Buns and Frogs legs - Mercredi, 17.01.07

Mercredi 17.01.07 Buns and Frogs legs

Some days I really don’t know how I’ll ever function again in Ireland; in a regular job, a relatively quick-paced working environment, an even faster-paced society and a world which requires some knowledge of current affairs and other goings-on.

Being in Martinique is often like being in my own little oven. If you’re a female and young enough to remember the Little Tykes magic oven that was doing the rounds in the mid-eighties making batches of fairy cakes, then you’re close to what I’m now thinking. You mixed these strange ingredients which, although they came in rather normal packets, seemed somewhat suspicious to the unbaked, naked eye, and after only 15 minutes in a plastic oven (you’ve got to wonder sometimes…) they came out looking relatively tasty, yet not so golden-brown as the cardboard image, but cheerful and fun all the same; little effort, little effect but enough to keep you going.

I’m not saying that my diet here consists of strange buns – though I have been known to concoct some strange bakes and dishes in my time but, it feels like I’m surviving on something similar to these fun buns; it may be good to taste and enjoyable to make but in the end is it doing me any good? Does it satisfy me? I had thought three months of Caribbean cooking would have been an ample order. Could I not have had my fill during 348 meals? Not at the rate things are served, or done, here. If I was a tourist wanting to do all I plan to while I’m here I could have jammed it all into the past three months but living, working and existing here is different and each time you visit your local restaurant you get a bigger slice of the pie…

When you live abroad as apposed to going abroad you often have to let things marinade, soak and simmer before advancing; you assimilate, absorb and observe while being in this place, part of this place. One thing I dispute about my childhood cake creation analogy is that I’m actually turning more brown than anticipated. Oh, and the fact that the pretty pink and yellow Little Tykes oven was plastic and the fact that Martinique also seems such an outwardly attractive, multi-coloured commodity while on closer inspection resembles a badly thought-out, yet scarily functioning prototype niggles me from time to time… How long did that odd oven stay on the market before it was taken off the shelves?

Well, today is my day off, and the weather pattern breaks from it’s usual Wet Wednesday routine as we’re blessed with a scorcher of a day . 34°C. It’s too hot. Us Irish are never happy. I’m up just before midday to have my breakfast but with no will to read, nothing on the TV and the slug of sleep still running through my veins I crawl back into bed just before the mad midday sun starts letting off steam.

The mid-afternoon heat haze is unbearable. No sooner have I sat outside than I start smouldering. I can actually see the heat dancing off me in the reflection of our silver patio chairs. They’re not steel but I do feel like I’m being roasted alive. The shade is just about manageable as even with my shades on the light glares off my book and the sweat gathers and glistens in my body’s the grease creases.

The evening is not so cruel and I get around to sorting out my classes for the rest of the week. Nicola and I contemplate heading into town for dinner but lack of cash, energy and choice prevents us and we make do with a mound of tomato pureed rice, topped off with an onion and cheese smothered burger. Tinned fruit and goyave flavoured ice-cream end the meal which I didn’t even fully want, deserve or need.

I’m tediously cutting out a clock template for my kids when one of our new neighbours pops his head around the corner. I get such a fright but I actually say bonsoir before jumping in my seat. Frederick, has that impish I’ve-been-drinking-all-evening smirk plastered across his face and he relies a little too much on the stability of our wall as he chats away. In true Irish flavour we invite him around for drinks. He scurries back into his apartment to retrieve his glass of rhum agricole before installing himself at the head of our terrace table. He’s already on his way and he opens up more easily than he did with Verner, our other new neighbour and his colleague. There’s also another new neighbour, another French EDF worker, renting out Arlette’s single bedroom; it’s a full house. We enquire about the newbie before draining Frederick of all personal, technical and menial information and plying him with our Jameson reserves.

Frederick is 28 years young – four year’s younger than I’d guessed. Verner is 52. They’re both from Metz in the north-east of France. Frederick has worked as an installation operator in China, Syria, Scotland, French Guyana, Martinique and Corsica. This is his third time in Martinique and he’s heading to Corsica next. When? He’s not exactly sure… It could be two weeks or two months. If it depends on how quickly things get done here I’d safely say the latter. His tales about Corsica set my mind in motion about spending another year as an assistante… For the moment however we’ll have to be content with planning our next trip – to St Lucia. It’s a pity Frederick has only three days holidays during Carnival as he’d like to come along too. I’m sure he’ll have an electrifying time at the EDF – Electrical Deficiency Factory.