Eating out with friends

I love good food. I love good conversation. And I love not having to cook or wash the dishes.

Eating out with friends is the perfect way to achieve all three of the above. And I have to tell you that it’s particularly good when one of those friends takes you to his favourite restaurant, which happens to serve food that is more familiar to you that the strange fishy soups and pickled vegetables you’ve been surviving on lately. Eating a creamy pasta dish with garlic bread has never been such an ecstatic experience. We sat around the table half the night, scraping our plates clean, talking about topics other than the school and the children, and laughing. It felt good.

Eating out with friends. It just makes me happy.

Revisiting my childhood

I had a very happy childhood.

I was lucky enough to have loving, responsible, easy-going parents, parents who didn’t split up and who never argued in front of the kids. Dad worked hard to earn money to give us the essentials, and nice things, and holidays. Mum threw herself into motherhood with a passion, and as a result I have fond memories of long summers full of games, walks, picnics, crafts, paddling pools, and treats… birthday parties that every child in my class wanted to be invited to… Christmas decorations and perfect presents…

And not only that, but things in general just seemed so much more pleasant as a small child. No money worries, no heartbreak, no need to look any further ahead than dinner time. The days were long and happy, and a year was like a lifetime. My childhood was full of trips to the seaside, and dressing-up boxes, and Creamola Foam, and pets, and The Beano, and school holidays, and colouring-in books, and Timmy Mallet, and Barbie dolls, and tree-climbing, and Fast Forward magazine, and the ice cream man, and sleepovers, and Push-Pops, and the park, and Ulster Fries at granny’s house on a Saturday morning, and board games, and dolls’ prams, and running races to the end of the street, and kites, and all sorts of other stuff that makes me smile when I remember it.

I love to see kids playing games that remind me of my own childhood. I love to visit the seaside and get a little taste of the childish excitement that that caused when I was little. I love to see a clip from one of my favourite childhood TV shows. I love to be reminded of the sweets and toys I enjoyed. I love the jingle of the ice cream van, or the smell of an Ulster Fry. I love looking at childhood photos.

Revisiting my childhood. It just makes me happy.

Finishing a project

I start off so enthusiastically when I get a new set of articles to write, a new project to work on, fresh material to work with. I write and write and write, and then I realise I’m exhausted, and then the enthusiasm starts to fade. But by that stage I’m normally about three quarters of the way there, so I know that if I just keep going, I’ll soon be able to savour that delicious moment when I hit save on the final article and know that my work here is done.

I’m not a shoddy writer. In so many things, I do a half-hearted job because the work bores me or seems pointless to me. But I really, really love to write, and I always aim for perfection, no matter how seemingly dull or uninspiring the subject matter may be. It horrifies me when I land a “rewriting” job and am presented with a set of articles by a hapless client who has learned the hard way that you really shouldn’t just automatically choose the writer who makes the lowest bid. That writer will almost certainly be (a) someone in a far-off land who has English as their second or third language (and I use the word “has” in the loosest possible sense), or (b) a struggling student or housewife trying to make a few extra pennies through writing, with the unfortunate handicap of being completely unable to spell or structure a sentence. The client receives a set of shockingly awful articles, and then has to pay another – more expensive – writer to rewrite them. Much better to just pay the higher fee in the first place, non?

I take pride in my writing, and I aim to make every article, script and blog post informative, engaging and easy to read, even if it’s about something that would ordinarily bore me to tears. So when I get to the end of a writing project, I always have that sense of satisfaction that I’ve never known to come from anything else. It’s a job well done – I did my very best, it’s of the highest possible standard, and the client is going to be pleased. I draw up my invoice and send it on, happy in the knowledge that I earned my money. I file the articles away in my growing portfolio. And I feel good.

It just makes me happy.

Knowing I’m Loved

When life – or a man – leaves you barely hanging together, it’s very easy to get sucked into the self-pitiful abyss where it seems that you’re all alone. You’re rejected, not good enough, a failure, unwanted, unloved, not worth being with.That’s a crap place to be.

And it’s nonsense. Just because one person changes his mind about you doesn’t have any effect on who you are, however tempted you might be to believe it.

There are emails that make you cry because they’re so full of love and concern and compassion. There are blog comments from readers who don’t want to desert you even though you’re not particularly bright and chirpy and witty at the moment. There are comments from readers who have lurked until now, and just want to let you know that they’re there, and they appreciate you. There are Facebook messages filled with offers of places to stay. There are emails and text messages from a family who love you. There are Skype calls with supportive friends who want you to know they’re there with you, even if they’re half a world away. There is emotional support and comfort, there is practical advice and guidance, there are offers of financial help and accommodation, there are jokes and attempts to make you laugh and see the funny side, there are pushes to keep you busy and moving forward, ensuring that you don’t get stuck in a rut. There are people out there who do want you, and do think you’re worth it.

I know, more certainly and definitely now than ever before, that I’m loved. And that… that just makes me happy.

Hearing a sweet, happy song.

It just makes me happy.

Spring Sunshine

The first sunny days after winter are always a pleasure.

But nothing compares to how genuinely overjoyed I was to emerge, blinking, into the first bright and sunny day in Tallinn after a winter that seemed as if it would go on forever. After months of darkness, snow, grey skies and gloomy mists, it was a somewhat euphoric experience to step outside into bright sunlight shining down from a cheerful, clear blue sky. The world was in colour once again, and the faint tingle of warmth on my skin made my spirits soar more than I would ever have expected.

Winter is over. There is colour and sunshine and warmth once more.

It just makes me happy.

Sushi

I love sushi. Really, really love it.

I remember being really disappointed the first time some friends took me for sushi when I was in America – the waitress brought the plates to the table and I looked at the tiny little rolls in amazement. Surely that wasn’t the entire meal? I could have eaten each one of those in one bite, one after the other, all by myself, and still had room for dessert! I didn’t see how it was meant to feed four fully-grown women.

I was wrong, of course, because there was actually some left over in the end. They’re surprisingly filling, those little rolls – and what’s more, you take your time over them because they’re so damn tasty. It would be a crying shame to just wolf them all down without really appreciating them.

I must confess that I generally opt for the American versions rather than the Japanese ones, but this is purely because I absolutely love the California/Philadelphia Maki and I can’t reist ordering them even if I feel that I should branch out and try something more adventurous. And, oh, when that little plate arrives with its colourful display of sesame seeded rice rolls filled with succulent pink salmon and crunchy avacado, the little bowl of rich soy sauce, the pile of moist, tangy ginger and dab of wasabi on the side…

I love it, love it, love it. I eat sushi more slowly than I eat anything else in the world – normally I bolt my food in a very greedy manner, but with sushi I take my time. And not just because I’ve never quite mastered chopsticks. I just love to savour the gorgeous combination of flavours that is, as far as I’m aware, unrivalled by any other kind of meal. It tastes so fresh and clean and good and wholesome and healthy and indulgent and sharp and smooth and rich and light all at the same time.And it’s fun to go to a sushi bar and use chopsticks and pour out your soy sauce and mix in your wasabi and just go through the whole sushi ritual – it’s much more than just something to eat!

It just makes me happy.

Daft clothing

I mean, seriously. If you saw someone like this when you were out doing the shopping on an otherwise grey and gloomy day, wouldn’t it brighten up your world?

It just makes me happy.

Finding interesting Siirup flavours

I have not made a secret of the fact that I love going to new supermarkets and seeing all sorts of new weird and wonderful products. I have also previously stated my love of Siirup, Estonia’s equivalent of “squash” juice or “dilutin’” as my family have always called it.

Imagine my delight, therefore, when I was browsing through a previously unexplored supermarket today and came across shelves and shelves and shelves of Siirup… all sorts of new flavours I’d never seen before! Hurrah!

I now have a collection of Siirups to drink when the notion takes me, much as normal people might have, say, a selection of fine wines.

From left to right, the flavours are blueberry, lime and apple, raspberry and redcurrant, pear, and pomegranate. Other flavours I’ve had include tropical mix, lime, strawberry, cherry, cola, and orange, and who knows how many others are lurking in various supermarkets across the land?

It just makes me happy.

Cadbury’s Creme Eggs

I cannot accurately describe the feeling of pleasure that a Cadbury’s Creme Egg can bring.

I tried to, once, in this post on my “real” blog, saying:

The most positive thing I have encountered during the flurry of negative feelings is, without a shadow of doubt, the Cadbury’s Creme Egg. Pessimism is impossible when you’ve just hollowed out the egg and, in the midst of the ensuing sugar rush, placed the chocolate shell in its entirety into your mouth. There are no words. Mainly because it’s difficult to speak with an entire Creme Egg in your mouth.

The shops in the UK sell Creme Eggs most of the year round. They’re meant to be Easter products, you see, so they generally appear in the shops just before Easter (i.e. in December) and disappear again when Easter is over (around August).  There is rarely a Creme Egg shortage. Zed and I practically lived on them for about three months around Easter last year. It is impossible to eat a Creme Egg without saying “Mmmmm” a lot. We used to sit opposite each other and eat our Creme Eggs with dedicated concentration, looking at each other and Mmmmm-ing, which alarmed He Who Brought The Coffee when he happened to walk in on us one day.

There is a lot of controversy about how one should consume a Creme Egg. They made a huge advertising campaign out of this in the 90s, with ads like this one with Matt Lucas. It’s one of those rare occasions when a product’s advertising slogan genuinely is a commonly asked question. “How do you eat yours?” is a perfectly acceptable – and even expected – thing to ask someone as far as Creme Eggs are concerned.

Personally, I feel that it is Just Plain Wrong to eat a Creme Egg all in one go. That would be like drinking your first cappuccino of the day without taking the time to breathe in the rich aroma and lick off a bit of the foam before taking a blissful first sip. No, I am a strong advocate of the Scoop and Lick method – which basically involves biting the top off and carefully eating all the creamy filling. When I was younger, my mum used to give me a tiny little eggspoon to scoop it out; now that I’m all grown up, I use, erm, my little finger.

You scoop it all out, licking it off your finger, and eventually get any remaining bits with your tongue. I never said this was a dignified procedure. Once you’ve cleaned out the chocolate shell, you put the whole thing in your mouth and let it melt for a while before going “Grooooooggggghhhh” (delerious sugar-high-followed-by-chocolate-rush noise; difficult to translate) and finishing it off. That is how I eat mine.

Did I mention that I’m living in Estonia now, and there is no Cadbury’s chocolate to be found anywhere, anywhere, anywhere? Not a Creme Egg in sight. Fortunately Riho was in England the other week, and I was delighted when he returned with a bagful of Cadbury treats for me. Including two Creme Eggs. I did some shrieking and squealing and happy dancing, and then settled down to demolish one of them. He may have regretted his choice of gift, actually – there was a distinct look of horror on his face as he watched me setting about the serious business of Scooping and Licking. It always seemed to be acceptable when I was six.

Anyway. I have been putting off eating the other one because, let’s face it, who knows how long it’ll be before I get to have another? But for now, I’m going to focus on the positives and savour my Creme Egg.

It just makes me happy.