204. In Vino Veritas

5th September 2014, Il Pipino Rosso, Palermo, Sicily, Italy

It's always been our thing, mine and Barbra's. The wine lunches.

In fact, I think that's how we first met. At a lunch, consisting of nothing but squashed grapes. At least it is one of your five-a-day.

After five years of friendship, I believe it's important to maintain traditions like these. You know, keep the spark going.

Now that spark would be much easier maintained had Barbra not decided to pack up and leave for flaming Israel two years ago. Since then, our wine lunches have been much less frequent.

But now it was finally time again. On a sunny day, in beautiful Palermo, wine and gossip was going to be had in abundance!

Following a failed attempt by me to find a Jewish restaurant in Palermo we instead stumbled upon a lovely little roof terrace in the middle of town and after climbing up a thousand-and-one steps of stairs, we really had earned that wine.

I had forgotten what an Italian meal entails. The starter could probably have fed a smaller African country for a week or so and by the time I had gotten to the main course I really couldn't even imagine how on Earth I would manage to physically move myself away from that terrace in the foreseeable future. An Atkins follower would probably have self destructed at the bare sight of it.

Those hours of playing catch up was way overdue and to ensure it wasn't all girlie talk about... Well, boys - Barbra was also forced to give me the Kosher for Dummies lecture. I had a notebook and everything. She will get bored with this eventually. By then I will hopefully have found myself another spare time interest. Like Greek mythology or something.

Although yummy, the meal was nothing compared to the wine. It was magic. Literally. The decanter somehow seemed to fill itself up throughout the four hours spent on that roof and when we left it had disappeared from the bill. Telling you. Magic.

There's also the fact that after having visited said restaurant, it was nowhere to be found and in spite of trying to find the name and location, it seems like it's vanished into thin air. The fact that we couldn't find it was also completely unrelated to the bottomless wine carafe we had enjoyed in the sun. Just making that clear.

Anyway, the place does exist. I found a box of matches from there when heading home from Sicily.

If you're ever in Palermo and wish to check out the magic wine - Il Pipino Rosso is your place.

Only in Italy is this a starter

205. A Camel Getting Married

6th September 2014, Masseria Susafa, Sicily, Italy

After what feels like forever the Camel and her Wiggins were finally getting married!

And not only did they invite us to witness this life changing event - they also gave us all an excuse to travel to beautiful Sicily and allow the warm up to the wedding to consist of limoncello, pasta and lazy days by the pool for us all.

Arriving at the gorgeous farm house the day before the wedding, ludicrously late - I expected the bride-to-be, to be fast asleep on a rose petal (or whatever it is brides will sleep on the night before the wedding). But this is the Camel. By the time Barbra and I arrived from Palermo, the Camel was in the bar, hair rollers and all, wine glass in hand, the life and soul of the party. We should have known better than to expect anything else really.

On the gorgeous morning of their wedding day, the Camel continued to be by far, the most chilled out bride I have ever come across. As we have just sat down for breakfast, the Camel rocks up, still in her rollers and showing no concern whatsoever with the fact that half the breakfast buffet is basically cake. Oh how I wish more of the pain-in-the-backside, high maintenance and border line anorexic brides-to-be that I've dealt with over the years would take some bridal behaviour classes with the Camel.

The day leading up to the big moment was spent soaking up the sun, sipping Prosecco, just waiting for it to get to 5 PM and for this show to hit the road.

And when it did indeed get to 5 PM, with the backdrop of gorgeous Sicilian landscapes, these two lovely people said their I do's and we said our woo hoo's and then we all moved on to the Prosecco.

We had a brilliantly bubbly reception in the sun after which we were taken to the dining room and I was once again reminded of exactly what makes an Italian meal... Well, insane. Us at the Cuba table foolishly thought that the 7 course dinner mentioned earlier was the 7 dish buffet put out for us along with a fresh round of Proseccos. That was the anti pasti starter. No one was leaving this wedding skinny. Although feeling absolutely stuffed, the dinner was brilliant from start to finish with the most beautiful, heart warming, funny and moving speeches and the happiest couple there ever was. They could almost even sell marriage to me!

Then the dancing started. And how can you anything but love two people who spend their wedding night dancing to Kool & The Gang like there is no tomorrow?

The party, the Prosecco and the dancing carried on until the early morning hours and I somehow forgot that I had a cab picking me up at 7.30 the next morning. Although I felt fine when getting in the cab, that stopped the second the car start moving and I spent 90 minutes with my head out the window like a dog. Turns out that a Prosecco hangover is as big of a bitch as all the other hangovers.

Thanks for a gorgeous weekend you guys!

Here comes the bride...

Most crazily beautiful couple in the world!

 

The 'I Do's'

That kiss

We knew she wouldn't be able to keep her serious bridal face on for long!

I'm telling you - no party is complete without someone picking the Camel up.

 

Greatest cake topper ever on a the greatest tiramisu cake ever.

With my favourite ladies!

203. Searching for Vito

5th September 2014, Palermo, Sicily, Italy

I've always had a fascination for Sicily.

Solely because that's where all the movie Mafioso are from. So it may not be the best of reasons... But it still stands, as the movie mafia peeps always were killer cool (quite literally) and wore awesome hats - I wanted to go to there.

Thanks to the Camel and her hubby-to-be, I was finally there. Although that nearly did not happen following a 4 AM cab ride that should have taken 45 minutes and ended up at 2 hours following road closures and fog infestation. So as per usual, my getting just about anywhere involved racing with two suitcases whilst wearing my travel pillow and eye mask.

Once I had found Barbra at the airport we made an attempt at getting clarity out of the Italian bus system so that we could actually get into Palermo which was our first destination for the weekend. And this is when I remembered that Italian five minutes are not rest-of-the-world five minutes.

After a lovely day in Palermo with Barbra and a lot of limoncello (but no mobsters), our ride to Polizzi Generoso and Masseria Susafa had arrived and we stumbled into the rental with three other wedding guests. I would like to think they enjoyed our company. Then again, when dead sober and having travelled all day, I will rarely find drunken and giggly idiots all that much fun, so most likely they did not really enjoy us that much. They did do their best to look and act like they appreciated our jokes though.

Happy days were over when we realise that the Sat Nav is out and we have absolutely no idea where the frickin' hotel is. With Barbra asleep and tucked in in the back seat and me having no sense of orientation whatsoever I'm fairly sure our drivers were wishing they had chosen other people to offer their services to.

 About 5 hours after leaving Palermo, after a lot of horror movie jokes as we were driving through the Italian darkness and exactly zero Mafioso we were finally there. And the party was in full swing already to warm us up for the big day ahead. Me and Barbra picked up were we left off and proceeded to have wine whilst catching up with our favourite bride-to-be and enjoying the beautiful vineyard that would be our home for the next few days.

Following a final glass of wine, me, Barbra, Neil Patrick & David made our way down to our rooms (still no Mafioso) and somehow ended up drinking the most vile wine I have ever had whilst attaching wrong colour hair extensions backwards and later proceeding to the pool for a 3 AM dip.

The next morning, in spite of a mild wine hangover, I went outside and viewed the landscapes in daylight for the first time. And it was beautiful.

Best wedding venue ever you guys!

 

Pretty Views

More pretty views

Limitless pretty views as it turns out

And last but not least... Pretty views.

202. Crayfish Craze

30th August 2014, Brick Lane, London

So here's the thing; Crayfish is a big frickin' deal for us Swedes.

We throw actual parties in their honour. I kid you not. No summer can come to an end without dill and beer infused crayfish, Swedish cheese pies, vodka snaps, snaps songs, hats and lanterns!

As I haven't thrown a proper crayfish party in years, it was definitely time for one in 2014.

Thankfully, most of my London family have learned just to roll with it irrespective of the funny Swedish traditions they get dragged into. Most of them involves vodka and that is generally good enough of a reason to play game for this group of friends.

As per standard party tradition, Hell's Bells was dragged to my house 10 hours before other guest to help me out with cooking and decorating as I was in my usual fashion three hours behind my own time plan. She usually get stuck stuffing olives, but this time she had to kill sea creatures. I'm not sure she considered it a promotion. But then again, she could have been stuck killing the lobsters like me.

Throughout the crayfish massacre we did also manage to cook what felt like every Swedish dish on the planet and go way over the top on decorations. To the extent where I still find crayfish confetti in my bedroom one month on.

In the midst of making chanterelle puffs, spicy cheese quiche and mini crayfish toast we also managed to invent the cocktail that may have been responsible for a lot of events to follow throughout the night; the Pearspectacular. It had boozy pears in it. Not to mention alcohol, bubbly alcohol and pear alcohol. It was too yum for everyone's upcoming wellbeing.

Following the hours slaving by the stove and a mingling session filled with pickamix and dill crisps, it was finally time to eat!

We had outdone ourselves if I may say so myself. Everything from the crayfish lanterns and garlands to the song books to the snaps selection to the red guests of honour had turned out awesome and once the crayfish newbies had got a hang of the how to crack, suck and eat the crayfish - I'd like go say that everyone had a pretty darn awesome time!

Once the dinner had been had and the beautiful cake brought by the Nordmen enjoyed, sophistication may have come to an end with me training myself a bit to hard in Cognac drinking and a cake fight commencing right by the balcony.

And the next day I learned, nothing tells you that you've had a party like waking up to the smell of crayfish and finding chocolate cake in the curtains.

For the Crayfish Virgins

The Red Gold

The Crayfish Crew

201. Working Girl

26th August 2014, City of London., London

 

Well I guess it had to come to an end at some stage.

 

After leaving a prior 80 hours work-a-week life style for a summer of travelling, daily naps, Tuesday brunching, general mischief and adventure, it was time to get back to work.

 

Having struggled to find appealing roles with the prospects I was after (in other words, being more motivated to bake cookies and watch Jeremy Kyle than I was to get back to work), I finally found the place. I instantly hit it off with the manager, loved the job spec and to top things off, I would be able to walk to work in 10 minutes - it was a done deal in my mind. And with that, back to work I was.

 

Although my outlook to getting back to work was largely positive... Damn did I not enjoy the whole getting out of bed before noon deal! That and the whole idea of putting make up on, doing my hair and not wearing my leopard sweat pants out in public. If you've ever dressed a five-year-old for a party in nice party clothes, it was about the same reaction when I got a suit on. 'But I don't want to wear these clothes, they don't feel good. You're mean mummy'!

 

Dragging myself to work was the worst of it. I had completely forgotten the ludicrous amount of people that will be out and about at 8 AM, all thinking that they're in the biggest hurry of all human beings in the world. I got back into habitual swearing at other Londoners and overtaking slow walkers in about 10 minutes. Like riding a bike.

 

Once there, I quite liked getting into this thing I used to call routine. Getting my morning coffee before 2 PM, trying to find the best spot for lunch, organising my stationary and getting reacquainted with my beloved Excel. It was all rather enjoyable surprisingly enough.

 

Me and my pencil skirt are officially back in the game!

200. Chicken Jerky

24th August 2014, Notting Hill Carnival, Notting Hill, London

So apparently the must-have-tried of Caribbean food is jerked chicken.

Ideally this obviously would have been something to try when actually being in the Caribbean earlier this year. But let's face it, amongst the frozen margaritas and the salad bar, the Caribbean cuisine was not exactly a big priority at that American infested resort. So we had to settle for the next place closest to a Caribbean experience - the London Carnival.

I'll happily admit that I didn't know what the deal with jerked chicken was. I figured it would be like beef jerky. Only with chicken. Which sounds a lot like Fridge Raiders and that idea did not appeal to me at all.

Although, after a diet consisting of Red Stripe and a banana throughout the day, I was looking forward to getting some food though - even if I was sceptical about the name and origin and what exactly made the chicken jerked.

You can imagine my disappointment when I realise that it's basically just grilled chicken. That's it. Grilled chicken. Maybe with a side of beany rice, but still... Grilled chicken is what it is.

Next time I'll just go to Nandos.

Overly hyped grilled chicken.

199. Porta-No-Way

24th August 2014, Notting Hill Carnival, Notting Hill, London

Some people have put it down to me being bit of a princess.

They may have a point, but no matter how you twist and turn it, the very idea of a toilet that is portable and non flushing and has no hand soap or L'Occitane moisturizer is just plain wrong.

And due to my refusal to ever use a portaloo I have never attended festivals or any other outdoors activity requiring the occasional bathroom break without proper facilities. There was even a summer when I, aged 14, refused the beach for six weeks whilst the changing rooms were being refurbished and portaloos were put out in their place.

Eventually I might want to go to Glastonbury though. Like when Dave Grohl is there next. And by then I need to have prepared myself for all the circumstances that might crop up at a festival. Apart from the tent sleeping. A girl has got to draw the line somewhere.

After queuing up to pay money to go pee at someone's house and not being able to face the queue, we had to resort to the portaloos. I would have happily postponed my portaloo experience for another 10 years - and for good reason as it turns out.

In the queue with Crazy Canadian, I already start to panic. Like hyper ventilating, cleaning invisible germs away from my hands with invisible antibacterial wipes and loudly exclaiming every 30 seconds or so exactly how incredibly vile I am finding the whole concept. But I am ready. But only after tying my hair back, clinging on to any piece of clothing that may end up touching the walls otherwise and handing my Marc Jacobs bag over to Hell's Bells to look after whilst I was gone. I may have said a rather intense, dramatic and heart felt goodbye to the bag. It may have embarrassed the people around me.

Once inside this disgusting box of dread, I actually want to get physically sick. The smell, the confined space, the general lack of... clean. And where the eff is my L'Occitane?!?!

I wish I could say I got over it.

Instead I run out of that god awful invention as soon as it was humanly possible, desperately trying to get my hands on some hand sanitizer to rub exactly everywhere including my hair, but for the first time in the history of our friendship, Hell's Bells was not carrying her trusted tube of alcogel. It was actually worse of a betrayal than if she had sold my Marc Jacob's bag to the enemy for chocolate.

In the end I resorted to scrub my hands with vodka. Well worth the 10 pounds.