…lest you get lost in a bowl of noodles.
So…hi. It’s been a while – well over 6 months I suppose, but who’s counting. It finally dawned on me that if we are going to have this odd, detached friendship, blogger and reader, somebody has to do the work. I know, I know, it was never going to be you. It’s my job, and always was.
So we begin again. This year I’m going to pick at the “ish-ness” of Foodishness, especially those quirky connective tissues that thread food to all the other things in our lives, from mundane to remarkable.
Since I last posted in July of ‘23, it feels like both nothing and everything has transpired. The most noteworthy nothing was 12 weeks of intensive physical therapy for some excruciating tendonitis in my elbows and arms. Steroids were temporary masks at best, so it was time to face the pain. This involved twice-weekly dry needling, a series of precise exercises, and some pretty aggressive cupping. I was a serious, faithful patient and loved making friends with “the kids” who took care of me. I think my favorite moment was when one of my therapists told me to complete my stretches and then meet her at the bar…to which I responded, “oooh, there’s a bar?” It was not that kind of bar.
Healing is tricky business – there were moments of intense pain, disappointing backslides, and even a few flashes of resentment. But sometimes the only way through pain is through. While my sports photography career is over, today I’m grateful to flip a crepe or carry platter of carnitas to the table without the threat of an expletive-laden, self-inflicted, one-woman food fight. I now also wield a nail gun like a pro and I’m an ace with a mitre box, but that’s for another post.
The everything part of last fall was, in theory, a ridiculously well-executed week in London. That would have been enough, but one accidental photo caught the actual everything – the moment a vacation became an epiphany.
One day we wandered across the Thames to have lunch at Borough Market, a vibrant and bustling collection of locally-sourced food stalls and exotic street food vendors. The market is known for its commitment to sustainability and social connections, but to a foodie tourist the maze of fishmongers, butchers, cheese shops, and bakeries is simply heaven on earth.
Faced with a paradox of choice, I mindlessly settled into pedestrian bowl of pad Thai and instantly did my thing – photographed the food. I always edit on the spot and that’s when I noticed the background in the photo. Rising up above the market was the Shard, Renzo Piano’s 72-storey skyscraper that defines the skyline of the South Bank. It hit me right then: why am I in Europe staring down at a plate of food I could have found anywhere in Atlanta?
This was my for-God’s-sake-woman-look-up! moment and that’s when everything changed. I hate when I catch myself being single-minded, although I come by it quite naturally, having learned to engage intense hyper-focus over the years, especially when my passions met purpose. I can recognize this affliction when it occurs and usually snap out of it after a couple of hours. It’s how I learned to operate my camera, create my blog, kick some institutional ass, and write a book. But this moment was an entirely different reckoning – I was so accustomed to a narrow, plate-sized field of view that I’d forgotten to look up. I mean really look up and around and breathe it in. Shame on me.
So I opened my eyes and linked that big ol’ wide world with my intimate food audits to create an experience that was vast and breathtaking while still tangible and personally evocative. My perception jumped everywhere from 18 inches to 18 feet to 18 miles, and I was utterly delighted by the visual and spatial contrasts. Duh, Betsy. I really hate when I’m stupid.
Behold, my finds:
A respectable plate of traditional ale-battered fish & chips was one of my non-negotiables for this trip. It was also a dish I had threatened to eat morning, noon, and night. But I allowed myself only one, and Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese (ca 1667) on Fleet Street was the spot. They nailed it, and while the cold Samuel Smith paired perfectly, you can keep the mushy peas.
The White Tower of London (ca 1080) is the original keep within the Tower complex, but very few tourists seem to notice its grandeur. I photographed it from every side and angle, but I couldn’t capture its full weight, either physically or metaphorically, until I used the ultra-wide lens on my iPhone. Note: try the .5 iPhone lens if you have it and don’t forget the sky!
There is no shortage of divine Indian restaurants in London, and Tamarind is one of the best. On our very first night in town we feasted on raj kachori, slow-cooked Hyderabadi lamb shank, grilled sea bass, and old Delhi butter chicken. We left speechless and forever ruined – I’m unsure we will experience this level of perfection again. And yes, we also went to Dishoom.
Westminster Abbey (ca 1066) has always been a favorite and could take days to fully explore. Remember, I was an architecture major and remain to this day, an utter romantic. The Gothic flying buttresses, the traditional heraldry in the Henry VII Chapel, the meandering cloisters, Baroque towers, and this gold and blue choir screen ceiling were all triggering…in a good way.
High Tea at Kensington Palace was our quintessential British snob moment, although William and Kate were abroad at the time so we dined alone. I waited all week for this precious and pretentious event and it didn’t disappoint. While not everybody in my party likes cucumber sandwiches, clotted cream, scones, or even tea, I savored every dainty bite.
While I’m not adept at night photography, I captured St. Paul’s and the Millennial Bridge from the South Bank during an evening stroll. The coupling of old and new is practiced cliché, that is until you stumble upon it in real life and surrender to the happy friction. Maybe this kind of contrast is commonplace in a city like London, but I’ll never tire of my brain being asked to work at visual puzzle.
Courgette and straciatella flatbread at Straker’s was a preplanned experiment in modern London cuisine. Thomas Straker gained fame as a TikTok chef during the pandemic and now has a restaurant in Notting Hill along with a line of enhanced English butters. We wormed our way in and sat at the fiery kitchen counter to witness our feast come to life. 10/10.
This week I recreated Straker’s flatbread at home, which was time-consuming but totally worth it. I let the bread proof for 3 days and almost took out the basil butter by myself with a spoon, but I managed to bake two beautiful miniature veggie pizzas. The entire time I was flooded with memories of London, and that’s one of the lasting benefits of vacation – bringing bits home with you to enrich your everyday life through a memory. Food makes it an active memory, one of dimension and action and flavor and texture. Now when I eat Indian food, I also muse about the Tower of London, and movies that show the Millennial Bridge make me crave scones with clotted cream. Taste memories are the best.
The lesson here is obvious – look up from your food, look up from your computer, look up from your phone. Relish that tiresome effort to adjust your eyes and strain to refocus…again and again and again. Worth it.
Bonus if you read this far: my weekly dry needling required sterile conditions and was administered in a private room rather than the common area, where the “bar” is. The thing about having needles plunged deep into your tendons is YOU DO NOT MOVE – to do so is agonizing. I sneezed once, so I know. Every week for the entire 15 minute procedure I would lie absolutely lifeless on the exam table, eyes dead-focused on the wall because I’m not a huge fan of pain. Or needles.
Physical therapy addresses all kinds of issues, not just arms, knees, ankles, or backs. Therapists also work with private areas like pelvic floors, hence the small exam rooms. It would seem my “needling room” had an entirely different purpose, and the wall I dutifully stared at was plastered in richly detailed posters of the human reproductive systems. Guess where the male poster was? I’m not kidding, it was literally in my face…for 12 weeks. I could write an entire blog post called “The Vas Deferens and Me.” I’m lucky that way. Also, giggling is ill-advised during dry needling. But worth it.
How to make Straker’s flatbread:
Foodishness 
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