How green is my card?

This is the first of two posts; the second will have the same subject line, only without the question mark. We expect that one in three to six weeks.

But meantime, Karen and I have had our immigration interview, and neither one of us has been thrown out of the country, and my application for a green card is only subject to further review because they need to check that I'm not wanted by the police on seven continents. As I don't believe any policeman has ever wanted me for anything, I am not much concerned by this. Not much. But I am apparently being very reserved, by
American standards. My own nation would probably be proud of me. I don't actually expect to whoop and holler even when the card itself actually does come. Quiet satisfaction, that's the British way. On to the next thing to stress about. I've got plenty.

"Oh Peter, shall we ever behave as normal people do?"

So our green-card interview was first thing this morning; it was literally get showered, get dressed, get on the road to be sure we were on time. Karen had taken the day off, to be sure to be around to take care of things whatever happened. I suspect this included the chance of my going totally to pieces, but hey.

In the event of a successful outcome - or indeed its opposite - we had of course spoken about opening a bottle of champagne. It was ready in the fridge, keeping cool. It still is. Perhaps we'll crack it later; I dunno. Perhaps I ought to be more whoop-de-doo? But I'm not. The "congratulations, you have been granted residence" box remains resolutely unticked; I may feel more like celebrating when I have the actual green card in my actual hand. In the meantime, I am rendering beef suet and tidying up after yesterday's all-day partying. Which was mostly seriously fun, thanks, despite bad newses coming through about a couple of people we're very close to; lobscouse and spotted dog both came out quite yummy. Also, here is a lesson reinforced: if you mention a need in these circles, not only will wise people on the internet guide you towards a solution; kind people in the flesh will very likely bring one. Or two. Or three. I ended yesterday with beef suet in three different forms: rendered, trimmed, and untrimmed. So I have trimmed and chopped, and am rendering. I do love handling food on this intimate, engaged level, turning an unpromising slab into pure loveliness. Karen meanwhile is napping on the sofa, which is probably the best use she can make just now of a day off. We've both been stressed and anxious, and while all-day partying was undoubtedly the best way to stop me snapping entirely in two under the pre-interview pressures, that in itself is exhausting. So, yeah: we are relaxing, in our various ways. Soon I may move out into the garden, and express myself forcefully to those wayward tomatoes.

Dinner tonight may be a little ... haphazard. Leftoverly, though in fact there is no leftover lobscouse and the remaining spotted dog would need cooking, it's just a dough at the moment, so I don't think that counts as leftovers at all. I might make soup. Soups. We have smoked ham bones, and split peas; also we have all those tomatoes, and corned beef cooking-water. Pork and peas, beef and tomato. Soups. Maybe. [In a side note: this was the first time, and already I love American corned beef. In the UK, it's a joke: it comes in tins, and is not quite as funny as spam. The notion of buying corned brisket and actually cooking it - and actually producing something that's tasty and pleasantly textured - is entirely alien to the British consciousness. Though now of course I want to corn my own brisket, thank you very much.]

Also Sprach Barry

"I see you are rendering beef suet. This is relevant to my interests."

[Sitting directly before the cooker, gazing up to where delightful beefy crispy things are happening.]

Not quite -30- after all

The late Dorothy Dunnett used to say that she'd get to the end of a Lymond and feel that she was honestly not quite done yet: so she'd write a Johnson Johnson mystery in the next six or seven weeks, just to wrap up.

I first heard this Before Internets, and the notion of someone writing a whole book so quickly, just to give herself a break from the other books she wrote... I was hornswoggled, I was. Now of course my inbox is full of people who write that quickly and relentlessly, and I'm almost blase about other people's process, and like that.

This morning, after yesterday? I thought I'd be quite done with cooking for a bit. I thought I'd let m'lady wife take me out to dinner.

This afternoon, as we know, I started rendering beef suet. Not with any aim in mind, just because.

This evening? I am cooking the Côôôôq au Vin that I neglected to cook yesterday, and the second Spotted Dog, and potatoes in the oven, and... Yeah. Because it's m'wife and me and we have a thing to celebrate, and just because it's m'wife and me. Oh, and anyone else who turns up, but that's not obligatory tonight. This is a quick contemporary meal to follow the great historical feast, and if I choose to follow a historical recipe, so what?