On September 2022

The first edition of a monthly series within The Onion Papers: a personal almanac. Harvest Moon, The Queens of Sarmiento Park, loss of trust and figs; feeling offbeat, September.

I went to Muji on Carnaby Street during my lunch break. I looked at the spread of colourful ink pens attentively, the thickness of their lines and the rainbow of stationery they promise, but I didn’t buy any. I moved on to the diary section instead, a reconciliation with my yearly desire to switch for the aesthetic of an academic approach in lieu of the boring January to December lens. Would I feel less anxious today if I knew September was only the beginning and not a four-month countdown until the end of the year? The meteorological autumn is starting and friends tell me they have had dreams of rainfalls, the end of a summer of heatwaves but the circle of climate crisis. Floods devastate Pakistan with over a third of the country under water and my friend Jill points me in the direction of this fundraiser. My dreams have been loud and I’m left to face my own fear of silence. Please do not say the words ‘back to school’ or ‘quiet quitting’ to me; I didn’t buy the pens or the diary for a reason. 

I’m listening to ‘September’ by La Femme on repeat as I go for runs up to Alexandra Palace. I’m greedy for nature, hopeful flowers along the pathways and I send a photo of the passion vines to Ludo when I get back. I love London in August so much that it makes it hard to love September back. This month, I’m also noticing the return of Monday dates across the city and the sight of people sharing beers outside of pubs have made my walks home after work enjoyable. I’ve been taking the long route and if I’m in the mood for melancholia, here is who I’m listening to. Dandelions are back in season and drinking cups of their infusions cure my hangovers – you’re welcome. 

Passion vines, Parkland, 1st September 2022

September 2022 marks seven years since I moved to the UK. I remember the person I was, arriving into St. Pancras with a huge sports bag dragging behind me and the address of where I was heading scribbled on an envelope along with a few helpful words. I also owned one of those pocket-size bilingual dictionaries because I knew my English was limited and I didn’t like to talk. I still cherish dictionaries: they enable me to show the words I mean to say. 

My London anniversary falls on the 2nd of September and I’m usually ceremonious about it, at least more than I like to be for my birthday. This year, however, I forgot about it. Last Friday was the end of a disruptive week spent sleeping on a friend’s sofa while some work was done in the flat I’m renting. I returned home in the afternoon, only to discover the place was covered with a layer of dust and that the ceiling on top of my bed was bare and held by tape. I bursted with anger and I binged watched the third season of Never Have I Ever (teenagers!! My heart!!!) while I cleaned the place. It’s when I walked into my Sainsbury’s Local later that evening that I realised which day it really was. There I was, standing in front of the ‘lunch deal’ section even though it was past 23:30, and there I was reminded of how much I can feel offbeat in London. A part of me is addicted to this feeling, the possibility of independence it entertains, but I also hate it to the point of tearing up in supermarket aisles. Everyone who knows me well would tell you that I love to dance. I ate a good dinner of snacks sitting on the windowsill in my living room that night: celery and hummus, olives and falafels. 

My first London flat was in Clapton and this is the neighbourhood where I discovered the consolation a solo lunch date can offer. I had spent the day scrubbing my basement flat because this is the only way for me to feel at home somewhere, something to do with scents and appropriation. I grew hungry from the exercise, the fridge was empty and I didn’t know where the nearest shop was. I also had little confidence in what I could achieve inside a kitchen and little energy to spare, so I set out to find a café. Maeve’s Kitchen was right up my street. The reason I remember this meal is because it was a first: a seated, solo lunch and the taste of smoked haddock. I searched ‘haddock’ in my dictionary to check which fish species I was about to eat, but what troubled me was the smoky element. I discovered a new side of oil then: toasty and thick instead of the citrusy, velvet touch of a vinaigrette. I don’t remember anything else about that meal, but I know that to this day the smell of smoke encapsulates London in my mind: my first job here, selling fries and pints from a truck at the Rugby World Cup, the barbecues taking place in back gardens at summertime and the constant traffic jams that rhythm the city. Maeve’s Kitchen closed soon after I visited, a first introduction to the pace of London, but I shall remember that the walls of the dining room were painted in yellow. Should we pause and crack an egg or two?

Smoked haddock omelette: 
1 small fillet of smoked haddock, boneless
2 eggs
100/150 ml milk, warm
1 bay leaf
Olive oil
A handful of chives, fresh and chopped
S&P

Start with poaching the haddock. Warm-up the milk with the bay leaf and black pepper inside a pot for which you have a lead. Place the haddock fillet, cover, and leave to simmer for 6 minutes. Do not bring the milk to the boil. Remove from the heat, drain the fillet and break it into small bits with the help of a fork. Set aside.

In the meantime, beat the eggs inside a bowl until they gain a homogeneous colour. Add salt and pepper to taste and give it another stir.

Heat-up some olive oil inside a pan that is large enough to fit the omelette. Pour in the beaten egg and let them settle on a medium heat. Once the bottom appears to have cooked, spread the haddock and chives over one half of the eggs. Fold the other half on top of the garnished side and flip it around to make sure the eggs are cooked throughout. Cook until golden. 

This month, the Salmon Pink Kitchen book club read The Queens of Sarmiento Park by Camila Sosa Villada (translated from Spanish, Argentina by Kit Maude). A queer fairytale about sex work, gender identity and chosen family, it’s also a wonderful work that blends magical realism and autofiction together. Racing through this novel was like a feverish dream, a vivid account of the mythologies we build about ourselves in order to survive in a world that is hostile. Heartbreaking but hopeful, at the core of The Queens of Sarmiento Park, there is Auntie Encarna’s house, or ‘the queerest boarding school in the nation’ where:

‘We lived in orbit. There was always something to eat at her house and we were often hungry. She’d welcome us with open arms and bread on the table. By day I lived the life of a mediocre student. I was poor, I can admit it now, I went hungry. Living off bread alone distorts your body, it makes it sad. Food without color is depressing and demoralizing. But Auntie Encarna’s cupboards were always full: if you needed something she’d give it to you. Flour, sugar, oil, maté tea, which was a staple of every home. And she told everyone that another essential was the image of the Virgin of the Valley, who was dark-skinned, rebellious, and powerful enough to change your fate.’ 

Liz Truss became prime minister of the United-Kingdom on the 6th day of September 2022 and I wish we had Auntie Encarna instead, as foolish as that may sound. I didn't listen to Truss’ first speech outside of No 10 that evening and I felt guilty for not being engaged enough, for consenting with my silence to a dangerous, diminishing and unfair political system. But I don’t want to work with them. I resent policies and their disconnection with the first-hand challenges of everyday. I’ve lost my appetite for conversations about ‘problematics’ and I want to talk about realities and issues; September 2022 has moved on and I think about caps, a cap on energy prices and common goods, a cap on rent rates. 

Book club reunited around a home cooked lunch. With my co-host, Irene, we made a savoury loaf, a peas salad and Anna Jones’ modern moussaka, but I had run out of spelt flour for the béchamel so we used buckwheat instead. This event explains why I baked this week’s sourdough bread with a 70% buckwheat and 30% wholemeal ratio. I rarely use buckwheat flour and I fell in love with the smell of the dough. Meadows, the cure for my summer nostalgia, perhaps, an invitation into autumn I welcome. I was excited as I kneaded because I knew that I had figs in my fruit bowl and ‘they would be perfect to eat with buckwheat bread,’ I thought out loud. A layer of goat cheese in between, sweet and sour, summer versus autumn, I often look back before I can focus on what’s to come. 

Figs on toast while reading The Queens of Sarmiento Park

The new moon is in Libra and it is believed to be a good time to focus on dreams and plans ahead – and I hold onto the September full moon being called the Harvest Moon. It’s due on the 25th this month; the evening sky is mauve between intervals of rain. Jupiter will be at opposition and therefore visible from the evening of the 26th in the east and until six thirty the next morning in the west. Daytime and nighttime will be equal as the Autumn Equinox will strike on 23rd September. 

A few things to look forward to in allotments and kitchens: crab apples will fall off trees and make wonderful preserves in anticipation of wintery cheese boards, while wild garlic will twist pesto recipes and so do hazelnuts. Plums, vivid red, bleeding towards the yellow, acidic and delicious; Jerusalem artichokes for root dishes when the first cold evening will hit later this month. Runner beans, French beans, peas, tossed with roasted garlic and parmesan for autumnal salads, a slow transition inside the kitchen and in the meantime, I’m making most of the beloved figs season. 

Figs on (buckwheat) toast: 

1 slice of bread (I believe that the match between whole buckwheat and sweet figs was made in heaven)
Goat cheese (I used Somerset Capricorn)
1 fig, quartered
Oregano

Spread the cheese over the slice of bread, add the figs and sprinkle oregano on top. Snack. 

Margaux