Bag-Blocked

We went to a dinner party last night at the home of our friends Gordon and Donna, who live in Leyton, East London. The street above is right around the corner from their house -- a quaint little road of colorful shops that has been landscaped and made pedestrian-friendly by the local council. It looks much nicer than it did about ten years ago, when parked cars lined the sidewalk and greenery was sparse, though it's always been a cute area.

I was pretty lazy yesterday. I sat out in the back garden with Olga and read "The Chocolate War" by Robert Cormier, a groundbreaking young-adult novel from the mid-'70s that has stirred controversy for decades. The New York Times recently had a story about how it defined Cormier's career as one of the most challenged books for young people. When I read that article I thought, "I really need to finally read this book!" I made pretty quick work of it, and as with most controversial books, I don't really see why it's such a big deal. It takes place in a boys' school so there are a few fleeting references to the kinds of things that would occupy the minds of teenage boys, and its overall theme is questioning authority. I guess that was enough to stir up trouble.

Meanwhile, Dave was in the kitchen making this:

It's Confit Byaldi, a variation on a traditional French ratatouille. There's a layer of roasted pepper and tomato sauce on the bottom, called piperade, and after Dave layered it with these colorful vegetable slices he put the whole thing in the oven. Then we had to schlep it to East London for the dinner party, which was somewhat awkward but we managed. (We had to carry a big bowl of vichysoisse too! Thank goodness for roomy canvas bags.)

We took the tube to Leyton, where the station has colorful filigreed support columns. Our friends Keith and Chris joined us at Gordon and Donna's, and we all had a dinner featuring Gordon's duck confit and Donna's margarita ice cream, in addition to Dave's contributions. I was the fortunate one at this event -- I didn't have to lift a finger.

We probably stayed way too late -- we didn't get back on the tube until about 12:30 a.m. On the way home we were surrounded by Londoners who'd all obviously been out partying. One guy got on the train wearing a backpack, and didn't step into the car far enough, so the door closed on his bag -- and of course the train won't move if the doors don't close. The occupants of the car kept telling him, "Your bag's in the door!" The conductor came on the PA and asked whoever was holding the door to let it go. And he just shrugged and acted like he couldn't do anything about it. Finally a big muscly passenger walked over and said, "Here, let me help you," and physically yanked the guy forward so the doors could close. Dave and I figured the bag wearer was either drunk or stoned. It was very weird, but amusing to all of us. The bag wearer just stood there for the rest of our ride, lost in the world of his phone and ear buds.