to heal before I kick it in full gear for the next training.

ouch.

* The term "Crab" is rower's jargon. It refers the moment where your oar get stuck in the wrong orientation in the water due to improper squaring** of the blade.

** The term "Squaring" is rower's jargon. It refers to the movement of orienting the blade of the oar such that it is perpendicular to the water before slicing into through the water surface. Squaring the blade permits greater efficiency of the stroke, requiring less energy to push the same amount of space through the water..

What Say You, Leaves?

What portends the remnants of my tea? Please offer your interpretations. I think it predicts that I need to get more tea.

Hustings, in the Peterhouse MCR

I'm not going to lie -- I was nervous tonight when I took the stand for First Year Representative in the Peterhouse MCR*. Yes, one can say that I had butterflies, at the very least, in my stomach. But, actually, it was more like having Mothra, several of him, in my stomach if I were to be precise. But, I cam across composed, animated, and engaging, I think. It was a simple forum: 2 minutes to pose my position and to charm the members of the MCR present for the hustings, followed by questions from the audience. The audience mostly consisted of former Committee members, who are a friendly lot who care very much about the pulse of the Peterhouse community, and the functioning of the MCR.

Fortunately, I was in the audience of friends. In the US, hustings for positions in the MCR are the equivalent of running for a position in the Undergraduate Council for Students at Brown. It entails canvasing and bombarding student mailboxes with propaganda. At Peterhouse, canvasing is not allowed -- campaigns must be run informally through people-to-people conversations and emails, not mass marketing in the "American sense." No people shouting, with signs saying "vote for blah!"

I was very surprised that hustings at Peterhouse were congenial. My opponent was very sweet and constructive to my statements, and vice versa. I have attended hustings in the Ivy League setting where people literally bite each other's their heads of with their words. Tonight's atmosphere was much more relaxed, and refreshingly convivial.

My opponent's platform was based on having been at Cambridge for undergrad and grad school previously to her arrival at Peterhouse,. She has been a member of three colleges in Cambridge, thus having been a Fresher** for 3 times. Hence, her strength is that she knows what questions to ask. When it came my turn, I turned the tide on her by stating that my strength is the fact that I have NEVER been a Cambridge student before, and that all of my experience is based on my "outsider's perspective" as an Ivy Leaguer, who takes nothing for granted about Cambridge. Moreover, I made it clear to the audience that this year marks the fifth time that I've been a Fresher, having gone to so many universities previously; so, I know what it means to settle in a new setting.

For the most part, I am not sure who won this evening's hustings. However, I am confident that victory in the elections is mine, especially since I have attended so many more events in the MCR than she has, and know so many more people in Peterhouse as a result. I also played up my participation in the Board of Advisors in the education department of the American Museum of Natural History to my benefit, using that as another example of my leadership abilities and potential. I shall now take Pimm's No.1, on the rocks, with a splash of bitter lemon, with a twist, to wind-down. Then, I shall commence with creating my slides for my talk this weekend on healthcare access in northern Nigeria for the upcoming MCR Symposium this Saturday. Oh, yes, I will also be rowing tomorrow. Jolly good!

* MCR is the acronym for Middle Combination Room. This is the name of most graduate societies in the colleges of the University of Cambridge. Exceptions, such as Pembroke College, calls the equivalent of the MCR their "Graduate Parlor." The Committee of the MCR is the leadership of the society, largely responsible for planning and implementing social programs in college. Every graduate student in the colleges of Cambridge have membership to their respective college's MCR. The JCR stands for the Junior Combination Room, which is the undergraduate equivalent of the MCR. At least in Peterhouse, all members of the MCR are also members of the JCR. The Combination Room is reserved for the Fellows and Master of the college. Oxford also has MCRs and JCRs.

** A Fresher is a first-year student in the Cantabrigian vernacular.

King of Procastination

I got nothing done today. Woke up at 11am, went to my office to print a paper, then had lunch. Lunch was leftovers -- Thai yellow curry, with mushrooms, chilies, pork, and potatoes, on broad shrimp-roe noodles. I had to go to the Concourse of Addenbrooke's hospital to borrow a fork, since I left mine at home.

I thought I was going to row today. I showed up at the Boat Club...no one. Stayed around for 20 minutes, then left, thinking that there was a last-minute change in the schedule that I did not know of because I did not check my email today.

On my way home, I got caught by the Peterhouse gardener and Porter-on-duty riding my bike through the Garden/Deer Park...I got a firm reprimand, "you should know better!" Well, actually, I didn't. I never knew about the rule, as I've seen other bike in the park anyway. Anyway, I had to walk my bike all the way around the college, and then bike into St. Peter's Terrace from the Trumpington Street side of things. no biggie.

When I got to my email, it turns out that rowing is scheduled for tomorrow. Yay, I have, once again, for the third time, screwed up my schedule thinking that things happened on one day, when they happen on another. I proceeded to get a snack. First, I had 5 beets with the garlic herb mayo I made last night, Then I had 2 mini belgian waffles, one with lemon curd on top, the other with multi-berry jam, accompanied with a glass of nice 2% milk. I'm ready for a nap.

Tonight, I feast at Pembroke College's Formal Hall. That should be fun.

As for getting work accomplished...I'll save that for later.

Fries on Steroids

So, I was hungry.
I decked out the frozen curly fries, popped them in the oven. While I was waiting, I whipped up some fresh mayo -- put mustard, paprika, garlic, parsley, scallions, salt, pepper, 2 yolks, 2 hits of lemon juice, and a bit of zest.
I topped the fries with the mayo, garnishing with radishes.
Then, I proceeded to inhale the stuff -- it was so good.

Since I didn't have a whisk, I had to use a fork. But, it worked out.