Today is the day before Christmas Eve. I know this because I have suddenly become aware of all the things I intended to do, but haven't done to prepare for Christmas. My stockings are hung, but unless Santa can swing by a convenience shop on the way here, they will hang limp and empty. I haven't packed the first suitcase and I am to fly to the States on Boxing Day, or the first day of frenetic after Christmas shopping for my American peeps. On top of being completely ill-prepared, we are having lashing rain and gale force winds in excess of 70 mph. Oh, and I have the flu. Merry Christmas. But, I digress. The day before Christmas Eve is actually a day my family celebrated for many years.
Each year for many years, my family would go to the Richardson family home two days before Christmas for brunch. Eve, the elegant matriarch is a talented bon vivant. She would prepare a sumptuous feast of Michelin Star quality for all who had gathered. Eve is a statuesque ginger haired lady who moves with the grace of a prima ballerina. She could make cheese on toast seem regal and elegant. And whilst her offerings were most certainly exquisite, I am sorry to say I cannot remember a single, solitary dish. Being that I was a child/teenager during these years of pre-Christmas repasts, I was too busy enjoying a yearly indulgence of a delicacy not found on our table except for the holidays; the CCR.
CCRs are a child's culinary equivalent to a creme brulee or bananas foster. They are sticky, gooey and cloyingly sweet. CCRs are filled with enough preservatives to survive a nuclear winter. CCRs are covered in a gleaming white gelatinous coating of icing sugar glory. CCRs, or cheap cinnamon rolls, became THE food tradition for all those under thirty at these gatherings. Our parental units no doubt dined on hollandaise sauced eggs benedict and souffle. I'll bet they indulged in speckled grits or broiled grapefruit. I wouldn't know. I was under the spell of those cherished CCRs and the sugar coma they induced.
We didn't just eat at those gatherings. We listened to music. Daddy would join Eve's other half, Jim, in the den and play record after record of Mahler and Beethoven and Jean Redpath and Spike Jones. The two men would compare notes on the performances and share new-found gems with each other. We would laugh and laugh as they told shaggy-dog stories and giggled like children. I could listen to Daddy and Jim for hours.
Today I find myself so very far away from home and the warmth and laughter of those gatherings. I miss the easy banter and the love. I miss Jim and the twinkle ever present in his eyes. I miss Eve and her way of making the most mundane seem special. I miss Jim and Eve's son Mark, whom I claimed as big brother long ago. I miss CCRs and Christmas Eve-Eve at Eve's.
Monday 23 December 2013
Tuesday 17 December 2013
Light Years From Home
I miss tacky lights. I miss them a lot. Oh sure, the English do a wonderful Dickens Christmas with costumed carol singers and candle light and ribboned horse carriages. And it is beautiful. The Victorian age is so completely identified with Christmas here that our local paper admonished shopkeepers for not getting into the spirit enough for our celebrations. Apparently there simply were not enough minced pie and mulled cider offerings by velvet cloaked greeters to suit. But I digress. It is the lights I miss the most in this Christmas Carol theme-park-land I find myself.
Every historian and Victorian factoid expert is now shouting at the screen that they would not have had twinkling fairy lights or those giant multi-coloured bulbs synchronised to Rocking Around the Christmas Tree in Dickens day. Duh. But there was plenty of horse excrement and a complete absence of adequate sanitary drainage too. I don't see anyone peddling Eau de Victorian Poo for a realistic Dickens experience. I really don't think anyone would be so horrified if one or two strands of lights shared the spotlight this year.
Where are the gigundo inflatable snow people and Santas? I have not seen a single one. There are lots of gas lit lamp posts and enough dried orange slice garlands to permanently eradicate scurvy, but not a single smiling penguin or candy cane puffed up and blown out for all to enjoy. Not one. Sigh. Again the historic chorus is no doubt shaking their collective heads in absolute horror at my wanting to modernise these ancient of traditions, but I say if authentic is what we are after, then pass the flour soup and the calf's head jelly. Yum.
When we were children, we would all pile into our family station wagon and drive around to look at Christmas lights. This was many years before computers would forever change the Christmas lighted landscape with synchronised and choreographed movements to piped in music, but the displays were still gloriously opulent in their tackiness. You would have enormous plastic angel choirs lit up in gold and white singing to the newborn Christ in a softly lit manger surrounded by Santa, elves, reindeer and other miscellaneous Christmas characters. Rudolph was a big draw in my youth. His glowing red nose helped guide throngs of Christmas light seekers to the best displays.
Every year on the home planet Christmas light displays get more and more intricate. Folks take months to assemble their masterpieces of consumer excess. Laser light shows sponsored by local municipalities now compete with the home-grown extravaganzas. Every year neighbours complain about the noise, and the lights and the crowds. Every year we would seek out the best of the worst and giggle with delight and a wee bit of disbelief.
Those hysterical historians probably stopped reading this drivel and left in disgust some time ago. Surely I must be kidding if I choose blinking neon coloured bulbs flashing in time with Alvin and the Chipmunks over yet another minced pie, mulled wine and a few white single bulb lights. I feel a bit like Charlie Brown when he is given the daunting task of picking out a tree and is faced with pink and blue and white aluminium trees with silver tinsel and large blinking lights. It is intoxicating. And yet, once the novelty of the bright and garish wears off, we are left yearning for the simple; the unadorned.
Maybe that is why a Dickens Christmas is so appealing. It takes us back to a simpler time where family and food and celebration were key. We don't have to remember the foul odours and the lack of sanitation. We don't have to focus on the absolute poverty and pervasive disease and neglect of children. We see what we want to see. We see the velvet skirted, top-hatted, mulled wine sipping folks of England's version of our own Norman Rockwell.
I will miss the tacky lights and the inflatables this year. I will eat one too many minced pies. I will be caught up in England's post card version of Christmas in the way my home planet identifies with Coca-Cola's Santa. And next year, after my neighbours have gotten to know me a bit better, I might just put out my own blinking light display.
Every historian and Victorian factoid expert is now shouting at the screen that they would not have had twinkling fairy lights or those giant multi-coloured bulbs synchronised to Rocking Around the Christmas Tree in Dickens day. Duh. But there was plenty of horse excrement and a complete absence of adequate sanitary drainage too. I don't see anyone peddling Eau de Victorian Poo for a realistic Dickens experience. I really don't think anyone would be so horrified if one or two strands of lights shared the spotlight this year.
Where are the gigundo inflatable snow people and Santas? I have not seen a single one. There are lots of gas lit lamp posts and enough dried orange slice garlands to permanently eradicate scurvy, but not a single smiling penguin or candy cane puffed up and blown out for all to enjoy. Not one. Sigh. Again the historic chorus is no doubt shaking their collective heads in absolute horror at my wanting to modernise these ancient of traditions, but I say if authentic is what we are after, then pass the flour soup and the calf's head jelly. Yum.
When we were children, we would all pile into our family station wagon and drive around to look at Christmas lights. This was many years before computers would forever change the Christmas lighted landscape with synchronised and choreographed movements to piped in music, but the displays were still gloriously opulent in their tackiness. You would have enormous plastic angel choirs lit up in gold and white singing to the newborn Christ in a softly lit manger surrounded by Santa, elves, reindeer and other miscellaneous Christmas characters. Rudolph was a big draw in my youth. His glowing red nose helped guide throngs of Christmas light seekers to the best displays.
Every year on the home planet Christmas light displays get more and more intricate. Folks take months to assemble their masterpieces of consumer excess. Laser light shows sponsored by local municipalities now compete with the home-grown extravaganzas. Every year neighbours complain about the noise, and the lights and the crowds. Every year we would seek out the best of the worst and giggle with delight and a wee bit of disbelief.
Those hysterical historians probably stopped reading this drivel and left in disgust some time ago. Surely I must be kidding if I choose blinking neon coloured bulbs flashing in time with Alvin and the Chipmunks over yet another minced pie, mulled wine and a few white single bulb lights. I feel a bit like Charlie Brown when he is given the daunting task of picking out a tree and is faced with pink and blue and white aluminium trees with silver tinsel and large blinking lights. It is intoxicating. And yet, once the novelty of the bright and garish wears off, we are left yearning for the simple; the unadorned.
Maybe that is why a Dickens Christmas is so appealing. It takes us back to a simpler time where family and food and celebration were key. We don't have to remember the foul odours and the lack of sanitation. We don't have to focus on the absolute poverty and pervasive disease and neglect of children. We see what we want to see. We see the velvet skirted, top-hatted, mulled wine sipping folks of England's version of our own Norman Rockwell.
I will miss the tacky lights and the inflatables this year. I will eat one too many minced pies. I will be caught up in England's post card version of Christmas in the way my home planet identifies with Coca-Cola's Santa. And next year, after my neighbours have gotten to know me a bit better, I might just put out my own blinking light display.
Monday 16 December 2013
O Christmas Twig
We love our cosy home in Rye. Our house is a fairly typical Victorian era narrow home spread over three floors. The rooms are not large by American standards, but are smartly laid out and comfortable. We have utilised every single micrometre of space to its best advantage. We did not, however, take into account having to add a Christmas tree to the space.
I was a bit hesitant to get a real tree this year. Besides the fire hazard and the shedding of needles, I was concerned about the tree's girth. I think it would be difficult to find in nature the sort of tree we needed to fill our space. I realised that my family has never been able to find a naturally growing tree that would accommodate any space we have occupied. Oh, the memories.
I grew up with live trees. Our excitement over going to pick out our tree would increase exponentially until we were frighteningly giddy with anticipation. My Mom did not join us on many of those excursions. In fact, I think she went once and decreed it was a time for Dad to bond with us. As the weather fairies always decided to bring true southern style winter in the form of miserably cold rain on the appointed tree picking day, I can see how bonding with the other parent would be a grand idea. I bet one nanosecond after that Defense Department issued lumbering giant of a station wagon left the premises, Mom was doing the happy dance in the kitchen. The rest of us continued on our woodland adventure wrapped in now slightly damp woollens smelling not unlike the forest creatures we hoped to glimpse.
The process was supposed to be simple and rather magical as families arriving at the Christmas tree farm would board wagons festooned with garlands of greenery and bows and taken out to choose the perfect tree. Each adult was issued a small band saw and a tag. You would cut your tree down, affix one part of the tag to said tree, and bring the matching piece to the "elves" who would then retrieve the tree and bag it. This final process was finished as the children were enjoying hot cocoa and Christmas carols. Sounds adorable, right?
By the time the merits of each tree were discussed at debated at length, I think my Dad would have gladly cut down anything we pointed to in order to stop the madness. And that little band saw was no match for a newly planted sapling, much less a full grown tree. We learnt my Dad sometimes used rather colourful adjectives when trying to cut down those trees. Dad had a lot of help too as we would encourage him and offer lots of instructions on how to make the process go smoother. I know he appreciated us so very much.
After the tree was bagged and paid for, and we had drunk just enough cocoa to need a potty break on the way back down the desolate highway home where no potties existed, we loaded our station wagon of Christmas cheer and headed back to show Mom our forest masterpiece. Understand it had been drizzling rain all day. In fact if the outside temps had been but a single degree warmer, that rain would have been snow. The tree was wet. We were wet and cold and had been asking for a potty for the last 12 miles. There aren't enough carols and cookies on the planet to make that particular misery any better. Dad was in no position to hear anything negative. And yet, while this glorious proud pine looked so majestic and straight in the forest, it leaned grotesquely to one side once cut. After an hour or so of wrestling said tree and calling it those pet names Dad came up with at the farm, we managed to get it inside. Luckily Dad was an engineer, so he figured out a way to use strings attached to the walls and ceilings to make the tree appear to stand upright.
The tree was beautiful. Dad did have to lop off about 4 feet of its height to make it actually fit inside the house, but we didn't notice - we had our tree! And in about 8 more hours, it would have lights on it. I think the lights were the last straw. I am not sure, but I think the year Dad had to individually replace each and every single solitary bulb on the tree to find THE one making the entire string useless was the year Daddy decreed he would rather have an artificial tree. And I am not entirely positive, but I believe one was procured rather quickly. Oh he lamented the loss of fresh pine amongst us at the holidays. He reminisced with us all about our many adventures picking out trees. But I know he was not at all sad to never, ever, have to go out cold and miserable in drizzly rain to cut down a tree that would require a civil engineering degree to erect. Did I mention the artificial tree was pre-lit as well?
We solved our current tree crisis by going cheap. Turns out, the expensive ones were too large for our space. The really inexpensive ones were sparser and skinnier. We have one that tucks in nicely against one window and still leaves room to navigate the space. It turns out we brought just enough of our ornaments from the home planet to make the tree looked loved. I love the smaller tree, although I do miss those majestic trees and the adventures from my childhood.
I was a bit hesitant to get a real tree this year. Besides the fire hazard and the shedding of needles, I was concerned about the tree's girth. I think it would be difficult to find in nature the sort of tree we needed to fill our space. I realised that my family has never been able to find a naturally growing tree that would accommodate any space we have occupied. Oh, the memories.
I grew up with live trees. Our excitement over going to pick out our tree would increase exponentially until we were frighteningly giddy with anticipation. My Mom did not join us on many of those excursions. In fact, I think she went once and decreed it was a time for Dad to bond with us. As the weather fairies always decided to bring true southern style winter in the form of miserably cold rain on the appointed tree picking day, I can see how bonding with the other parent would be a grand idea. I bet one nanosecond after that Defense Department issued lumbering giant of a station wagon left the premises, Mom was doing the happy dance in the kitchen. The rest of us continued on our woodland adventure wrapped in now slightly damp woollens smelling not unlike the forest creatures we hoped to glimpse.
The process was supposed to be simple and rather magical as families arriving at the Christmas tree farm would board wagons festooned with garlands of greenery and bows and taken out to choose the perfect tree. Each adult was issued a small band saw and a tag. You would cut your tree down, affix one part of the tag to said tree, and bring the matching piece to the "elves" who would then retrieve the tree and bag it. This final process was finished as the children were enjoying hot cocoa and Christmas carols. Sounds adorable, right?
By the time the merits of each tree were discussed at debated at length, I think my Dad would have gladly cut down anything we pointed to in order to stop the madness. And that little band saw was no match for a newly planted sapling, much less a full grown tree. We learnt my Dad sometimes used rather colourful adjectives when trying to cut down those trees. Dad had a lot of help too as we would encourage him and offer lots of instructions on how to make the process go smoother. I know he appreciated us so very much.
After the tree was bagged and paid for, and we had drunk just enough cocoa to need a potty break on the way back down the desolate highway home where no potties existed, we loaded our station wagon of Christmas cheer and headed back to show Mom our forest masterpiece. Understand it had been drizzling rain all day. In fact if the outside temps had been but a single degree warmer, that rain would have been snow. The tree was wet. We were wet and cold and had been asking for a potty for the last 12 miles. There aren't enough carols and cookies on the planet to make that particular misery any better. Dad was in no position to hear anything negative. And yet, while this glorious proud pine looked so majestic and straight in the forest, it leaned grotesquely to one side once cut. After an hour or so of wrestling said tree and calling it those pet names Dad came up with at the farm, we managed to get it inside. Luckily Dad was an engineer, so he figured out a way to use strings attached to the walls and ceilings to make the tree appear to stand upright.
The tree was beautiful. Dad did have to lop off about 4 feet of its height to make it actually fit inside the house, but we didn't notice - we had our tree! And in about 8 more hours, it would have lights on it. I think the lights were the last straw. I am not sure, but I think the year Dad had to individually replace each and every single solitary bulb on the tree to find THE one making the entire string useless was the year Daddy decreed he would rather have an artificial tree. And I am not entirely positive, but I believe one was procured rather quickly. Oh he lamented the loss of fresh pine amongst us at the holidays. He reminisced with us all about our many adventures picking out trees. But I know he was not at all sad to never, ever, have to go out cold and miserable in drizzly rain to cut down a tree that would require a civil engineering degree to erect. Did I mention the artificial tree was pre-lit as well?
We solved our current tree crisis by going cheap. Turns out, the expensive ones were too large for our space. The really inexpensive ones were sparser and skinnier. We have one that tucks in nicely against one window and still leaves room to navigate the space. It turns out we brought just enough of our ornaments from the home planet to make the tree looked loved. I love the smaller tree, although I do miss those majestic trees and the adventures from my childhood.
Friday 13 December 2013
Best Christmas Present Ever!
I realise I have recently written a blog on the worst Christmas presents I have received, so it seemed only fair to share the best one. John, being male, did not actually think about it being so grand, but it all worked out for him. The actual conversation about said gift went something like this. John: "there is this Rutter Christmas thingie at the Albert Hall. Wanna go?" Me: "cool!". That's how we roll. Anyhoo, we travelled to London yesterday for the concert. In fairness, the actual title was the John Rutter Christmas Celebration with the Royal Philharmonic at the Royal Albert Hall. Rutter Christmas thingie is infinitely easier to remember.
We arrived at the RAH (Royal Albert Hall) where I was treated to the most wonderful luncheon at the Coda Restaurant overlooking the Royal Academy of Music. The food was stunningly simple and and delicious. I had some perfectly seared scallops over a chili avocado puree for my starter, and grilled halibut for my main. Exquisite! Anyone who knows me well knows I had dessert as well. It was this chocolate sphere that melted open to reveal an orange marmalade and ice cream centre when warm sauce was poured on it. YUM!
Our seats were great. We sat in the box seats on the second level. RAH was dressed in its Christmas best with glittering trees and twinkling lights. And the music. There are not enough iterations of beautiful in my vocabulary to fully describe the magnificence of the music. St. Alban's choir joined the philharmonic on many of Rutter's own arrangements. John Rutter himself has great humour and his commentary between pieces added joy and fun to the occasion. The audience sang along with many of the carols, and did an outstanding job of singing the Hallelujah chorus. I think the English must learn the piece in utero. And their appropriate part.
The ensemble performed Little Lamb by John Tavener in his memory, as he died only last month. Then the guest mezzo-soprano joined in for an additional piece not listed in the program. John Rutter dedicated Kum Bay Yah to Nelson Mandela. Wow. Achingly simple and powerful, it was the most moving memorial we have heard to date. The soloist started with "Someone's crying Lord" sombrely and soberly. Then "Someone's praying, Lord" and finally with great exuberance and celebration, "Someone's singing Lord". I don't believe there was a dry eye in the house.
The concert was wonderful. And bittersweet. I would have loved to have had my Dad singing along next to me. My sister would have so loved the different arrangements and pointed out nuances this untrained musician surely missed. I missed my beloved St. John choir from my home planet. They would have loved every single moment.
Another favourite was Silent Night. Rutter's arrangement breathed new life into this Christmas classic. The children's chorus added a sweetness and purity against the warmth of the clarinet and horn. It was simply exquisite and evoked a Brahm's lullaby. I leave you with a clip of Silent Night. From the best Christmas present I have ever received. Ever.
We arrived at the RAH (Royal Albert Hall) where I was treated to the most wonderful luncheon at the Coda Restaurant overlooking the Royal Academy of Music. The food was stunningly simple and and delicious. I had some perfectly seared scallops over a chili avocado puree for my starter, and grilled halibut for my main. Exquisite! Anyone who knows me well knows I had dessert as well. It was this chocolate sphere that melted open to reveal an orange marmalade and ice cream centre when warm sauce was poured on it. YUM!
Our seats were great. We sat in the box seats on the second level. RAH was dressed in its Christmas best with glittering trees and twinkling lights. And the music. There are not enough iterations of beautiful in my vocabulary to fully describe the magnificence of the music. St. Alban's choir joined the philharmonic on many of Rutter's own arrangements. John Rutter himself has great humour and his commentary between pieces added joy and fun to the occasion. The audience sang along with many of the carols, and did an outstanding job of singing the Hallelujah chorus. I think the English must learn the piece in utero. And their appropriate part.
The ensemble performed Little Lamb by John Tavener in his memory, as he died only last month. Then the guest mezzo-soprano joined in for an additional piece not listed in the program. John Rutter dedicated Kum Bay Yah to Nelson Mandela. Wow. Achingly simple and powerful, it was the most moving memorial we have heard to date. The soloist started with "Someone's crying Lord" sombrely and soberly. Then "Someone's praying, Lord" and finally with great exuberance and celebration, "Someone's singing Lord". I don't believe there was a dry eye in the house.
The concert was wonderful. And bittersweet. I would have loved to have had my Dad singing along next to me. My sister would have so loved the different arrangements and pointed out nuances this untrained musician surely missed. I missed my beloved St. John choir from my home planet. They would have loved every single moment.
Another favourite was Silent Night. Rutter's arrangement breathed new life into this Christmas classic. The children's chorus added a sweetness and purity against the warmth of the clarinet and horn. It was simply exquisite and evoked a Brahm's lullaby. I leave you with a clip of Silent Night. From the best Christmas present I have ever received. Ever.
Thursday 12 December 2013
What Sweeter Music?
Today John and I are headed to London for John Rutter's Christmas Celebration with the Royal Philharmonic at Royal Albert Hall. It simply is not Christmas without John Rutter. Please enjoy a favourite of mine. I will return later in the week with all the details! This is for you Kimmie!
Wednesday 11 December 2013
All I Want for Christmas
I am not the sort of person who generally complains about gifts. I genuinely appreciate the thought and love behind the gift, even if the gift is not exactly what I have always dreamt of receiving. The problem, it seems, is that thought doesn't always enter into the universal gift -giving equation. I think folks get into the trap of feeling as if they have to buy a gift out of some obligation.
I have had my share of bad gifts. My all-time worst gift was the result of a toxic mix of a terrible giver, a terrible venue, and a complete lack of sensitivity and decorum. A former mother-in-law of mine (and I have had many, so relative anonymity should not be a problem here) gave me - with great fanfare mind you - some underpants. And no, panties is not the word I meant to use. Panties are small, delicate items of an intimate nature often embellished with lace and pearls. Granny panties are not as voluminous and billowing as these things were. These were German prison matron issue stark white cotton briefs with a thick elastic band designed to keep those drawers in place during the most rigorous calisthenics. In front of a predominately male audience, I was given these enormous parachutes in disguise. Add a propane tank and a basket and we could have all flown the friendly skies. To make matters worse, she said in a volume not unlike what is used at the Superdome "I didn't know what size to get you, so I held them up against me and then got one size bigger." Folks, unless your mother-in-law is Twiggy, she should absolutely refrain from such behaviour. This woman had, um....let's say a rather broad underpinning. In no way was this a compliment that these tents in disguise would cover her......assets. And then to get a size bigger! ARGH! Needless to say, I did not wear said undergarments, but I found they made really great dust cloths. And that would be plural.
Another bad gift I received was a re-gift. I'm sure it was at a work party or similar where you are "encouraged" to bring a gift that will dazzle the recipient and ensure a good raise the following year all for under $10. Re-gifting is rampant in these situations; even expected. I opened a lovely blown glass tree ornament in an elegantly wrapped gold box. Cool! Except there was absolutely no attempt to disguise the Clearance! 70% off tag or the Merry Christmas Steve gift tag still stuck to the paper. I could recover somewhat graciously from that moment, but the ornament was broken. That particular gift giver could have given my his used paper plate from said party and it would have had the same effect. Bah Humbug.
My Dad received sock sorters one year from his mother-in-law. I have no idea what he did to upset or disappoint her, but sock sorters are not the kind of gift one gives a person they love and cherish. Sock sorters were the eighties version of the Snuggie or Sham WOW! These made for TV gems were constructed out of plastic and would aid in keeping one's socks from disappearing in the wash. They were even colour coordinated so each member of the family could keep their socks together and identified. I frankly think this causes a sense of isolation and cliquishness not often seen in the sock world. Sock sorters are an okay gift from perhaps a completely clueless but desperate co-worker needing to find affordable options for the quazillion folks they have to deal with each day. Sock sorters are not the sort of gift one would expect from a loved one. In fairness, the gifts he received from her did improve over the years. In fact, I am not sure, but I think the following year he received a set of Ginsu knives.
I have a perverse love of some gifts that are traditionally loathed and used as punch lines on late night TV. I would not actually gift these myself, but I happen to like them. I love Hickory Farms gift boxes. I adore the summer sausage and sweet-hot mustard. I have watched way to many SNL sketches to actually give one, but I love them. I think the entire As Seen On TV store is a veritable wonderland of awesomeness. And Snuggies are just the tip of the iceberg. I would seriously love to be a product tester for their stores. I love those elaborately wrapped kitchy gift towers; the taller the better. Who wouldn't want a tower of candy or nuts? I love socks. Socks continually get the thumbs-down from folks. I think socks are completely underrated. And finally, what is better than fruit/coffee/tea/socks/wine/book/plant of the month clubs? I think it would be awesome to get a gift each and every single month.
I do understand why folks give more gift cards than any other gift at Christmas. They avoid the embarrassment and awkwardness of a truly bad gift. I just hope someone decides to risk the humiliation and let Hickory Farms tell me I am loved with their smoked cheddar and spicy sausage goodness.
I have had my share of bad gifts. My all-time worst gift was the result of a toxic mix of a terrible giver, a terrible venue, and a complete lack of sensitivity and decorum. A former mother-in-law of mine (and I have had many, so relative anonymity should not be a problem here) gave me - with great fanfare mind you - some underpants. And no, panties is not the word I meant to use. Panties are small, delicate items of an intimate nature often embellished with lace and pearls. Granny panties are not as voluminous and billowing as these things were. These were German prison matron issue stark white cotton briefs with a thick elastic band designed to keep those drawers in place during the most rigorous calisthenics. In front of a predominately male audience, I was given these enormous parachutes in disguise. Add a propane tank and a basket and we could have all flown the friendly skies. To make matters worse, she said in a volume not unlike what is used at the Superdome "I didn't know what size to get you, so I held them up against me and then got one size bigger." Folks, unless your mother-in-law is Twiggy, she should absolutely refrain from such behaviour. This woman had, um....let's say a rather broad underpinning. In no way was this a compliment that these tents in disguise would cover her......assets. And then to get a size bigger! ARGH! Needless to say, I did not wear said undergarments, but I found they made really great dust cloths. And that would be plural.
Another bad gift I received was a re-gift. I'm sure it was at a work party or similar where you are "encouraged" to bring a gift that will dazzle the recipient and ensure a good raise the following year all for under $10. Re-gifting is rampant in these situations; even expected. I opened a lovely blown glass tree ornament in an elegantly wrapped gold box. Cool! Except there was absolutely no attempt to disguise the Clearance! 70% off tag or the Merry Christmas Steve gift tag still stuck to the paper. I could recover somewhat graciously from that moment, but the ornament was broken. That particular gift giver could have given my his used paper plate from said party and it would have had the same effect. Bah Humbug.
My Dad received sock sorters one year from his mother-in-law. I have no idea what he did to upset or disappoint her, but sock sorters are not the kind of gift one gives a person they love and cherish. Sock sorters were the eighties version of the Snuggie or Sham WOW! These made for TV gems were constructed out of plastic and would aid in keeping one's socks from disappearing in the wash. They were even colour coordinated so each member of the family could keep their socks together and identified. I frankly think this causes a sense of isolation and cliquishness not often seen in the sock world. Sock sorters are an okay gift from perhaps a completely clueless but desperate co-worker needing to find affordable options for the quazillion folks they have to deal with each day. Sock sorters are not the sort of gift one would expect from a loved one. In fairness, the gifts he received from her did improve over the years. In fact, I am not sure, but I think the following year he received a set of Ginsu knives.
I have a perverse love of some gifts that are traditionally loathed and used as punch lines on late night TV. I would not actually gift these myself, but I happen to like them. I love Hickory Farms gift boxes. I adore the summer sausage and sweet-hot mustard. I have watched way to many SNL sketches to actually give one, but I love them. I think the entire As Seen On TV store is a veritable wonderland of awesomeness. And Snuggies are just the tip of the iceberg. I would seriously love to be a product tester for their stores. I love those elaborately wrapped kitchy gift towers; the taller the better. Who wouldn't want a tower of candy or nuts? I love socks. Socks continually get the thumbs-down from folks. I think socks are completely underrated. And finally, what is better than fruit/coffee/tea/socks/wine/book/plant of the month clubs? I think it would be awesome to get a gift each and every single month.
I do understand why folks give more gift cards than any other gift at Christmas. They avoid the embarrassment and awkwardness of a truly bad gift. I just hope someone decides to risk the humiliation and let Hickory Farms tell me I am loved with their smoked cheddar and spicy sausage goodness.
Tuesday 10 December 2013
Dear Santa
Dear Santa,
Before we get too far, I believe in you. I have always believed in you. I believed even when Chris and Cindy told me in the fourth grade that you weren't real. Luckily I decided I couldn't completely trust the word of two friends who tried to convince me to hang upside down from the monkey bars. Whilst wearing a dress. With my days of the week underwear. Ever since I saw you in Miracle on 34th Street, I knew you were real. I think it was the Dutch that did it.
I realise I am getting far too old to give you a lengthy list of toys in the hopes of discovering them wrapped in glittering gold and red sparkling paper under my tree. Gone are the days of talking baby dolls, and spider bikes with banana seats, and elaborate Barbie mansions with pools and room for a pony. I no longer covet a new Lacoste Izod shirt or a Bermuda bag with changeable covers. Legs warmers, add-a-bead necklaces, pet rocks and Chia pets are hardly at the top of my list.
I am older now, and one would assume, infinitely more mature. My grown-up list leans more towards Talbots than Toys-R-Us. I have graduated to that dreaded and inevitable adult world of weighing each item I receive against the amount of dusting required. Convenience and ease trump style and panache. My adult life "it" bag is one that holds all the required elements, and yet reduces back and neck strain. And have you ever noticed that when we age, our clothes revert back to ones suspiciously similar to what we wore as toddlers? Stretchy pants with easy waist bands and Velcro shoe straps seem to dominate my wardrobe. But, I digress.
I have learnt in my advanced age that I simply don't need more stuff. I have stuff. Lots of stuff. I have given away households full of stuff.My sister calls trinkets and baubles and home decor items dust catchers. I think she may be on to something. I could, at this point, channel my inner Miss America and ask for world peace. But Santa, I am going to go out on a limb and guess you get a bit weary of that request. And whilst world peace is an admirable goal, I would assume you sometimes want to yell "I am Santa, not God", or something along those lines.
I have appreciated all that you have brought me over the years, Santa. Okay, as I have to be nice and not naughty, and as I really would like for you to visit this year, I must admit that is not entirely true. I have been baffled by a few of your choices. But because you are male, I try not to judge. After all, going to Jared was not an option when I was younger. And Tiffany's security system must make it very hard to access their treasures in the dark of night with a bunch of reindeer playing havoc with the alarm system.
So what is it I want this year? I would like a white Christmas. It is not your fault that this has become synonymous with Christmas. I say blame Bing Crosby and Hollywood. I have no idea what a sugarplum fairy is, but I would like to see one. They intrigue me. Being that I live in England now, I would like to meet the Queen. She seems like a really nice lady. And like the girl scouts, she is always prepared. I'll bet her always present purse has a breath mint, tissue, safety pin and Leicester Cheese sandwich ready for any unforeseen minor emergency. She is like a better dressed Mary Poppins. Speaking of, I would like to meet her too. Maybe she and the Queen could share a ride and join us for Christmas pudding?
I don't have many things on my list. I believe in quality over quantity. I would like an Aston Martin DB5. I think I could totally rock that car. I would like a star sapphire. Maybe not as large as the Star of India, as I would not like to be ostentatious. I think I would like a bright red British phone box. I do not like talking on the phone, but I think if I had a phone box, I might enjoy it more.
I realise this is a tall order. Maybe Cabbage Patch Dolls and Nintendo games are easier to produce, but you are magic. And besides, you have a rather large global network available to you. You, Santa, represent the innocent child who lives in all of us. And I believe you just might be able to pull this off.
I will leave some cookies out for you this year, as I have for 49 years. You may find they are the high fibre, low sugar versions of the ones from my childhood, but they still taste pretty good. I thought about leaving some Christmas pudding, but the only way I have found it is palatable is with a pretty large glug of brandy. I would hate to be responsible for you and Dasher et al arrested for drink driving.
Happy Christmas,
Jenni
Before we get too far, I believe in you. I have always believed in you. I believed even when Chris and Cindy told me in the fourth grade that you weren't real. Luckily I decided I couldn't completely trust the word of two friends who tried to convince me to hang upside down from the monkey bars. Whilst wearing a dress. With my days of the week underwear. Ever since I saw you in Miracle on 34th Street, I knew you were real. I think it was the Dutch that did it.
I realise I am getting far too old to give you a lengthy list of toys in the hopes of discovering them wrapped in glittering gold and red sparkling paper under my tree. Gone are the days of talking baby dolls, and spider bikes with banana seats, and elaborate Barbie mansions with pools and room for a pony. I no longer covet a new Lacoste Izod shirt or a Bermuda bag with changeable covers. Legs warmers, add-a-bead necklaces, pet rocks and Chia pets are hardly at the top of my list.
I am older now, and one would assume, infinitely more mature. My grown-up list leans more towards Talbots than Toys-R-Us. I have graduated to that dreaded and inevitable adult world of weighing each item I receive against the amount of dusting required. Convenience and ease trump style and panache. My adult life "it" bag is one that holds all the required elements, and yet reduces back and neck strain. And have you ever noticed that when we age, our clothes revert back to ones suspiciously similar to what we wore as toddlers? Stretchy pants with easy waist bands and Velcro shoe straps seem to dominate my wardrobe. But, I digress.
I have learnt in my advanced age that I simply don't need more stuff. I have stuff. Lots of stuff. I have given away households full of stuff.My sister calls trinkets and baubles and home decor items dust catchers. I think she may be on to something. I could, at this point, channel my inner Miss America and ask for world peace. But Santa, I am going to go out on a limb and guess you get a bit weary of that request. And whilst world peace is an admirable goal, I would assume you sometimes want to yell "I am Santa, not God", or something along those lines.
I have appreciated all that you have brought me over the years, Santa. Okay, as I have to be nice and not naughty, and as I really would like for you to visit this year, I must admit that is not entirely true. I have been baffled by a few of your choices. But because you are male, I try not to judge. After all, going to Jared was not an option when I was younger. And Tiffany's security system must make it very hard to access their treasures in the dark of night with a bunch of reindeer playing havoc with the alarm system.
So what is it I want this year? I would like a white Christmas. It is not your fault that this has become synonymous with Christmas. I say blame Bing Crosby and Hollywood. I have no idea what a sugarplum fairy is, but I would like to see one. They intrigue me. Being that I live in England now, I would like to meet the Queen. She seems like a really nice lady. And like the girl scouts, she is always prepared. I'll bet her always present purse has a breath mint, tissue, safety pin and Leicester Cheese sandwich ready for any unforeseen minor emergency. She is like a better dressed Mary Poppins. Speaking of, I would like to meet her too. Maybe she and the Queen could share a ride and join us for Christmas pudding?
I don't have many things on my list. I believe in quality over quantity. I would like an Aston Martin DB5. I think I could totally rock that car. I would like a star sapphire. Maybe not as large as the Star of India, as I would not like to be ostentatious. I think I would like a bright red British phone box. I do not like talking on the phone, but I think if I had a phone box, I might enjoy it more.
I realise this is a tall order. Maybe Cabbage Patch Dolls and Nintendo games are easier to produce, but you are magic. And besides, you have a rather large global network available to you. You, Santa, represent the innocent child who lives in all of us. And I believe you just might be able to pull this off.
I will leave some cookies out for you this year, as I have for 49 years. You may find they are the high fibre, low sugar versions of the ones from my childhood, but they still taste pretty good. I thought about leaving some Christmas pudding, but the only way I have found it is palatable is with a pretty large glug of brandy. I would hate to be responsible for you and Dasher et al arrested for drink driving.
Happy Christmas,
Jenni
Monday 9 December 2013
Home
University child came home for a visit this weekend and a much needed respite from all things microwaveable. I spent most of Friday readying the house for her whilst offering up explanations for the flurry of domestic activity to the husband. And it hit me. I was in fact right smack dab in that grand circle of life thingie. I could almost see the quizzical looks and hear the puzzled banter my Dad made with Mom as she scoured tubs and changed sheets in anticipation of our arrival from college bearing endless loads of soiled laundry. I am sure he made more than several grocery store runs so she could prepare our favourite comfort foods. He surely muttered and grumbled as she made the house sparkle and glow.
No doubt we also asked that Mom not go to any extra effort for our weekend homecomings. We surely complained to each other and to our friends that "good grief, you would think the queen is coming home. It is just us." We did not appear fully appreciative of the efforts to make our house look its best for us. We probably moaned and groaned at having to use cloth napkins and drink out of actual glassware. We probably said with a shrug as we filled the laundry room to capacity with our reeking clothing "don't worry, I'll get that tomorrow" knowing full well as if by magic our clothes would appear sometime later in the weekend clean and ready for our return to college.
We did appreciate the efforts though. There is no better night's sleep than the first spent at home in ones childhood bed after months in a university issued slab of torture. And I say night although it was often well into the next day before we would stumble downstairs to my father's "good afternoon" and Mom's welcoming pot of freshly brewed coffee. Our laundry would be in neatly folded piles waiting for us to rediscover clothing we had not laid eyes on in months. And despite Mom's continual washing and drying of said clothing items since dawn, she was still smiling as she offered us piping hot muffins from the oven. I get it now.
I am so grateful that when we went home my Mom didn't great us at the door with "final Jeopardy is about to start. There is a Lean Cuisine with your name on it in the freezer. Nuke it and we'll chat at the commercial break. Hurry though, Wheel of Fortune is on next and it is the holiday version". No, Mom had our favourites bubbling in the oven when we came home. We opened the back door to warmth and comfort and the delicious wafting aroma of a pot roast and real vegetables. Those visits home probably kept us from getting scurvy as the college version of fruit and veg is Strawberry Daiquiris, maraschino cherries and those little bitty dehydrated peas and carrots in just add boiling water cup o'soup.
Dad complained a lot about the extra work we dumped on Mom. I know now that although enjoy is not quite the word one associates with musty soured towels lurking in the bottom of a laundry bag since September, there is a feeling of accomplishment when said towels emerge clean and fluffy and smelling of a field of flowers again. There is a rather triumphant feeling when your child says that your roast/mac and cheese/pancakes/soup somehow makes everything all better again. All the hours scouring the tubs and toilets are worth it when child exclaims how those pretty, bright girls she lives with are actually grubby, nasty piggies and that she, of course, understands and appreciates good hygiene. This after leaving her towel/undergarments/yesterday's socks/jacket/computer in a Hansel and Gretel-esque trail throughout the house. Apparently she was afraid she wouldn't find her way back to her room without such a navigation system.
I get that as Moms we have to let go and allow our children to forge their own way in this world, but that we are always on stand-by for hot cocoa and pancakes and thick soups and stews to soothe the inevitable bumps and bruises this new adultish life inflicts. We Moms are the symbols of all things constant and dependable. Our homes are the safe havens and glorious retreats when the cool and hip bargain basement decorated pads suddenly seem cold and lonely. We help make the memories our kids reflect upon with a bit of melancholy when dorm life loses its novelty; when the hot water doesn't work, and there was a fire alarm at 3 am and the girl two doors down takes a favourite sweater and ruins it.
University child came home exhausted, weary and sagging a bit under the weight of academic pressures, too many four hour nights, and carb loaded cheap meals on the run. She left here this morning fortified with encouragement, dark leafy greens, good sleep, hot showers and the knowledge that while we see the beautiful capable strong woman she is becoming, we also know there is a bit of the little girl who still needs her Mommy in there too.
No doubt we also asked that Mom not go to any extra effort for our weekend homecomings. We surely complained to each other and to our friends that "good grief, you would think the queen is coming home. It is just us." We did not appear fully appreciative of the efforts to make our house look its best for us. We probably moaned and groaned at having to use cloth napkins and drink out of actual glassware. We probably said with a shrug as we filled the laundry room to capacity with our reeking clothing "don't worry, I'll get that tomorrow" knowing full well as if by magic our clothes would appear sometime later in the weekend clean and ready for our return to college.
We did appreciate the efforts though. There is no better night's sleep than the first spent at home in ones childhood bed after months in a university issued slab of torture. And I say night although it was often well into the next day before we would stumble downstairs to my father's "good afternoon" and Mom's welcoming pot of freshly brewed coffee. Our laundry would be in neatly folded piles waiting for us to rediscover clothing we had not laid eyes on in months. And despite Mom's continual washing and drying of said clothing items since dawn, she was still smiling as she offered us piping hot muffins from the oven. I get it now.
I am so grateful that when we went home my Mom didn't great us at the door with "final Jeopardy is about to start. There is a Lean Cuisine with your name on it in the freezer. Nuke it and we'll chat at the commercial break. Hurry though, Wheel of Fortune is on next and it is the holiday version". No, Mom had our favourites bubbling in the oven when we came home. We opened the back door to warmth and comfort and the delicious wafting aroma of a pot roast and real vegetables. Those visits home probably kept us from getting scurvy as the college version of fruit and veg is Strawberry Daiquiris, maraschino cherries and those little bitty dehydrated peas and carrots in just add boiling water cup o'soup.
Dad complained a lot about the extra work we dumped on Mom. I know now that although enjoy is not quite the word one associates with musty soured towels lurking in the bottom of a laundry bag since September, there is a feeling of accomplishment when said towels emerge clean and fluffy and smelling of a field of flowers again. There is a rather triumphant feeling when your child says that your roast/mac and cheese/pancakes/soup somehow makes everything all better again. All the hours scouring the tubs and toilets are worth it when child exclaims how those pretty, bright girls she lives with are actually grubby, nasty piggies and that she, of course, understands and appreciates good hygiene. This after leaving her towel/undergarments/yesterday's socks/jacket/computer in a Hansel and Gretel-esque trail throughout the house. Apparently she was afraid she wouldn't find her way back to her room without such a navigation system.
I get that as Moms we have to let go and allow our children to forge their own way in this world, but that we are always on stand-by for hot cocoa and pancakes and thick soups and stews to soothe the inevitable bumps and bruises this new adultish life inflicts. We Moms are the symbols of all things constant and dependable. Our homes are the safe havens and glorious retreats when the cool and hip bargain basement decorated pads suddenly seem cold and lonely. We help make the memories our kids reflect upon with a bit of melancholy when dorm life loses its novelty; when the hot water doesn't work, and there was a fire alarm at 3 am and the girl two doors down takes a favourite sweater and ruins it.
University child came home exhausted, weary and sagging a bit under the weight of academic pressures, too many four hour nights, and carb loaded cheap meals on the run. She left here this morning fortified with encouragement, dark leafy greens, good sleep, hot showers and the knowledge that while we see the beautiful capable strong woman she is becoming, we also know there is a bit of the little girl who still needs her Mommy in there too.
Friday 6 December 2013
Pay It Forward
Some years ago, I found myself in terrible predicament. I was seriously overdrawn at the bank. I am not now, nor have I ever been good at arithmetic, but this error was particularly egregious. I discovered once you are hit with an overdraft charge, the negative balance starts ballooning until there seems to be no end in sight: one charge causes another overdraw, which causes another charge and on and on. At the time I hardly had a large stash of spare change to rectify the situation. I was a single parent, and struggled just to provide the basics.
I drove to the bank to see if anything could be done. Although the bank personnel were less than warm and fuzzy about my situation, they did agree to remove some of the charges. I was still left with a rather hefty amount to come up with. I was absolutely distraught. I returned to my car, and the magnitude of the situation overwhelmed me. Cries of frustration pretty quickly became great heaving sobs. Tears of embarrassment and humiliation coursed down my face. I simply did not know what to do next.
After a few minutes, a familiar face appeared at my car window. She offered me a tissue and asked me to share what was causing me such profound sadness. I told my story in a garbled rush of words and tears and shame. I was miserable. What happened next astounds me to this day. She reached into her purse and gave me the money I needed to bring my balance to positive, as well as some additional funds. I did not want to take it. My failure was complete. I explained how it might take a very long time to pay it back. I told her how it was all my fault, and that I should have to pay for my mistakes. She said the most powerful words to me.
"We have all made mistakes. You will make other mistakes. We are human. What is important is that we learn from our mistakes and move on. Pay it forward Jenni. I have no need for this money. It would be my joy for you to have this. All I ask is that you pay it forward."
I was stunned. After a few more attempts to return the money, I accepted it. She asked me not to tell anyone what had happened. Honestly, I was grateful. I didn't exactly want to share my painful humiliation with anyone else. She then said this: "One day you will look back on this day with pride instead of shame."
I left the bank a changed person. This kind, generous lady was not particularly charismatic. She was shy and extremely private. Yet she bestowed upon me great power that day.
I have paid it forward many times since our parking lot encounter. What I didn't know then, but understand very well now, is that in paying it forward I continue her generosity. She was the living example of the loaves and the fishes. And forgiveness. And God's grace. And so much more.
She was correct. My shame and embarrassment are erased each and every time I find a way to pay it forward.
My guardian angel, mentor and friend, Janice Roberts, lost her battle with cancer yesterday. In her memory I ask that we all find ways to pay it forward.
I drove to the bank to see if anything could be done. Although the bank personnel were less than warm and fuzzy about my situation, they did agree to remove some of the charges. I was still left with a rather hefty amount to come up with. I was absolutely distraught. I returned to my car, and the magnitude of the situation overwhelmed me. Cries of frustration pretty quickly became great heaving sobs. Tears of embarrassment and humiliation coursed down my face. I simply did not know what to do next.
After a few minutes, a familiar face appeared at my car window. She offered me a tissue and asked me to share what was causing me such profound sadness. I told my story in a garbled rush of words and tears and shame. I was miserable. What happened next astounds me to this day. She reached into her purse and gave me the money I needed to bring my balance to positive, as well as some additional funds. I did not want to take it. My failure was complete. I explained how it might take a very long time to pay it back. I told her how it was all my fault, and that I should have to pay for my mistakes. She said the most powerful words to me.
"We have all made mistakes. You will make other mistakes. We are human. What is important is that we learn from our mistakes and move on. Pay it forward Jenni. I have no need for this money. It would be my joy for you to have this. All I ask is that you pay it forward."
I was stunned. After a few more attempts to return the money, I accepted it. She asked me not to tell anyone what had happened. Honestly, I was grateful. I didn't exactly want to share my painful humiliation with anyone else. She then said this: "One day you will look back on this day with pride instead of shame."
I left the bank a changed person. This kind, generous lady was not particularly charismatic. She was shy and extremely private. Yet she bestowed upon me great power that day.
I have paid it forward many times since our parking lot encounter. What I didn't know then, but understand very well now, is that in paying it forward I continue her generosity. She was the living example of the loaves and the fishes. And forgiveness. And God's grace. And so much more.
She was correct. My shame and embarrassment are erased each and every time I find a way to pay it forward.
My guardian angel, mentor and friend, Janice Roberts, lost her battle with cancer yesterday. In her memory I ask that we all find ways to pay it forward.
Thursday 5 December 2013
LEON
LEON has been a part of Christmas for as long as I can remember. He has held a place of prominent esteem in our family. LEON has been both revered and ridiculed, loved and loathed, honoured and heckled. This year, LEON was one of the first Christmas decorations we lovingly unpacked and set up for display in our home in England. Well, NO was what we put out, but I will get to that later. I will start with the back story.
LEON was a faux gilded set of four letters in an antiqued burnished gold. The letters were festooned with chubby cherubs and dancing angels playing cymbals and harps. LEON was ornately encrusted with sparkling glitter that would twinkle in the candle light. Each year, LEON would be placed with care atop Daddy's piano. Mom would carefully space the letters in a neat arrangement to spell NOEL. We would OOHHH! and AAAHHH! at the sight. Once the parental figures had departed the room, my much older sister and I would quickly change the letters around to LEON. Thus began a tradition that lasted nearly 40 years.
Mom and Dad would "rescue" their gilded letters from our cynical, sarcastic, piano top editorial daily and return it to the more traditional, albeit less interesting, NOEL. We would promptly change it back. Once we were grown, Mom gave up in defeated exasperation. And we believe she actually preferred LEON to NOEL. Who wouldn't? Before long maybe all NOELs would decide to take the brazen leap to become LEON. But, I digress. LEON was here to stay. No longer forced to be the NOEL he'd been raised to be, LEON was free to express himself. He started to shed some of the gilt and glitz for a more natural look. The cherubs and angels started to "disappear" - we think they ran off with the wise men - and the glitter slowly faded away. LEON became, well....just LEON.
LEON was as much a part of my Christmas experience as Santa, mistletoe, the advent wreath and my Daddy's herbed bread. LEON's presence was taken for granted. Certain things are expected during the holidays: forgetting where you hid THE present; waiting until Christmas Eve to assemble the "some assembly required" must-have item of the year with 5,000 itty bitty parts and instructions in Chinese; writing and addressing Christmas cards only to forget to mail them; and LEON. He was what we looked for first in Mom's house. LEON was the symbol of all things traditional. LEON was the harbinger of all things secular and sacred. LEON was the epitome of Christmas.
A few years ago, in the dark of night, LEON disappeared. My sister and I could not believe our beloved LEON had defected to another family. We couldn't accept his leaving any more than we could accept a Christmas without the barking dogs of Jingle Bells or the glass moose punch cups from A Christmas Vacation. We knew there must be a logical explanation for his abrupt departure from the piano. Surely Mom did not really want to change her decor. We hoped against hope that Mom and Dad had found a way to divide LEON up between us and let us enjoy his holiday presence in our own homes - that was it!! Of course!! Mom had it wrapped somewhere waiting to see our faces when we discovered him. We were to be inconsolably wrong. LEON had been given to .......Goodwill. Yep, Mom and Dad donated LEON.
Mom and Dad kept up the charade for that entire Christmas season. Whilst we were thrilled that another lucky family would come to love and treasure our LEON, we were not particularly happy with our parental units. They were indeed a charitable pair, but couldn't they have donated something else? Anything! Mom's diamond? Dad's watch? Much older sister would have made a great addition to some lucky family! A dark cloud hung over our Christmas celebrations. Then, on Christmas morning, my parents presented much older sister and her much wiser cohort (that would be me) a simply wrapped package. Inside was our beloved LEON with instructions to figure out how to share it betwixt the two of us. It was suggested we alternate years.
Much older, and since the reading of this blog probably a bit annoyed sister and I opted to break LEON into NO and EL. I got NO. We are both quite happy with our arrangement. We know that one day our beloved LEON will be a unified set of letters again. In the meantime, each set is loved and adored by all who see them. So whilst the rest of England is enjoying their boozy squishy tub of cakey cheer this Christmas, I will be enjoying the beautiful site of my part of LEON.
LEON was a faux gilded set of four letters in an antiqued burnished gold. The letters were festooned with chubby cherubs and dancing angels playing cymbals and harps. LEON was ornately encrusted with sparkling glitter that would twinkle in the candle light. Each year, LEON would be placed with care atop Daddy's piano. Mom would carefully space the letters in a neat arrangement to spell NOEL. We would OOHHH! and AAAHHH! at the sight. Once the parental figures had departed the room, my much older sister and I would quickly change the letters around to LEON. Thus began a tradition that lasted nearly 40 years.
Mom and Dad would "rescue" their gilded letters from our cynical, sarcastic, piano top editorial daily and return it to the more traditional, albeit less interesting, NOEL. We would promptly change it back. Once we were grown, Mom gave up in defeated exasperation. And we believe she actually preferred LEON to NOEL. Who wouldn't? Before long maybe all NOELs would decide to take the brazen leap to become LEON. But, I digress. LEON was here to stay. No longer forced to be the NOEL he'd been raised to be, LEON was free to express himself. He started to shed some of the gilt and glitz for a more natural look. The cherubs and angels started to "disappear" - we think they ran off with the wise men - and the glitter slowly faded away. LEON became, well....just LEON.
LEON was as much a part of my Christmas experience as Santa, mistletoe, the advent wreath and my Daddy's herbed bread. LEON's presence was taken for granted. Certain things are expected during the holidays: forgetting where you hid THE present; waiting until Christmas Eve to assemble the "some assembly required" must-have item of the year with 5,000 itty bitty parts and instructions in Chinese; writing and addressing Christmas cards only to forget to mail them; and LEON. He was what we looked for first in Mom's house. LEON was the symbol of all things traditional. LEON was the harbinger of all things secular and sacred. LEON was the epitome of Christmas.
A few years ago, in the dark of night, LEON disappeared. My sister and I could not believe our beloved LEON had defected to another family. We couldn't accept his leaving any more than we could accept a Christmas without the barking dogs of Jingle Bells or the glass moose punch cups from A Christmas Vacation. We knew there must be a logical explanation for his abrupt departure from the piano. Surely Mom did not really want to change her decor. We hoped against hope that Mom and Dad had found a way to divide LEON up between us and let us enjoy his holiday presence in our own homes - that was it!! Of course!! Mom had it wrapped somewhere waiting to see our faces when we discovered him. We were to be inconsolably wrong. LEON had been given to .......Goodwill. Yep, Mom and Dad donated LEON.
Mom and Dad kept up the charade for that entire Christmas season. Whilst we were thrilled that another lucky family would come to love and treasure our LEON, we were not particularly happy with our parental units. They were indeed a charitable pair, but couldn't they have donated something else? Anything! Mom's diamond? Dad's watch? Much older sister would have made a great addition to some lucky family! A dark cloud hung over our Christmas celebrations. Then, on Christmas morning, my parents presented much older sister and her much wiser cohort (that would be me) a simply wrapped package. Inside was our beloved LEON with instructions to figure out how to share it betwixt the two of us. It was suggested we alternate years.
Much older, and since the reading of this blog probably a bit annoyed sister and I opted to break LEON into NO and EL. I got NO. We are both quite happy with our arrangement. We know that one day our beloved LEON will be a unified set of letters again. In the meantime, each set is loved and adored by all who see them. So whilst the rest of England is enjoying their boozy squishy tub of cakey cheer this Christmas, I will be enjoying the beautiful site of my part of LEON.
Wednesday 4 December 2013
Pudding, Fruitcake or Medieval Projectile...You Decide
Folks on my home planet have spent the last eleven months salivating over fruitcake. Sadly, the aforementioned salivary anticipation has nothing to do with the actual consumption of that most decadently dense log of candied fruit deliciousness. Various tortures my lovely fruity cakes must endure include the loathsome fruitcake chukking, fruitcake football, and fruitcake relays. Some even more sinister, mail entire fruitcakes of unknown vintage to unsuspecting holiday recipients with the mandate to pass it along to yet another unsuspecting but assumed fruitcake despiser.
I love fruitcake. One of the perks of living in Southeast Georgia was our proximity to Claxton, home of the Christmas Fruitcake, or as my sister calls it, the gift that keeps on giving. She is not a fellow fan. Anyhoo, I did not have to wait until the stores crammed their shelves in October expecting an early run on my fruitcake delicacy. I did not have to fight those dadblasted cinnamon brooms that I abhor, loathe and detest. And what genius decided that cinnamon belongs on a broom? Doesn't putting a dark powdery substance on a broom kinda defeat the purpose of said sweeping implement? But, I digress. I could have fruitcake any time of the year I chose. We had Easter fruitcake, Valentine's Day fruitcake and most importantly Labour Day fruitcake celebrating the birth of me.
I was worried I would miss my fruity delightfulness once I sailed over the big blue to England. Here, folks eat mince pies and Christmas Pudding. I had visions of hamburger in a shell and creamy chocolate, well...pudding. Sounds pretty good, but nothing like my candied cherry and nut extravaganza I had become so accustomed to. And our neighbour proudly invited us to share mince pie with brandy butter and cream on Boxing Day. Okay, that pretty much knocks out my hamburger deduction. At least where I come from hamburger doesn't come with a side helping of flammable cream. The Christmas Pudding concept was a bit harder to grasp.
I saw the much loved and revered Christmas pudding when it made its seasonal debut in our local grocery store sometime around early October. And Americans think Christmas comes too soon on the home planet. Anyhoo, as said pudding was not in the refrigerator section, I decided pretty early on pudding here would not be the same as the creamy chocolaty version Bill Cosby encouraged us to eat when I was a child. The packaging of the pudding alone makes you want to indulge in this dark, decadent, glorious bit of Christmas cheer. Moist and dense and containing all the fruits I expect in my Christmas fruited cake, I was thrilled! The suggested way to serve this exotic rendition of my fruitcake is to pour brandy or rum on it, let it soak in and then light it for a stunning presentation. Cool! THEN they serve this edible fireworks show with brandy butter and brandy cream. The excitement builds. And then I read on. Seems that the folks here take a perfectly good fruitcake, and steam it. Steam it! Really?
That is not the most awful part. One of the ingredients is suet. I don't know what that is, but I am pretty sure it is not for human consumption. It gets worse. The cake is sometimes moistened with treacle. Again, not sure what a treacle is, but I think it is what you leave for the doctor in a specimen cup. No wonder these folks douse the pudding in alcohol. They need the antiseptic properties as well as a way to mask the taste! Good grief! Oh, and the chewy delicious candied fruit of my dreams? Nope. Not the same. Oh sure, they put loads of raisins and sultanas and dried apricots in the pudding that is not a pudding but a cake but not a cake because they steam it. The fruits are then soaked until they are puffed up and puffy and ...oh, I just don't think I can take much more.
I bought a pudding. I decided it was time to put all of my prejudices away and try this grand historical and beloved tradition. It is different. In fairness, the taste is not at all offensive. The treacle, which is actually black molasses, helps give it depth and keeps it from being too sweet. It is the texture I have the most difficulty with. The texture is not unlike someone decided to pour a large glug of milk into a handful of double-stuff Oreos in a glass, and returned to said glass an hour or so later to eat the mushy results. blurg. I will say the brandy butter and the brandy cream, as well as the brandy that is poured on before the brandy cream and butter, do help. Immensely. In fact next year, I am just going to have the brandy please. With a side of..well, brandy!
I love fruitcake. One of the perks of living in Southeast Georgia was our proximity to Claxton, home of the Christmas Fruitcake, or as my sister calls it, the gift that keeps on giving. She is not a fellow fan. Anyhoo, I did not have to wait until the stores crammed their shelves in October expecting an early run on my fruitcake delicacy. I did not have to fight those dadblasted cinnamon brooms that I abhor, loathe and detest. And what genius decided that cinnamon belongs on a broom? Doesn't putting a dark powdery substance on a broom kinda defeat the purpose of said sweeping implement? But, I digress. I could have fruitcake any time of the year I chose. We had Easter fruitcake, Valentine's Day fruitcake and most importantly Labour Day fruitcake celebrating the birth of me.
I was worried I would miss my fruity delightfulness once I sailed over the big blue to England. Here, folks eat mince pies and Christmas Pudding. I had visions of hamburger in a shell and creamy chocolate, well...pudding. Sounds pretty good, but nothing like my candied cherry and nut extravaganza I had become so accustomed to. And our neighbour proudly invited us to share mince pie with brandy butter and cream on Boxing Day. Okay, that pretty much knocks out my hamburger deduction. At least where I come from hamburger doesn't come with a side helping of flammable cream. The Christmas Pudding concept was a bit harder to grasp.
I saw the much loved and revered Christmas pudding when it made its seasonal debut in our local grocery store sometime around early October. And Americans think Christmas comes too soon on the home planet. Anyhoo, as said pudding was not in the refrigerator section, I decided pretty early on pudding here would not be the same as the creamy chocolaty version Bill Cosby encouraged us to eat when I was a child. The packaging of the pudding alone makes you want to indulge in this dark, decadent, glorious bit of Christmas cheer. Moist and dense and containing all the fruits I expect in my Christmas fruited cake, I was thrilled! The suggested way to serve this exotic rendition of my fruitcake is to pour brandy or rum on it, let it soak in and then light it for a stunning presentation. Cool! THEN they serve this edible fireworks show with brandy butter and brandy cream. The excitement builds. And then I read on. Seems that the folks here take a perfectly good fruitcake, and steam it. Steam it! Really?
That is not the most awful part. One of the ingredients is suet. I don't know what that is, but I am pretty sure it is not for human consumption. It gets worse. The cake is sometimes moistened with treacle. Again, not sure what a treacle is, but I think it is what you leave for the doctor in a specimen cup. No wonder these folks douse the pudding in alcohol. They need the antiseptic properties as well as a way to mask the taste! Good grief! Oh, and the chewy delicious candied fruit of my dreams? Nope. Not the same. Oh sure, they put loads of raisins and sultanas and dried apricots in the pudding that is not a pudding but a cake but not a cake because they steam it. The fruits are then soaked until they are puffed up and puffy and ...oh, I just don't think I can take much more.
I bought a pudding. I decided it was time to put all of my prejudices away and try this grand historical and beloved tradition. It is different. In fairness, the taste is not at all offensive. The treacle, which is actually black molasses, helps give it depth and keeps it from being too sweet. It is the texture I have the most difficulty with. The texture is not unlike someone decided to pour a large glug of milk into a handful of double-stuff Oreos in a glass, and returned to said glass an hour or so later to eat the mushy results. blurg. I will say the brandy butter and the brandy cream, as well as the brandy that is poured on before the brandy cream and butter, do help. Immensely. In fact next year, I am just going to have the brandy please. With a side of..well, brandy!
Tuesday 3 December 2013
Boxed In
We are flying back over the pond on Boxing Day in England. That would be December 26 for my American peeps. We thought the day after Christmas was a brilliant day to take to the skies as we assumed folks would be too busy shopping to cram into our flying tin can home. We were able to score really affordable fares, so surely we were on to something. The husband had lived over on this side before, and knew the customs of the English. He assured me the majority of the population would be enjoying drinks and rich brandy-laced puddings with neighbours and friends. Therefore and ergo and so it would seem, flying the day after Christmas should be child's play.
Husband was correct! The majority of the English will indeed be visiting each others homes and sharing mince pies and brandy-buttered Christmas cake. That would include train station managers, train conductors, bus drivers, and the entire employment pool of the Heathrow Express. In others words, once we get to Heathrow, we will indeed be among the few, the proud, and the sober. We just have to get there. And that may prove to be our undoing.
I looked on Google maps. It will take us just under twenty-four hours to walk the 73.3 miles to Heathrow. I guess it may take a bit longer with luggage. Glad my luggage has those wheelie thingies. The maps did advise us that this route may be missing some sidewalks. Since no buses are running and the penalties for drink driving are harsh, I think we would be okay trudging down the motorway with our wheelie luggage.
Walking to Heathrow may just be a bit too ambitious. Besides, Father Christmas might not know to look for me on the M5. We searched the world over for a rental car. Not a problem! Whew! For the low, low cost of double the normal rate, and by the way, we would have to reserve it for a minimum of three days, we can definitely rent what looks to be just under the size of a dune buggy!! yay. sigh.
Our options did include going by taxi to Ashford International Terminal, hopping on one of a handful of trains that are actually operating on Boxing Day, and with only FIVE additional transfers use the one or two underground lines that are operating - WHILE wheeling those dadblasted suitcases. We would arrive at Heathrow tired, disgusted, defeated and in need of a shower. Merry Freaking Christmas.
Betwixt the three of us, we have two undergraduate degrees, one masters, one PhD and one course in progress. Surely we could find a viable, reasonable solution for getting to a major international airport on a day to celebrate boxes. Horses were out. I had a bad experience with a hormonally challenged little filly deceivingly named Matilda in my childhood. Who names a devil horse Matilda? But, I digress. We started scouring the interwebs for inspiration. Skating, skiing, and scootering all were tabled. Neither of us has a motorcycle license, and I am pretty sure a boat just flat won't work. What now?
Turns out, there is a small dependable group of independent taxi drivers in our humble abode. John started at the top of the list and started calling. We were a bit taken aback at the going rates for traveling on cardboard carnival day, but at this point we were pretty much ready to pay any amount just to make our flights. We can always eBay our Christmas gifts. The first three drivers on the list were taking the opportunity of this national package party holiday to go to someplace warmer and were not available. Each gave another number to call. Finally, we got to the last number on the list. VIOLA! We have a driver! And we will not have to eat chips and gravy the entire month of January because she is charging us the normal rate! Cue angels singing, please.
Our trip is saved. We can now enjoy our Christmas feast knowing the next day one single person in England is willing to give up alcohol soaked fruitcake to take us to the airport. Now THAT kids, is a true Christmas miracle!
Husband was correct! The majority of the English will indeed be visiting each others homes and sharing mince pies and brandy-buttered Christmas cake. That would include train station managers, train conductors, bus drivers, and the entire employment pool of the Heathrow Express. In others words, once we get to Heathrow, we will indeed be among the few, the proud, and the sober. We just have to get there. And that may prove to be our undoing.
I looked on Google maps. It will take us just under twenty-four hours to walk the 73.3 miles to Heathrow. I guess it may take a bit longer with luggage. Glad my luggage has those wheelie thingies. The maps did advise us that this route may be missing some sidewalks. Since no buses are running and the penalties for drink driving are harsh, I think we would be okay trudging down the motorway with our wheelie luggage.
Walking to Heathrow may just be a bit too ambitious. Besides, Father Christmas might not know to look for me on the M5. We searched the world over for a rental car. Not a problem! Whew! For the low, low cost of double the normal rate, and by the way, we would have to reserve it for a minimum of three days, we can definitely rent what looks to be just under the size of a dune buggy!! yay. sigh.
Our options did include going by taxi to Ashford International Terminal, hopping on one of a handful of trains that are actually operating on Boxing Day, and with only FIVE additional transfers use the one or two underground lines that are operating - WHILE wheeling those dadblasted suitcases. We would arrive at Heathrow tired, disgusted, defeated and in need of a shower. Merry Freaking Christmas.
Betwixt the three of us, we have two undergraduate degrees, one masters, one PhD and one course in progress. Surely we could find a viable, reasonable solution for getting to a major international airport on a day to celebrate boxes. Horses were out. I had a bad experience with a hormonally challenged little filly deceivingly named Matilda in my childhood. Who names a devil horse Matilda? But, I digress. We started scouring the interwebs for inspiration. Skating, skiing, and scootering all were tabled. Neither of us has a motorcycle license, and I am pretty sure a boat just flat won't work. What now?
Turns out, there is a small dependable group of independent taxi drivers in our humble abode. John started at the top of the list and started calling. We were a bit taken aback at the going rates for traveling on cardboard carnival day, but at this point we were pretty much ready to pay any amount just to make our flights. We can always eBay our Christmas gifts. The first three drivers on the list were taking the opportunity of this national package party holiday to go to someplace warmer and were not available. Each gave another number to call. Finally, we got to the last number on the list. VIOLA! We have a driver! And we will not have to eat chips and gravy the entire month of January because she is charging us the normal rate! Cue angels singing, please.
Our trip is saved. We can now enjoy our Christmas feast knowing the next day one single person in England is willing to give up alcohol soaked fruitcake to take us to the airport. Now THAT kids, is a true Christmas miracle!
Monday 2 December 2013
What I Think... What I Really, Really Think
I am channelling my inner Spice Girl this morning as I try to answer THE question posed to me most often. From folks on both shores of this great creek running through our respective yards, I am asked repeatedly, "what do you REALLY think about England", as if I am somehow holding out on state secrets or water cooler gossip. It is kind of a loaded question, too. Am I supposed to REALLY tell my peeps on the home planet that I don't actually like it here as a way to prove my loyalty and devotion to all things American? Do the folks here secretly wish I hate it enough to spare them the awkwardness of saying Yankee go home?
Ever since I was a child, I loved all things English. It started with an early love of Julie Andrews. Julie was making it big with Sound of Music and Mary Poppins just as I burst on the scene. One might say we grew up together. I adored her. I wanted to be her. I came to believe all English women carried an immense tapestry bag, soothed all things with sugar, could scale tall mountains and pull a fast one on the bad guys, and dance all night while singing like an angel. She was my kind of super hero.
Winnie the Pooh was also a great influence. I played along with Pooh and Christopher Robin in the hundred acre wood. I, too, had a thoughtful spot where I would think, think, think along with Pooh. I longed to live the English countryside as described by Milne. The Secret Garden continued my fascination with all things English as I grew beyond the Pooh stories. Every day after lunch, my sixth grade teacher would read aloud The Secret Garden. Mrs,. Lorentzson was herself English, and made the story authentic and magical. I could picture the gloaming of the misty moors, and see the brilliant colours of the roses once the garden had sprung back to life. My adoration of England was now complete.
Imagining a place is much different than living there. One does not often get to live in a magical thatched cottage or find themselves sent to the manor house to live with a previously undiscovered yet immensely wealthy Uncle. And while Downton Abbey is indeed entertaining, it hardly represents modern England. And truth be told, the England of my dreams is more like The Vicar of Dibley.
Our town does look a bit like it fell out of a story book. We do have some thatched cottages and original Tudor buildings. Hundreds of cute fluffy sheep dot our landscape. Elegant white swans glide across the river and small irrigation canals. Occasionally the town leaders will dress in their regalia and wigs and fur lined ceremonial robes. Being that it is Christmas, one might even catch a glimpse of a small coterie of singers in velvet gowns and waistcoats looking as if they stepped out of A Christmas Carol and onto the High Street. Church bells mark each hour with pealing joy. An ancient wooden windmill stands guard over the River Tillingham.
Folks here appreciate the history of this beautiful place. They also encourage progress and celebrate technological advances. It is wonderful to shop in a tiny little wood-beamed nook crammed with jars and tins. It is also nice to venture to Tesco or Waitross where choices are plentiful and diverse. People are friendly and eager to help. We are often asked if we live here or are just visiting. Once we reply that we live here, we are inundated with suggestions, and advice and warmth and welcome.
There are four churches here; The Church of England, a Methodist chapel, a Catholic church and a Baptist Church. The majority attend The Church of England, although many times the churches join together for community services. Rye boasts many cafes and restaurants, at least five pubs, numerous antique shops and two shops devoted entirely to candy. We have a butcher, two green grocers and moderately sized grocery store. Cars are plentiful, but parking is not. We have full service banks, and love that they know us by name.
They know us by our names. That small seemingly insignificant bit overwhelms me. I have not felt like an outsider here. It is patently obvious once I open my mouth that I am not from these parts, but our neighbours have been incredibly welcoming and seem honoured that we picked this place to make our home. And once we have eaten at a restaurant, or shopped in a store, or worshipped in the church or had a pint or a cuppa once, they remember us. We feel very much a part of this magically ordinary place we now call home. Turns out, just like on the home planet, England is full of lovely, kind people who work, attend school, grocery shop, worry about their children, and put on their knickers one leg at a time. Just like us.
Ever since I was a child, I loved all things English. It started with an early love of Julie Andrews. Julie was making it big with Sound of Music and Mary Poppins just as I burst on the scene. One might say we grew up together. I adored her. I wanted to be her. I came to believe all English women carried an immense tapestry bag, soothed all things with sugar, could scale tall mountains and pull a fast one on the bad guys, and dance all night while singing like an angel. She was my kind of super hero.
Winnie the Pooh was also a great influence. I played along with Pooh and Christopher Robin in the hundred acre wood. I, too, had a thoughtful spot where I would think, think, think along with Pooh. I longed to live the English countryside as described by Milne. The Secret Garden continued my fascination with all things English as I grew beyond the Pooh stories. Every day after lunch, my sixth grade teacher would read aloud The Secret Garden. Mrs,. Lorentzson was herself English, and made the story authentic and magical. I could picture the gloaming of the misty moors, and see the brilliant colours of the roses once the garden had sprung back to life. My adoration of England was now complete.
Imagining a place is much different than living there. One does not often get to live in a magical thatched cottage or find themselves sent to the manor house to live with a previously undiscovered yet immensely wealthy Uncle. And while Downton Abbey is indeed entertaining, it hardly represents modern England. And truth be told, the England of my dreams is more like The Vicar of Dibley.
Our town does look a bit like it fell out of a story book. We do have some thatched cottages and original Tudor buildings. Hundreds of cute fluffy sheep dot our landscape. Elegant white swans glide across the river and small irrigation canals. Occasionally the town leaders will dress in their regalia and wigs and fur lined ceremonial robes. Being that it is Christmas, one might even catch a glimpse of a small coterie of singers in velvet gowns and waistcoats looking as if they stepped out of A Christmas Carol and onto the High Street. Church bells mark each hour with pealing joy. An ancient wooden windmill stands guard over the River Tillingham.
Folks here appreciate the history of this beautiful place. They also encourage progress and celebrate technological advances. It is wonderful to shop in a tiny little wood-beamed nook crammed with jars and tins. It is also nice to venture to Tesco or Waitross where choices are plentiful and diverse. People are friendly and eager to help. We are often asked if we live here or are just visiting. Once we reply that we live here, we are inundated with suggestions, and advice and warmth and welcome.
There are four churches here; The Church of England, a Methodist chapel, a Catholic church and a Baptist Church. The majority attend The Church of England, although many times the churches join together for community services. Rye boasts many cafes and restaurants, at least five pubs, numerous antique shops and two shops devoted entirely to candy. We have a butcher, two green grocers and moderately sized grocery store. Cars are plentiful, but parking is not. We have full service banks, and love that they know us by name.
They know us by our names. That small seemingly insignificant bit overwhelms me. I have not felt like an outsider here. It is patently obvious once I open my mouth that I am not from these parts, but our neighbours have been incredibly welcoming and seem honoured that we picked this place to make our home. And once we have eaten at a restaurant, or shopped in a store, or worshipped in the church or had a pint or a cuppa once, they remember us. We feel very much a part of this magically ordinary place we now call home. Turns out, just like on the home planet, England is full of lovely, kind people who work, attend school, grocery shop, worry about their children, and put on their knickers one leg at a time. Just like us.
Saturday 30 November 2013
Pardon The Interruption
Ladies and Gentlemen, please pardon the interruption of all things English as I take a break to enjoy the most American of traditions; football. Today folks from all corners of my home planet will be glued to their respective television sets watching the most anticipated games of the season. Today is cross-state rival day on the gridiron.
My husband and I share an alma mater, and we will be cheering on our South Carolina Gamecocks when they kick-off at midnight our time against the Clemson Tigers. Another huge game in my stratosphere is the Auburn/Alabama game, or the Iron Bowl. Both of my parents are alums. I, like Jimmy Buffett, attended Auburn for a brief period of time. Both Jimmy and I seem to also share a love of margaritas. This might explain why neither of us graduated from said esteemed university. But, I digress.
My football indoctrination began at an early age. My Dad was no athlete, I can assure you. His brief stint hunting was cut short by my birth, and the fact that he went hunting in the first place while said birth was imminent probably had something to do with his hunting career ending so abruptly. He broke his nose playing softball, mistaking a palmetto tree for third base. He tried sailing and ended up capsized in Lake Murray. He was destined to be a brainiac. And let me tell you, intellectually he was a Decathlon gold medallist. Anyhoo, this appeared rather contradictory to his love for Auburn football.
We would typically spend our Thanksgivings in the loving, joyous warmth of our grandparents home in Panama City, Florida. Our 350 mile return journey usually occurred on the Saturday following our family feast day. This worked well logistically; we could have Sunday to recover and wash clothes and get ready for a return to school and work on Monday. This was not, however, the best way to watch the most anticipated game of the year. Former pig paths turned rural two-laned highways formed our route home. If the skies were clear and the planets aligned we could get scattered radio broadcasts of the game interrupted by piercing static just as the 4th down 1 yard line play that could turn the tide of the game was happening. Those rides could be stressful.
If we were lucky, the game would be squeaky tight, and Dad's nerves frayed just to the breaking point when we got about two hours from home. We could stop at the HoJo's between Madison and Greensboro out in the middle of nowhere land and get ice cream while Mom and Dad watched the last few minutes of football greatness. And the closer the game, the more distracted the parents. Therefore, and ergo, and so it would seem, the sizes of our ice cream sundaes directly corresponded to the scoreboard. It's no wonder I have a sudden intense craving for hot fudge and vanilla ice cream in the fourth quarter of a football game...
Today, John is as excited as a child waiting to see what Santa left under the Christmas tree. He is decked out in his garnet and black school colours, and will proudly proclaim GO COCKS! to all who will listen. This is a particularly awkward thing to say in a country with absolutely no reference other than a euphemism that requires no further explanation from me. I am quite sure our neighbours have decided John has the most unusual mating call on the planet. They may indeed wonder why it is in the plural....
But, I digress.
We will return from a loverly day sight-seeing in Canterbury, otherwise known to our family and friends as the home of the McDonald's John worked at when he last lived over the big pond, ready to stay up until the wee hours of the morning to watch our beloved sports teams. We will Skype and text with my sister, the second biggest fan of the Gamecocks behind John. We will WAR EAGLE! with my Mom, and look forward - we hope- to the ceremonial plaque placement proclaiming Carolina's win over John's brother's alma mater, Clemson, when we arrive in the States.
I close with a picture taken on our last trip to Canterbury nearly ten years ago. I am not sure, but I think the girls are praying for Carolina and Auburn to win....
My husband and I share an alma mater, and we will be cheering on our South Carolina Gamecocks when they kick-off at midnight our time against the Clemson Tigers. Another huge game in my stratosphere is the Auburn/Alabama game, or the Iron Bowl. Both of my parents are alums. I, like Jimmy Buffett, attended Auburn for a brief period of time. Both Jimmy and I seem to also share a love of margaritas. This might explain why neither of us graduated from said esteemed university. But, I digress.
My football indoctrination began at an early age. My Dad was no athlete, I can assure you. His brief stint hunting was cut short by my birth, and the fact that he went hunting in the first place while said birth was imminent probably had something to do with his hunting career ending so abruptly. He broke his nose playing softball, mistaking a palmetto tree for third base. He tried sailing and ended up capsized in Lake Murray. He was destined to be a brainiac. And let me tell you, intellectually he was a Decathlon gold medallist. Anyhoo, this appeared rather contradictory to his love for Auburn football.
We would typically spend our Thanksgivings in the loving, joyous warmth of our grandparents home in Panama City, Florida. Our 350 mile return journey usually occurred on the Saturday following our family feast day. This worked well logistically; we could have Sunday to recover and wash clothes and get ready for a return to school and work on Monday. This was not, however, the best way to watch the most anticipated game of the year. Former pig paths turned rural two-laned highways formed our route home. If the skies were clear and the planets aligned we could get scattered radio broadcasts of the game interrupted by piercing static just as the 4th down 1 yard line play that could turn the tide of the game was happening. Those rides could be stressful.
If we were lucky, the game would be squeaky tight, and Dad's nerves frayed just to the breaking point when we got about two hours from home. We could stop at the HoJo's between Madison and Greensboro out in the middle of nowhere land and get ice cream while Mom and Dad watched the last few minutes of football greatness. And the closer the game, the more distracted the parents. Therefore, and ergo, and so it would seem, the sizes of our ice cream sundaes directly corresponded to the scoreboard. It's no wonder I have a sudden intense craving for hot fudge and vanilla ice cream in the fourth quarter of a football game...
Today, John is as excited as a child waiting to see what Santa left under the Christmas tree. He is decked out in his garnet and black school colours, and will proudly proclaim GO COCKS! to all who will listen. This is a particularly awkward thing to say in a country with absolutely no reference other than a euphemism that requires no further explanation from me. I am quite sure our neighbours have decided John has the most unusual mating call on the planet. They may indeed wonder why it is in the plural....
But, I digress.
We will return from a loverly day sight-seeing in Canterbury, otherwise known to our family and friends as the home of the McDonald's John worked at when he last lived over the big pond, ready to stay up until the wee hours of the morning to watch our beloved sports teams. We will Skype and text with my sister, the second biggest fan of the Gamecocks behind John. We will WAR EAGLE! with my Mom, and look forward - we hope- to the ceremonial plaque placement proclaiming Carolina's win over John's brother's alma mater, Clemson, when we arrive in the States.
I close with a picture taken on our last trip to Canterbury nearly ten years ago. I am not sure, but I think the girls are praying for Carolina and Auburn to win....
Friday 29 November 2013
Black is Back
Black Friday. Those words have terrible connotations historically. The Fisk-Gould scandal in 1869, a day of devastating bush fires in Australia in 1939, and loads of massacres and protests and plenty of violence all happened on days subsequently dubbed Black Friday. And yet, Americans have decided the Friday after Thanksgiving should be called Black Friday! No wonder Wal Mart looks as if a plague of locusts invaded each and every store leaving nothing behind but a few Party Off The Pounds DVDs by Richard Simmons and a lone 2-litre bottle of diet Mountain Dew.
I have joined in the Black Friday melee once. One single lapse of sanity that forever convinced me shopping is a very bad thing, and can cause detrimental harm to my psyche. Not to mention serious injury to any protruding body parts. Armed with shopping trolleys and prams (that would be buggy, and buggy in the US of A) shoppers enter the store with crazed looks only previously seen in Victorian era psychiatric treatment facilities and Jack Nicholson films. Sometimes multiple members of one family come in together with a flank of trolleys making it impossible to break their ranks. When you see a triple threat, it is best to duck and cover. Trust me.
The electronics section is the scariest place to be on Black Friday at Wal Mart or any other large big box store. These mega-chains of capitalistic glee stock a single 300 inch Plasma, wide screen, stereo sound, Hi Def, Blue Ray compatible TV with mini-bar and barbecue pit for the low, low cost of $99. Every single person in America wants one. THE one. And they have been lining up in the drizzling cold rain since well before their turkey and dressing have fully digested. And thanks to Wal Mart's increasingly early opening times, that turkey and dressing made for one weird breakfast.
That single TV is snatched up quickly by some lucky octogenarian who was simply waiting for his lovely spouse to make a purchase, and who has no clue how to even master powering said TV on, much less how to make it sync to Face Book or the interwebs. He sees the wave of trolleys coming straight at him, has flashbacks from Normandy and goes into automatic fight or flight. And where mere weeks ago, this ancient symbol of all that is right and good about our nation was honoured and adored for his military service on Veterans Day, today he has made a store full of enemies. Quickly he hops on his store issued electric scooter cart with his behemoth of technological advances and makes his escape through the yarn aisle. Yarn shoppers are a serious, yet smaller band of crafty brothers.
Last year our TV died an untimely and premature death within mere hours of the holiest of holy days in my humble abode. South Carolina was about to take on Clemson University in THE state rival football game of the year. My sister and her husband were with us to watch John lose what little sanity he had remaining..ahem, I mean they were with us to enjoy watching said football game. We had just put the chili on, and were hunkered down for a long day of frenzied football fun. And then it happened. Our TV suffered the black screen of death. I will spare you the details of just how pitiful my sister and husband were as it occurred to them they may have to resort to listening to Todd "the God" Ellis covering the game on the radio, but I can assure you it was not pretty.
We realised pretty quickly if I were to survive the next four-six hours, a replacement TV would have to be procured. On the Saturday following Black Friday. I was encouraged at the lack of cars in the parking lot. It was absolutely empty! I am not sure but I think I saw a tumble weed or two floating through that concrete desert. When we entered the store, we understood why the parking lot was so desolate. The store had been stripped clean. The few employees still standing without the help of crutches and walkers had the stunned vacant look of those who have witnessed something truly awful. We stepped over discarded clothing and LOW PRICES signs and made our way back to electronics.
Shelf after shelf was empty. Our choices were a Hello Kitty 19 inch or a $1400 model that would put our child's college dreams in jeopardy. I could see tears welling up in John's eyes as his hopes of seeing his beloved Gamecocks were slipping away. Suddenly, he took off for the cake decorating section. Either he had totally gone off the deep end, or he had a sudden and irresistible urge to ice a cake. I needed to get out of this place. Wait! John comes back bearing TWO TVs in his shopping cart! Someone had hidden them between the Wilton Winnie-the-Pooh cake pans and Precious Moments wedding cake toppers. SCORE! Football was saved.
We chose the cheaper of the two options, and left with our purchase vowing to never, ever, ever return to a big box store on or near Black Friday. Thanks to advances in technology, I will stick to Cyber Monday!
I have joined in the Black Friday melee once. One single lapse of sanity that forever convinced me shopping is a very bad thing, and can cause detrimental harm to my psyche. Not to mention serious injury to any protruding body parts. Armed with shopping trolleys and prams (that would be buggy, and buggy in the US of A) shoppers enter the store with crazed looks only previously seen in Victorian era psychiatric treatment facilities and Jack Nicholson films. Sometimes multiple members of one family come in together with a flank of trolleys making it impossible to break their ranks. When you see a triple threat, it is best to duck and cover. Trust me.
The electronics section is the scariest place to be on Black Friday at Wal Mart or any other large big box store. These mega-chains of capitalistic glee stock a single 300 inch Plasma, wide screen, stereo sound, Hi Def, Blue Ray compatible TV with mini-bar and barbecue pit for the low, low cost of $99. Every single person in America wants one. THE one. And they have been lining up in the drizzling cold rain since well before their turkey and dressing have fully digested. And thanks to Wal Mart's increasingly early opening times, that turkey and dressing made for one weird breakfast.
That single TV is snatched up quickly by some lucky octogenarian who was simply waiting for his lovely spouse to make a purchase, and who has no clue how to even master powering said TV on, much less how to make it sync to Face Book or the interwebs. He sees the wave of trolleys coming straight at him, has flashbacks from Normandy and goes into automatic fight or flight. And where mere weeks ago, this ancient symbol of all that is right and good about our nation was honoured and adored for his military service on Veterans Day, today he has made a store full of enemies. Quickly he hops on his store issued electric scooter cart with his behemoth of technological advances and makes his escape through the yarn aisle. Yarn shoppers are a serious, yet smaller band of crafty brothers.
Last year our TV died an untimely and premature death within mere hours of the holiest of holy days in my humble abode. South Carolina was about to take on Clemson University in THE state rival football game of the year. My sister and her husband were with us to watch John lose what little sanity he had remaining..ahem, I mean they were with us to enjoy watching said football game. We had just put the chili on, and were hunkered down for a long day of frenzied football fun. And then it happened. Our TV suffered the black screen of death. I will spare you the details of just how pitiful my sister and husband were as it occurred to them they may have to resort to listening to Todd "the God" Ellis covering the game on the radio, but I can assure you it was not pretty.
We realised pretty quickly if I were to survive the next four-six hours, a replacement TV would have to be procured. On the Saturday following Black Friday. I was encouraged at the lack of cars in the parking lot. It was absolutely empty! I am not sure but I think I saw a tumble weed or two floating through that concrete desert. When we entered the store, we understood why the parking lot was so desolate. The store had been stripped clean. The few employees still standing without the help of crutches and walkers had the stunned vacant look of those who have witnessed something truly awful. We stepped over discarded clothing and LOW PRICES signs and made our way back to electronics.
Shelf after shelf was empty. Our choices were a Hello Kitty 19 inch or a $1400 model that would put our child's college dreams in jeopardy. I could see tears welling up in John's eyes as his hopes of seeing his beloved Gamecocks were slipping away. Suddenly, he took off for the cake decorating section. Either he had totally gone off the deep end, or he had a sudden and irresistible urge to ice a cake. I needed to get out of this place. Wait! John comes back bearing TWO TVs in his shopping cart! Someone had hidden them between the Wilton Winnie-the-Pooh cake pans and Precious Moments wedding cake toppers. SCORE! Football was saved.
We chose the cheaper of the two options, and left with our purchase vowing to never, ever, ever return to a big box store on or near Black Friday. Thanks to advances in technology, I will stick to Cyber Monday!
Thursday 28 November 2013
I Love A Parade
One of the things I will miss most about being in the UK for Thanksgiving is the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade. The anticipation builds just after Halloween until the morning of the actual event where I am absolutely giddy. I wonder what new balloons will be revealed. I look with anticipation to see where the marching bands hail from. I hope beyond hope that the Broadway musical highlighted is one I have been wanting to see and not that middle-aged creepy ELF dude from years past. I still have nightmares...
Truth is, the anticipation is greater than the actual event. After the hype and build-up, it is really just a bunch of folks walking down the street. Sometimes they even walk in time with the music. I have actually been in a fair few parades myself. As a self-professed and proud band geek, I participated in the annual Christmas parade in my hometown from grades 7-12. I cannot say I have loads of fond memories of these events.
Our town is a bedroom community linked by a bridge or two to Augusta, Georgia across the Savannah River. In the olden days, we would join forces with said larger city and parade from North Augusta into Augusta. That parade route was three miles in its entirety. Can I just say, I don't care how catchy the Christmas tune is that you are playing, after three miles it sounds like crap. And speaking of crap, we always seemed to follow the horses in any given parade. Oh sure, they had clown costumed pooper-scoopers that were supposed to clean up any large piles of slippery foul smelling poo, but inevitably they were entirely too busy clowning to get them all. Many a pair of plain black, mass produced, booster issued, lace-up band shoes were ruined by the lax work ethic of those callous clowns.
Our band director was a true musician. Mr. B directed us in stirring renditions of the most challenging and beautiful musical scores. We were known for our prowess in concert band music. Mr. B participated in parades and marching competitions mostly out of PR necessity, rather than for the sheer pleasure of hauling 150 rambunctious teens around and hearing them play such classical masterpieces as Grandma Got Run Over by A Reindeer and I Want a Hippopotamus for Christmas. One year for our holiday concert, we performed Russian Christmas Music, a soaring, grand piece with chimes and tympani and glorious french horns. The piece was awe inspiring and played to perfection. Being that he was such a maestro, Mr. B. adapted the finale for us to play in the Christmas parade. Really? I give him props for ingenuity and ambition and the fleeting hope that some child would request Russian Christmas Music next year over Alvin and The Chipmunks pining for a HOO-la HOOp. Let me just say Russian Christmas Music is a difficult piece to translate to marching band. For use in a parade. Whilst dodging horse patties.
I feel for the thousands of Macy's Parade bound band geeks who have worked tirelessly washing cars and selling endless boxes of citrus just for the privilege of getting up at 4 am in the freezing cold to march for miles with the faint hope of getting 5 seconds of TV coverage knowing full well the cameras will be focused on that one flag girl who is always a half beat off. They will convince themselves the experience was worth the 14 hour bus trip with a stopped up toilet and non-working TV monitors. They will exclaim how they also got to tour New York City and saw all the sights in the 3.5 hours allotted before having to re-board the putrid bus for home.
My sister and I always cheer the loudest for the smaller bands whose booster clubs have dreamt for years of this very day. We always think of the sacrifices large and small made just so a cynical public can question their choice of music, although you have to agree some are less than inspiring. We usually end up yelling at the screen for those insipid announcers to SHUT UP so we can hear every nanosecond of yet another version of UP on the Housetop.
I will miss watching the parade this year. Turns out they don't celebrate Thanksgiving in the UK. My sister and daughter will tune in without me this year. No Snoopy or Curious George or Kermit The Frog balloons this year for me. I will not endure a single lip-synced pop tune or Rockette inspired kick-line. No staying glued to the TV when the National Dog Show, brought to us by Purina, comes on just after Santa gives his final Ho-Ho-Ho's to the crowd. I guess as much as I cynically snark about the bands and floats and production numbers, turns out I really do love a parade.
Truth is, the anticipation is greater than the actual event. After the hype and build-up, it is really just a bunch of folks walking down the street. Sometimes they even walk in time with the music. I have actually been in a fair few parades myself. As a self-professed and proud band geek, I participated in the annual Christmas parade in my hometown from grades 7-12. I cannot say I have loads of fond memories of these events.
Our town is a bedroom community linked by a bridge or two to Augusta, Georgia across the Savannah River. In the olden days, we would join forces with said larger city and parade from North Augusta into Augusta. That parade route was three miles in its entirety. Can I just say, I don't care how catchy the Christmas tune is that you are playing, after three miles it sounds like crap. And speaking of crap, we always seemed to follow the horses in any given parade. Oh sure, they had clown costumed pooper-scoopers that were supposed to clean up any large piles of slippery foul smelling poo, but inevitably they were entirely too busy clowning to get them all. Many a pair of plain black, mass produced, booster issued, lace-up band shoes were ruined by the lax work ethic of those callous clowns.
Our band director was a true musician. Mr. B directed us in stirring renditions of the most challenging and beautiful musical scores. We were known for our prowess in concert band music. Mr. B participated in parades and marching competitions mostly out of PR necessity, rather than for the sheer pleasure of hauling 150 rambunctious teens around and hearing them play such classical masterpieces as Grandma Got Run Over by A Reindeer and I Want a Hippopotamus for Christmas. One year for our holiday concert, we performed Russian Christmas Music, a soaring, grand piece with chimes and tympani and glorious french horns. The piece was awe inspiring and played to perfection. Being that he was such a maestro, Mr. B. adapted the finale for us to play in the Christmas parade. Really? I give him props for ingenuity and ambition and the fleeting hope that some child would request Russian Christmas Music next year over Alvin and The Chipmunks pining for a HOO-la HOOp. Let me just say Russian Christmas Music is a difficult piece to translate to marching band. For use in a parade. Whilst dodging horse patties.
I feel for the thousands of Macy's Parade bound band geeks who have worked tirelessly washing cars and selling endless boxes of citrus just for the privilege of getting up at 4 am in the freezing cold to march for miles with the faint hope of getting 5 seconds of TV coverage knowing full well the cameras will be focused on that one flag girl who is always a half beat off. They will convince themselves the experience was worth the 14 hour bus trip with a stopped up toilet and non-working TV monitors. They will exclaim how they also got to tour New York City and saw all the sights in the 3.5 hours allotted before having to re-board the putrid bus for home.
My sister and I always cheer the loudest for the smaller bands whose booster clubs have dreamt for years of this very day. We always think of the sacrifices large and small made just so a cynical public can question their choice of music, although you have to agree some are less than inspiring. We usually end up yelling at the screen for those insipid announcers to SHUT UP so we can hear every nanosecond of yet another version of UP on the Housetop.
I will miss watching the parade this year. Turns out they don't celebrate Thanksgiving in the UK. My sister and daughter will tune in without me this year. No Snoopy or Curious George or Kermit The Frog balloons this year for me. I will not endure a single lip-synced pop tune or Rockette inspired kick-line. No staying glued to the TV when the National Dog Show, brought to us by Purina, comes on just after Santa gives his final Ho-Ho-Ho's to the crowd. I guess as much as I cynically snark about the bands and floats and production numbers, turns out I really do love a parade.
Wednesday 27 November 2013
Lunch Ladies
Another author's note: My use of Lunch Lady is meant with the utmost reverence and respect. This is a collective term I am using to describe those in an institutional setting who serve others hot nourishing meals . In my case, this is primarily the schools I have attended and hospitals where I have been employed. I remember some of their names; I wish I could remember them all.
My earliest memory of primary school involves food. No surprise to those who know me best. In the hallowed red brick halls of Schneider Elementary School in Columbia, S.C., there was magic. Our lunches were prepared in house and from scratch every day. We feasted routinely on crispy homemade fried chicken and spaghetti with crusty garlicky bread. Everything that was prepared for us was delicious. On occasion, our lunch ladies baked homemade cinnamon rolls and dinner rolls. The comforting smell of warm yeasty goodness permeated those chalk dusted classrooms. More than cooks, the women in the kitchen were extensions of our Moms. They called us by name, and comforted us with great vats of chili and gooey grilled cheese sandwiches and soothed our small, easily bruised egos. Those were the first of many lunch ladies I would grow to love and cherish.
One Thanksgiving many years ago when I was a brand new nurse, a patient of mine refused repeatedly our offer of Thanksgiving lunch prepared lovingly and with great care by the extraordinary group of women in the hospital kitchen. The patient was an elderly woman who had not received a single visitor in her rather lengthy tenure with us. We tried time and again to get her to eat the turkey and dressing and cranberry sauce. She refused over and over stating her family was coming and bringing her all of her favourite dishes. Eleven am became noon. Soon it was one o'clock, then two...then three. Nobody came.
Around four o'clock that afternoon, a co-worker and I went down to the cafeteria to enjoy some of the feast ourselves. We told the story of our sweet patient to Miss Bessie, one of the lunch ladies. She instructed us to find out what those favourite dishes were, and then she would prepare them for our patient. Dinner time came and went with our patient still holding out hope for a family visit. Once our regular trays were picked up and returned to the kitchen, those dear lunch ladies, who had stayed long past their scheduled shifts, brought the most wonderful tray of food to our patient. She had the gelatin salad, the squash casserole, the apple and sausage dressing, and the towering coconut cake she had so looked forward to served on real plates with a cloth napkin and a flower. Once we all wiped our tears away, we spent time together swapping stories and enjoying each others company. It remains my favourite Thanksgiving.
I love lima beans. I love them best when they have cooked down into a thick, soupy, mushy masterpiece of ham hock and lima bean perfection. I looked forward to Thursdays at University Hospital because lima beans were always on the menu. When I worked the night shift, I would go to the cafeteria at the beginning of my shift to procure my lima bean supper, as the cafeteria was long closed by the time I had a meal break. The ladies got to know me over time and knew how much I loved their lima beans. After a spell they would bring me lima beans when they closed the kitchen for the night so that mine were cooked as long as possible before consumption. I would thank them profusely, but they always would tell me it meant so much to them that I loved their food so much. I miss those women. They used their talents in the kitchen to treat those who were frightened or anxious or grieving, treating their caregivers as well. What great medicine was their food.
A few years ago, John and I had the opportunity to travel to Oswiecim, Poland. You would know it best by the name the Nazis gave it: Auschwitz. We toured the seemingly endless camps made of row upon row of wooden barracks that once housed thousands of innocent souls. At times the exhibits were completely overwhelming. There simply are not words to describe the horror and disgust and anguish one feels when confronted with a place where so many atrocities occurred. You realise after a while that your eyes are weeping, and your heart is mourning for so many. We continued on to Auschwitz II or Birkenau. It was more stark and desolate than Auschwitz I with a large tower announcing its presence. Huge searchlights and barbed wire fences gave us a chilling welcome. We walked to the end of the train tracks where a large monument stands at the site were the gas chambers once were. We realised we were literally standing on ground formed of the ashes of over a million and a half people. Exhausted and overcome with grief we made our way back to the museum entrance.
It is difficult to describe what happened next. We were ushered into a cafeteria, where we were encouraged to eat. Eating had not been on my agenda at all, as it would require food to somehow get past the large lump in my throat and stay down my queasy stomach. There in this place of despair and grief, were the women of Oswiecim making comfort food for the visitors of Auschwitz and Birkenau. Thick stews and crusty bread with creamy butter were being offered. The women called everyone dear and sweet and love. I had not eaten since early morning and all of a sudden I needed to sit and break bread with my fellow witnesses to this place. Little by little the warming sustenance eased our grief and made it possible to go on. These women were a living metaphor for the community surrounding these camps of horror. During the war they did what they could to comfort, to smuggle food and letters, to bring medicine and in some cases to hide those who would have certainly perished.
Lunch Ladies are part of the intricate fabric that makes up a life. They don't teach students to read or write. They don't perform surgery or prescribe medicine. They don't start revolutions or take down dictators. They give comfort. They made it possible for me to learn with a full stomach and a knowing that I was loved. They made our patients heal, and in doing so healed so much more than surgical wounds. They taught me that even in the midst of unspeakable horror, love and hope can flourish.
My earliest memory of primary school involves food. No surprise to those who know me best. In the hallowed red brick halls of Schneider Elementary School in Columbia, S.C., there was magic. Our lunches were prepared in house and from scratch every day. We feasted routinely on crispy homemade fried chicken and spaghetti with crusty garlicky bread. Everything that was prepared for us was delicious. On occasion, our lunch ladies baked homemade cinnamon rolls and dinner rolls. The comforting smell of warm yeasty goodness permeated those chalk dusted classrooms. More than cooks, the women in the kitchen were extensions of our Moms. They called us by name, and comforted us with great vats of chili and gooey grilled cheese sandwiches and soothed our small, easily bruised egos. Those were the first of many lunch ladies I would grow to love and cherish.
One Thanksgiving many years ago when I was a brand new nurse, a patient of mine refused repeatedly our offer of Thanksgiving lunch prepared lovingly and with great care by the extraordinary group of women in the hospital kitchen. The patient was an elderly woman who had not received a single visitor in her rather lengthy tenure with us. We tried time and again to get her to eat the turkey and dressing and cranberry sauce. She refused over and over stating her family was coming and bringing her all of her favourite dishes. Eleven am became noon. Soon it was one o'clock, then two...then three. Nobody came.
Around four o'clock that afternoon, a co-worker and I went down to the cafeteria to enjoy some of the feast ourselves. We told the story of our sweet patient to Miss Bessie, one of the lunch ladies. She instructed us to find out what those favourite dishes were, and then she would prepare them for our patient. Dinner time came and went with our patient still holding out hope for a family visit. Once our regular trays were picked up and returned to the kitchen, those dear lunch ladies, who had stayed long past their scheduled shifts, brought the most wonderful tray of food to our patient. She had the gelatin salad, the squash casserole, the apple and sausage dressing, and the towering coconut cake she had so looked forward to served on real plates with a cloth napkin and a flower. Once we all wiped our tears away, we spent time together swapping stories and enjoying each others company. It remains my favourite Thanksgiving.
I love lima beans. I love them best when they have cooked down into a thick, soupy, mushy masterpiece of ham hock and lima bean perfection. I looked forward to Thursdays at University Hospital because lima beans were always on the menu. When I worked the night shift, I would go to the cafeteria at the beginning of my shift to procure my lima bean supper, as the cafeteria was long closed by the time I had a meal break. The ladies got to know me over time and knew how much I loved their lima beans. After a spell they would bring me lima beans when they closed the kitchen for the night so that mine were cooked as long as possible before consumption. I would thank them profusely, but they always would tell me it meant so much to them that I loved their food so much. I miss those women. They used their talents in the kitchen to treat those who were frightened or anxious or grieving, treating their caregivers as well. What great medicine was their food.
A few years ago, John and I had the opportunity to travel to Oswiecim, Poland. You would know it best by the name the Nazis gave it: Auschwitz. We toured the seemingly endless camps made of row upon row of wooden barracks that once housed thousands of innocent souls. At times the exhibits were completely overwhelming. There simply are not words to describe the horror and disgust and anguish one feels when confronted with a place where so many atrocities occurred. You realise after a while that your eyes are weeping, and your heart is mourning for so many. We continued on to Auschwitz II or Birkenau. It was more stark and desolate than Auschwitz I with a large tower announcing its presence. Huge searchlights and barbed wire fences gave us a chilling welcome. We walked to the end of the train tracks where a large monument stands at the site were the gas chambers once were. We realised we were literally standing on ground formed of the ashes of over a million and a half people. Exhausted and overcome with grief we made our way back to the museum entrance.
It is difficult to describe what happened next. We were ushered into a cafeteria, where we were encouraged to eat. Eating had not been on my agenda at all, as it would require food to somehow get past the large lump in my throat and stay down my queasy stomach. There in this place of despair and grief, were the women of Oswiecim making comfort food for the visitors of Auschwitz and Birkenau. Thick stews and crusty bread with creamy butter were being offered. The women called everyone dear and sweet and love. I had not eaten since early morning and all of a sudden I needed to sit and break bread with my fellow witnesses to this place. Little by little the warming sustenance eased our grief and made it possible to go on. These women were a living metaphor for the community surrounding these camps of horror. During the war they did what they could to comfort, to smuggle food and letters, to bring medicine and in some cases to hide those who would have certainly perished.
Lunch Ladies are part of the intricate fabric that makes up a life. They don't teach students to read or write. They don't perform surgery or prescribe medicine. They don't start revolutions or take down dictators. They give comfort. They made it possible for me to learn with a full stomach and a knowing that I was loved. They made our patients heal, and in doing so healed so much more than surgical wounds. They taught me that even in the midst of unspeakable horror, love and hope can flourish.
Monday 25 November 2013
Greener Grass
Author's Note: This is in no way meant to be a political statement about the pros or cons or apathy related to National Health or the lack thereof, or the current, past or future policies in either Great Britain or The United States of America. I tend to have intense loathing of all things medical when it comes to my own personal health; this did not change with my moving over the pond. The practice I am referring to in this blurb is in a small town in rural England. Whether the events of this day could or would happen in an alternate locale is unbeknownst to me. 'Cause I only experienced this particular, well...experience.
As new residents of England, John and I have had to register with a medical practice in our district. For us, that means the practice located in Playden. I really had no idea what to expect, and after watching one too many shows like Downton Abbey it became clear to me that my expectations were something on the order of Florence Nightingale and her compatriots. I did not expect a modern, gleaming, high tech, fully automated medical practice. The place even has automatic doors! PBS has really done a number on my thinking of all things British. Anyhoo, I was pleasantly surprised.
Our appointments were for 10:10 this morning. We hunkered down with the Sunday newspapers, two novels, an assortment of magazines, an apple and a Leicester cheese sandwich for what we knew would be an interminable wait. After all, today is Monday. And Monday morning appointment is English for full waiting room. At 10:00 am, John was called back to the exam room. He looked at his watch. Surely this must be a mistake! His was just a lab appointment anyway, so that must be the explanation. My appointment was for an actual first patient visit. We had made plans to make a morning of it in the waiting room.
I had just read the first two pages of my latest Kindle download, when I was rudely interrupted at 10:10 to go to room 9. I gathered up my mobile library and lunch cart and headed down the hall. Great. Now I have to spend the next two hours perched atop one of those exam tables with the goal posts on the end trying not to slip on the rolly paper and end up on the floor. Not my idea of a proper reading experience. I had no sooner gotten "comfortable" on this torture device when the practitioner came into the room. How rude! I didn't even get to eat a bite of my sandwich. Sigh.
The exam was thorough. I mean she actually talked to me. She offered different classes and set me up to do fasting labs at my next visit. She was actually interested in what I had to say. She took a complete family history and did not one time burst into uncontrollable giggles. What is this strange and marvellous place we have stumbled on? Do folks in the UK allow other countries to believe the National Health Service is crap so they can sneakily produce a healthier, happier population for world domination?
At the conclusion of my appointment, I was sent to schedule my labs and follow-up visit. The receptionist apologised and told me it would be awhile before I could get back in. There! I knew it! They trick you into thinking it is perfect and the next thing you know it is six months before you can get a follow-up. The receptionist gave me an appointment for Dec 3. Um, that is only eight days away. She again apologised at the length of time between appointments. My mouth hung open in absolute disbelief.
I finished making my appointment, and as I was gathering my unused waiting room accoutrement, I heard a commotion at the desk. It seems one of the patients had been waiting an "inexcusably long time" for his appointment. Okay. I am new, and obviously they want me to buy into this whole great, free, accessible care over here. He is a local, and as so must get less than stellar treatment. The man continued with ranting "my appointment was at 10:30 and it is now 10:35. This is unacceptable". Are you kidding? As he continued his shouting, his name was called to the exam room. At 10:36. The receptionist apologised for the scene and explained that folks in our area expect that if their appointment is at 10:30, they should be walking in to greet the doctor at 10:30. Wow. I sure hope he never needs medical care on my home planet...
As new residents of England, John and I have had to register with a medical practice in our district. For us, that means the practice located in Playden. I really had no idea what to expect, and after watching one too many shows like Downton Abbey it became clear to me that my expectations were something on the order of Florence Nightingale and her compatriots. I did not expect a modern, gleaming, high tech, fully automated medical practice. The place even has automatic doors! PBS has really done a number on my thinking of all things British. Anyhoo, I was pleasantly surprised.
Our appointments were for 10:10 this morning. We hunkered down with the Sunday newspapers, two novels, an assortment of magazines, an apple and a Leicester cheese sandwich for what we knew would be an interminable wait. After all, today is Monday. And Monday morning appointment is English for full waiting room. At 10:00 am, John was called back to the exam room. He looked at his watch. Surely this must be a mistake! His was just a lab appointment anyway, so that must be the explanation. My appointment was for an actual first patient visit. We had made plans to make a morning of it in the waiting room.
I had just read the first two pages of my latest Kindle download, when I was rudely interrupted at 10:10 to go to room 9. I gathered up my mobile library and lunch cart and headed down the hall. Great. Now I have to spend the next two hours perched atop one of those exam tables with the goal posts on the end trying not to slip on the rolly paper and end up on the floor. Not my idea of a proper reading experience. I had no sooner gotten "comfortable" on this torture device when the practitioner came into the room. How rude! I didn't even get to eat a bite of my sandwich. Sigh.
The exam was thorough. I mean she actually talked to me. She offered different classes and set me up to do fasting labs at my next visit. She was actually interested in what I had to say. She took a complete family history and did not one time burst into uncontrollable giggles. What is this strange and marvellous place we have stumbled on? Do folks in the UK allow other countries to believe the National Health Service is crap so they can sneakily produce a healthier, happier population for world domination?
At the conclusion of my appointment, I was sent to schedule my labs and follow-up visit. The receptionist apologised and told me it would be awhile before I could get back in. There! I knew it! They trick you into thinking it is perfect and the next thing you know it is six months before you can get a follow-up. The receptionist gave me an appointment for Dec 3. Um, that is only eight days away. She again apologised at the length of time between appointments. My mouth hung open in absolute disbelief.
I finished making my appointment, and as I was gathering my unused waiting room accoutrement, I heard a commotion at the desk. It seems one of the patients had been waiting an "inexcusably long time" for his appointment. Okay. I am new, and obviously they want me to buy into this whole great, free, accessible care over here. He is a local, and as so must get less than stellar treatment. The man continued with ranting "my appointment was at 10:30 and it is now 10:35. This is unacceptable". Are you kidding? As he continued his shouting, his name was called to the exam room. At 10:36. The receptionist apologised for the scene and explained that folks in our area expect that if their appointment is at 10:30, they should be walking in to greet the doctor at 10:30. Wow. I sure hope he never needs medical care on my home planet...
Saturday 23 November 2013
Going the Distance
We have been astonished at how often people exclaim in horror over John's commuting time to work. He takes the train, which is a two minute walk from our house, and arrives in Eastbourne forty-two minutes later. If the weather is good, he then walks up the hill to his office, taking him about twenty minutes....not bad for a middle aged pre-pensioner. If the weather is less than stellar, a bus gets him to his office in ten minutes. From door to door, the whole exercise is about an hour. To us that seems completely reasonable. To our new neighbours and friends, we seem a bit like circus freaks.
We live now only about sixty miles from London. To be fair, that would be the "as the bird flies" distance. Apparently not one single roadworks engineer or planning commissioner consulted any birdies when designing public transport routes to and from London, however. Actually getting London takes more like an hour and a half - two hours depending on mode of transport. Cool. Still not so far to me. Their are folks here who have NEVER been to London! I kid you not! Even more astounding, there are many folks who have never travelled beyond about twenty miles from home. Wow!
For us an hour or less commute is something to brag about and cheer about, and apparently write a blog entry about..., but I digress. Anyhoo, when we lived in the metro DC area, a commute of two hours each way was not unheard of. I drove our daughter over an hour each way to school. Every day. And for a teenager that must have been excruciating to be trapped in that tiny steel cell on wheels with her mother. She slept.
John's longest commute was from Georgia Southern University to North Augusta, SC. For an hour and forty-five minutes he dodged deer and avoided speed traps in every little bitty podunk town in rural Georgia. If he were lucky enough to get behind a logging truck or hay baler, the trip took more than two hours. And to think he kept his (relative) sanity! On the plus side, he could pick up quite the selection of AM radio stations.
Tomorrow we are meeting Lauren in London to go over her housing contract for next year. We will all take our local trains and meet up in one of the large stations in London proper. We don't have to deal with road rage, or traffic jams, or those annoying folks who park it in the left lane going one mile under the speed limit. With their blinker on. We will get to see the gorgeous countryside as we ride in seats much more comfortable than those designed for lengthy plane rides. We actually have room for both of our legs on a train. In less time than it takes to watch two t.v. shows, I will get to see University child's face and enjoy the city with her.
I cannot imagine not exploring the area around me. I guess I have always had a bit of wanderlust. We went on Sunday drives when I was a child just to discover new places and find new adventures. Every place I have lived since, I have driven, ridden, flown, biked or hiked to see the marvellous world around me. I am excited to live in a part of the world where so much is nearby. I am ready to go the distance!
We live now only about sixty miles from London. To be fair, that would be the "as the bird flies" distance. Apparently not one single roadworks engineer or planning commissioner consulted any birdies when designing public transport routes to and from London, however. Actually getting London takes more like an hour and a half - two hours depending on mode of transport. Cool. Still not so far to me. Their are folks here who have NEVER been to London! I kid you not! Even more astounding, there are many folks who have never travelled beyond about twenty miles from home. Wow!
For us an hour or less commute is something to brag about and cheer about, and apparently write a blog entry about..., but I digress. Anyhoo, when we lived in the metro DC area, a commute of two hours each way was not unheard of. I drove our daughter over an hour each way to school. Every day. And for a teenager that must have been excruciating to be trapped in that tiny steel cell on wheels with her mother. She slept.
John's longest commute was from Georgia Southern University to North Augusta, SC. For an hour and forty-five minutes he dodged deer and avoided speed traps in every little bitty podunk town in rural Georgia. If he were lucky enough to get behind a logging truck or hay baler, the trip took more than two hours. And to think he kept his (relative) sanity! On the plus side, he could pick up quite the selection of AM radio stations.
Tomorrow we are meeting Lauren in London to go over her housing contract for next year. We will all take our local trains and meet up in one of the large stations in London proper. We don't have to deal with road rage, or traffic jams, or those annoying folks who park it in the left lane going one mile under the speed limit. With their blinker on. We will get to see the gorgeous countryside as we ride in seats much more comfortable than those designed for lengthy plane rides. We actually have room for both of our legs on a train. In less time than it takes to watch two t.v. shows, I will get to see University child's face and enjoy the city with her.
I cannot imagine not exploring the area around me. I guess I have always had a bit of wanderlust. We went on Sunday drives when I was a child just to discover new places and find new adventures. Every place I have lived since, I have driven, ridden, flown, biked or hiked to see the marvellous world around me. I am excited to live in a part of the world where so much is nearby. I am ready to go the distance!
Friday 22 November 2013
Grits
I feel it is my duty to help introduce THE food product synonymous with the American South: grits. I have serious concerns that my grits are underappreciated and much misunderstood. I truly believe had I ever been able to participate in the Miss America pageant, my platform would have been encouraging an open dialogue about grits in order to promote world peace.
Let me first clear up some misconceptions. Grits are not the same as polenta any more than chocolate is the same as carob or hip-hob is an equal substitute for ballet. Grits are not like porridge or oatmeal. Yes, are all served hot and primarily for breakfast. Period. That is where the similarities end. One would never, for example, ever mistake a bowl of grits for wallpaper paste, or call them gruel with that nasty raised lipped sneer often accompanying such vile words. One does not eat a grit. Grits are plural. In fact, I challenge you to eat one grit. Maybe you could top the day off by building a sand grain castle...
I am less picky about my grits than some. My mother thinks instant grits are frankly a disgrace. As she epitomises all that is right and good about the South, I do have to allow her to take umbrage at my use, or as she would characterise, my misuse of our beloved grits, but I happen to love them. I had been grits-less since my move over the pond, but thanks to global capitalism and Amazon.co.uk, I now have two full boxes of individual packets of deliciousness all for just under the cost of a tank of petrol. There simply is not a good substitute for a bowl of warm buttery goodness on a cold dreary day.
I do also enjoy grits cooked properly by slowly simmering in a pot of salted water and half cream. The grits are allowed to fully develop into a blissful silken perfection. Add in a few fistfuls of tangy sharp cheddar cheese and a bit of crushed garlic and you might just hear an angel choir break forth with the Hallelujah Chorus. My girls are particular fans of this gooey cheesy garlicky version on holidays.
The largest pot of grits I ever prepared was for a summer high school marching band camp. The band boosters prepared the meals for an entire week for about 150 hungry kids. I had grits duty. The pot I used was so big, it took about 30 minutes just to bring the water to a boil. I had to use something not unlike a kayak paddle to stir my grits. I am most proud that not a single lump developed in that cavernous cauldron of gritty goodness, and the kids seemed to enjoy them.
My mother is more of a grits aficionado. She is the grits equivalent to a sommelier. One special holiday meal she prepared fried quail with speckled grits and white gravy. I was a kid. I was a bit more than curious about these speckled wonder grits. If normal grits brought me the kind of joy reserved for opening Christmas presents, imagine the utter rhapsody SPECKLED grits would produce. Alas, I was still too young to fully appreciate such a spectacular repast; I was too horrified at what looked like fried baby birds staring up at me. The grits were indeed speckled in that they had tiny darker bits floating amongst the plebeian regular grits, but they might as well have been gingham-checked. Those little bitty birds were distracting me from fully enjoying grits in their unrefined and speckled glory. Luckily, our great aunt took pity on my siblings and me, and offered to get us fast food instead. To this day, I cannot eat a bowl of speckled grits without thinking about those poor little birdies...
What are speckled grits? Speckled grits are simply whole grain grits versus the more common grits where the hull and germ are removed. Grits can be yellow or white, and it does not affect the taste. Some folks like their grits with red eye gravy on them, and others prefer them au naturale or with a most generous pat of butter and sprinkle of salt. However they are prepared, I love them. I hope you all are able to taste this most delicious delicacy at least once.
I will end with a portion of a bill introduced to the South Carolina State Assembly in my home planet some years ago to honour the humble grits.
And who says politicians don't do anything important....
Whereas, throughout its history, the South has relished its grits, making them a symbol of its diet, its customs, its humor, and its hospitality, and whereas, every community in the State of South Carolina used to be the site of a grits mill and every local economy in the State used to be dependent on its product; and whereas, grits has been a part of the life of every South Carolinian of whatever race, background, gender, and income; and whereas, grits could very well play a vital role in the future of not only this State, but also the world, if as Charleston's The Post and Courier proclaimed in 1952, "An inexpensive, simple, and thoroughly digestible food, [grits] should be made popular throughout the world. Given enough of it, the inhabitants of planet Earth would have nothing to fight about. A man full of [grits] is a man of peace.
Let me first clear up some misconceptions. Grits are not the same as polenta any more than chocolate is the same as carob or hip-hob is an equal substitute for ballet. Grits are not like porridge or oatmeal. Yes, are all served hot and primarily for breakfast. Period. That is where the similarities end. One would never, for example, ever mistake a bowl of grits for wallpaper paste, or call them gruel with that nasty raised lipped sneer often accompanying such vile words. One does not eat a grit. Grits are plural. In fact, I challenge you to eat one grit. Maybe you could top the day off by building a sand grain castle...
I am less picky about my grits than some. My mother thinks instant grits are frankly a disgrace. As she epitomises all that is right and good about the South, I do have to allow her to take umbrage at my use, or as she would characterise, my misuse of our beloved grits, but I happen to love them. I had been grits-less since my move over the pond, but thanks to global capitalism and Amazon.co.uk, I now have two full boxes of individual packets of deliciousness all for just under the cost of a tank of petrol. There simply is not a good substitute for a bowl of warm buttery goodness on a cold dreary day.
I do also enjoy grits cooked properly by slowly simmering in a pot of salted water and half cream. The grits are allowed to fully develop into a blissful silken perfection. Add in a few fistfuls of tangy sharp cheddar cheese and a bit of crushed garlic and you might just hear an angel choir break forth with the Hallelujah Chorus. My girls are particular fans of this gooey cheesy garlicky version on holidays.
The largest pot of grits I ever prepared was for a summer high school marching band camp. The band boosters prepared the meals for an entire week for about 150 hungry kids. I had grits duty. The pot I used was so big, it took about 30 minutes just to bring the water to a boil. I had to use something not unlike a kayak paddle to stir my grits. I am most proud that not a single lump developed in that cavernous cauldron of gritty goodness, and the kids seemed to enjoy them.
My mother is more of a grits aficionado. She is the grits equivalent to a sommelier. One special holiday meal she prepared fried quail with speckled grits and white gravy. I was a kid. I was a bit more than curious about these speckled wonder grits. If normal grits brought me the kind of joy reserved for opening Christmas presents, imagine the utter rhapsody SPECKLED grits would produce. Alas, I was still too young to fully appreciate such a spectacular repast; I was too horrified at what looked like fried baby birds staring up at me. The grits were indeed speckled in that they had tiny darker bits floating amongst the plebeian regular grits, but they might as well have been gingham-checked. Those little bitty birds were distracting me from fully enjoying grits in their unrefined and speckled glory. Luckily, our great aunt took pity on my siblings and me, and offered to get us fast food instead. To this day, I cannot eat a bowl of speckled grits without thinking about those poor little birdies...
What are speckled grits? Speckled grits are simply whole grain grits versus the more common grits where the hull and germ are removed. Grits can be yellow or white, and it does not affect the taste. Some folks like their grits with red eye gravy on them, and others prefer them au naturale or with a most generous pat of butter and sprinkle of salt. However they are prepared, I love them. I hope you all are able to taste this most delicious delicacy at least once.
I will end with a portion of a bill introduced to the South Carolina State Assembly in my home planet some years ago to honour the humble grits.
And who says politicians don't do anything important....
Whereas, throughout its history, the South has relished its grits, making them a symbol of its diet, its customs, its humor, and its hospitality, and whereas, every community in the State of South Carolina used to be the site of a grits mill and every local economy in the State used to be dependent on its product; and whereas, grits has been a part of the life of every South Carolinian of whatever race, background, gender, and income; and whereas, grits could very well play a vital role in the future of not only this State, but also the world, if as Charleston's The Post and Courier proclaimed in 1952, "An inexpensive, simple, and thoroughly digestible food, [grits] should be made popular throughout the world. Given enough of it, the inhabitants of planet Earth would have nothing to fight about. A man full of [grits] is a man of peace.
Wednesday 20 November 2013
Kicking Moss
I cannot tell you how many times I have sung along with Elton John. I absolutely love his music. Part of the reason he is so beloved by me is that he is the first big music star I became aware of. I received for Christmas sometime in the 70's a clock radio. Those were all the rage. No doubt my parents hoped it would alleviate the need for them to make multiple futile attempts to get me out of the bed. The thing is, a clock radio is only part clock...the rest is radio. The aforementioned technological advance of the day brought Elton John into my life.
One song I particularly loved. Your Song is still a favourite of mine. I can recite every single lyric. I did not, however, totally grasp the meaning of all of the words until I moved to England. For years I have sung along "...I sat on the roof, kicked off the moss..." not really comprehending how it was that a person would find themselves in a moss meets roof situation. I really just decided it was poetic license. Surely Bernie Taupin had some reason for penning such lyrics, and surely it must have a deeper meaning my prepubescent brain could not quite grasp.
Turns out, he literally meant he was sitting (or as the Brits say, he was sat) on the roof and kicking off the moss. I had this AHA! moment whilst perched atop our town on the roof of the parish church. We were looking down at our magnificent kingdom...ahem, town...kinda makes you feel all kingly looking down below, but I digress. Anyhoo, we were looking at all of the terra cotta and slate roofs.....covered in moss. Holy Cow! The moment of understanding and realisation was almost as profound as when I discovered a chest of drawers was not in fact Chester Drawers, or when I realised the Christmas hymn did not refer to Round John Virgin. I had a difficult childhood.
In England rain is plentiful. Moss grows easily. And as slate and clay are also plentiful and much more fire safe than the roofing products of my home planet, they are used for roofing. And the moss grows on said roofing products. And if one were to find themselves perched on their rooftop having a contemplative moment, one might kick off some of the moss..perhaps in a dreamy distracted manner.
How many other songs have I totally missed the boat on? Is John Lennon a literal Walrus? Are drops of Jupiter actually in her hair, hey, hey?Did the music really DIE? And then there is that whole Muskrat Love thing, This is big. This is huge. And to think it all started with my General Electric Flip Number Alarm Clock with AM/FM Radio and Snooze Button. $9.99. Batteries not included.
One song I particularly loved. Your Song is still a favourite of mine. I can recite every single lyric. I did not, however, totally grasp the meaning of all of the words until I moved to England. For years I have sung along "...I sat on the roof, kicked off the moss..." not really comprehending how it was that a person would find themselves in a moss meets roof situation. I really just decided it was poetic license. Surely Bernie Taupin had some reason for penning such lyrics, and surely it must have a deeper meaning my prepubescent brain could not quite grasp.
Turns out, he literally meant he was sitting (or as the Brits say, he was sat) on the roof and kicking off the moss. I had this AHA! moment whilst perched atop our town on the roof of the parish church. We were looking down at our magnificent kingdom...ahem, town...kinda makes you feel all kingly looking down below, but I digress. Anyhoo, we were looking at all of the terra cotta and slate roofs.....covered in moss. Holy Cow! The moment of understanding and realisation was almost as profound as when I discovered a chest of drawers was not in fact Chester Drawers, or when I realised the Christmas hymn did not refer to Round John Virgin. I had a difficult childhood.
In England rain is plentiful. Moss grows easily. And as slate and clay are also plentiful and much more fire safe than the roofing products of my home planet, they are used for roofing. And the moss grows on said roofing products. And if one were to find themselves perched on their rooftop having a contemplative moment, one might kick off some of the moss..perhaps in a dreamy distracted manner.
How many other songs have I totally missed the boat on? Is John Lennon a literal Walrus? Are drops of Jupiter actually in her hair, hey, hey?Did the music really DIE? And then there is that whole Muskrat Love thing, This is big. This is huge. And to think it all started with my General Electric Flip Number Alarm Clock with AM/FM Radio and Snooze Button. $9.99. Batteries not included.
"Your Song"
It's a little bit funny this feeling inside
I'm not one of those who can easily hide
I don't have much money but boy if I did
I'd buy a big house where we both could live
If I was a sculptor, but then again, no
Or a man who makes potions in a travelling show
I know it's not much but it's the best I can do
My gift is my song and this one's for you
And you can tell everybody this is your song
It may be quite simple but now that it's done
I hope you don't mind
I hope you don't mind that I put down in words
How wonderful life is while you're in the world
I sat on the roof and kicked off the moss
Well a few of the verses well they've got me quite cross
But the sun's been quite kind while I wrote this song
It's for people like you that keep it turned on
So excuse me forgetting but these things I do
You see I've forgotten if they're green or they're blue
Anyway the thing is what I really mean
Yours are the sweetest eyes I've ever seen
And you can tell everybody this is your song
It may be quite simple but now that it's done
I hope you don't mind
I hope you don't mind that I put down in words
How wonderful life is while you're in the world
I hope you don't mind
I hope you don't mind that I put down in words
How wonderful life is while you're in the world
Lyrics - Bernie Taupin
Music -Elton John
Tuesday 19 November 2013
Fascinating Factoids
I feel a little like Darryl Hannah in Splash as I have used the television to acclimate to this strange and wonderful place I live. Even as I write this, I realise how silly it seems to rely on television to learn the customs and idiosyncrasies of a unfamiliar environ. Silly it may be, but I have learnt volumes. Gordon Ramsay, Jamie Oliver and Nigella Lawson have helped me adjust to new cooking measurements and taught me how to master cottage pie and lamb roasts. I have figured out how to discern the seemingly endless iterations of the English accent by watching Come Dine With Me. Phil Spencer tells me all about the different areas in England in Location, Location, Location. I have travelled all around this vast and beautiful island on Coast, and learnt about history and culture in Countryfile.
I thought it would be fun to share some of the more interesting tidbits I have learnt from my televised education; one of which is using learnt instead of learned. Anyhoo, I hope you enjoy sharing some of my newly acquired knowledge of all things England. And just so you know, I am married to a historian, so I did make sure my factoids were true. Or at least accepted fact and/or rumour...
1. King Edward VII had tattoos. Apparently it became the posh thing for folks in high society to tat up. Such practises were even mentioned in a New York Times article in 1879 declaring "...that in England it is regarded as a customary and proper thing to tattoo the youthful feminine leg..". Winston Churchill's mother Jennie had a snake tattooed on her wrist that she could disguise with a diamond bracelet.
2. In Norfolk ladybugs are called bishy barney bees.
3. Trent Park, an English country manor house was turned into a prisoner of war camp for elite captured German soldiers and officers during World War II. The place was completely bugged, and in the basement German translators transcribed the conversations between the Germans that gave Britain vital war secrets. Some of the transcribers were Jewish immigrants who had escaped Nazi occupation.
4. Public schools are really private schools and tend to be very expensive. Ordinary schools are the free or state maintained schools. College in England refers to the last two years of high school which is called secondary school, and if you go on to higher education you attend University.
5. Fish and Chips first arrived in England in 1860. This was not an indigenous food item. Joseph Malin, a Jewish immigrant, is credited with the first "chippy", or fish and chips shop. During World War II, fish and chips were one of the only foods not subject to rationing.
6. In 1822, the America Ground was born in Hastings. A group of about 1000 settlers were living in an area cut off from the official borough of Hastings due to severe storms and the subsequent reshaping of the harbour. They were free from paying taxes as they lived outside of the tax zone. When officials demanded they start paying taxes and rents, the settlers raised the American flag and declared themselves the 24th state of The United States and independent from England.
7. In 1647, Parliament abolished Christmas. It didn't last.
8. Bubble and Squeak, Spotted Dick, Periwinkles, and Toad in the Hole are all food items in England. Bubble and Squeak is made from leftover cabbage and potato from a Sunday roast, Spotted Dick is a sponge cake with raisins, Periwinkles are small snails and Toad in the Hole is sausage baked in a Yorkshire pudding.
9. Big Ben is not the name of the huge clock in London. Big Ben is the bell. The tower that houses said bell and clock is St. Stephen's tower.
10. In 1902, emergency surgery was performed on King Edward VII inside Buckingham Palace. He was suffering from peritonitis and near death. The surgery was performed in a room overlooking the gardens.
I thought it would be fun to share some of the more interesting tidbits I have learnt from my televised education; one of which is using learnt instead of learned. Anyhoo, I hope you enjoy sharing some of my newly acquired knowledge of all things England. And just so you know, I am married to a historian, so I did make sure my factoids were true. Or at least accepted fact and/or rumour...
1. King Edward VII had tattoos. Apparently it became the posh thing for folks in high society to tat up. Such practises were even mentioned in a New York Times article in 1879 declaring "...that in England it is regarded as a customary and proper thing to tattoo the youthful feminine leg..". Winston Churchill's mother Jennie had a snake tattooed on her wrist that she could disguise with a diamond bracelet.
2. In Norfolk ladybugs are called bishy barney bees.
3. Trent Park, an English country manor house was turned into a prisoner of war camp for elite captured German soldiers and officers during World War II. The place was completely bugged, and in the basement German translators transcribed the conversations between the Germans that gave Britain vital war secrets. Some of the transcribers were Jewish immigrants who had escaped Nazi occupation.
4. Public schools are really private schools and tend to be very expensive. Ordinary schools are the free or state maintained schools. College in England refers to the last two years of high school which is called secondary school, and if you go on to higher education you attend University.
5. Fish and Chips first arrived in England in 1860. This was not an indigenous food item. Joseph Malin, a Jewish immigrant, is credited with the first "chippy", or fish and chips shop. During World War II, fish and chips were one of the only foods not subject to rationing.
6. In 1822, the America Ground was born in Hastings. A group of about 1000 settlers were living in an area cut off from the official borough of Hastings due to severe storms and the subsequent reshaping of the harbour. They were free from paying taxes as they lived outside of the tax zone. When officials demanded they start paying taxes and rents, the settlers raised the American flag and declared themselves the 24th state of The United States and independent from England.
7. In 1647, Parliament abolished Christmas. It didn't last.
8. Bubble and Squeak, Spotted Dick, Periwinkles, and Toad in the Hole are all food items in England. Bubble and Squeak is made from leftover cabbage and potato from a Sunday roast, Spotted Dick is a sponge cake with raisins, Periwinkles are small snails and Toad in the Hole is sausage baked in a Yorkshire pudding.
9. Big Ben is not the name of the huge clock in London. Big Ben is the bell. The tower that houses said bell and clock is St. Stephen's tower.
10. In 1902, emergency surgery was performed on King Edward VII inside Buckingham Palace. He was suffering from peritonitis and near death. The surgery was performed in a room overlooking the gardens.
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