woobiquity

cxviii. Of every still life on the street

Ah, Miami Beach in January. Conference planners rule. What more could one's cold, British bones wish for than lunch and dinner taken out of doors by a resort swimming pool, while the normal state would involve braving icy winds in London?

For real Floridians (if those exist), gas heaters toast every street cafe in South Beach should the natural temperatures drop below 68 Fahrenheit. By contrast, today in London I spotted people suffering uncomplainingly through sidewalk coffee and newspapers in 37 degrees. And they weren't even wearing gloves.

But let us not tarry in that scene. For one thing, it's far too cold here to stand still. Rather, let's revisit Miami Beach, where a short stroll down the boardwalk reveals a place mightily in transition.

For every art deco hot spot or workaday budget hotel, another property sits as a shell, either waiting for or undergoing complete renovation. Old yellow school buses sit incongruously amid oceanfront construction rubble and workmen in hard hats mingle with vacationers as they wander back from their sand-sunk lounge chairs.

As a first timer in Miami, I enjoyed the decay and abandonment almost as much as I relished sitting in art deco lobbies, browsing along funky Lincoln Avenue, having dinner at Touch, where the well-prepared meal was variously accented by lasers, a House DJ, a live drummer, two Vogued-up dancers on pedestals, as well as a belly dancer, a roaming flautist and a man playing a tiny saxophone. Such theatricality!

And yet, in all this a certain sunny bleakness emerged, leaving me to wonder, even allowing for the off-season effect, what did I miss? Is that all there is... to Miami Beach?

cxvii. Of crowds that flow through the City

If you've ever wondered what life in the City of London (the capital's ancient financial district) is like this time of year:

Of course, this is nothing new. To quote TS Eliot in The Waste Land (1922): "Sighs, short and frequent, were exhaled, / And each man fixed his eyes before his feet. / Flowed up the hill and down King William Street".

The only detail he left out was the nut with the digital camera.

cxvi. When exercise and DIY combine

This sign appeared recently on a bulletin board next to the swimming pool at a health center that I use in Greenwich, London.

cxv. Of apples that go into juice

The Christmas-present juicer (a Magimix Le Duo) is working a treat, and means that we no longer have mounds of gradually shriveling apples left over from the weekly organic box. Instead we have fresh apple, beetroot and ginger juice and similar detoxifying but delish concoctions.

The down-side is that I now have no excuse to make apple butter, the tangy/mellow breakfast spread that for my money counts as one of America's top ten (good) contributions to global civilization -- not least because it's slow but simple to make and costs virtually nothing.

True, the traditional version involves standing around a sputtering cauldron while autumn leaves waft downward all around you, but you can get perfectly good results in a stove-top pot any day of the year.

Here's a reliable recipe. A couple of hints: if you don't have a food mill (who does?), peel the apples before you cook them; 'apple cider', in case you don't know, is basically apple juice; the sterilized canning process isn't really necessary if you plan to eat the apple butter within a month or two.

Try it. It may or may not make you an apple butter fanatic, but you're bound to like it.