Authors Note:
Ahem...this blog will contain reference to an ex-spouse. The reference is for illustration purposes only, and in no way meant to demean, belittle or cause fits of giggles and snorts The occupation discussed is one shared by my much older sister, for whom I have the greatest admiration and respect. The Dane who lived in my basement is in fact .... the Dane who lived in my basement. I mean that in the most literal sense possible - it is not some weird English euphemism designed to be salacious. No woodland creatures were harmed in the writing of this blog entry. If you experience symptoms of overdose or allergic reaction including swelling of face, tightening of throat, nausea or disgust, please stop reading and contact your local emergency services. The numbers are 911 in the US and 999 In the UK. Void where prohibited.
I use quite in conversation every single day. It is an descriptive enhancer, if you will. We use quite in place of really. "The new portrait is quite stunning" is infinitely more posh sounding than "the new portrait is really stunning". In reality one who overuses really would be more likely to say "that picture is really awesome", but I digress. The use of quite to emphasize can really get you into trouble over here. Quite in front of a descriptor in England means to a lesser degree, or mediocre. I first became aware of the negative connotations of quite from the Dane who lived in my basement.
This particular Dane has a better grasp of the English language than most folks for whom English is their primary language. It was not always this way, however. His first adventure in the use of English in conversation caused quite a stir. He was having dinner at a colleague's house in England. Upon being served the traditional roast, no doubt labored and toiled over for hours, he was asked how he was enjoying his repast. He replied eager to show his impeccable mastery of language, "it is quite nice". This seemingly banal snippet of conversation would garner nods of approval and perhaps an invitation to partake in a second helping in America. Not so much in England. He had basically told his hostess her efforts in the kitchen were okay, or pretty good. The fact that he was allowed to stay and enjoy dessert and coffee is a testament to his hostess. The Dane in my basement learned from his experience, and thankfully shared his newfound knowledge with me, so that I could avoid such a grave error whilst visiting England.
Our daughter's history teacher when she attended middle school is English. He is a brilliant man with a keen sense of humour. My ex-husband had driven the five hundred miles or so to attend a parent-teacher conference with said teacher and my husband and me. We were sitting around a table chit-chatting and getting to know one another. History teacher, Mr. Stick (I have changed his name to protect his innocence), inquired as to what occupation the ex-husband had. Ex stated he was a band director. Mr. Stick looked genuinely interested and said with excitement "Oh, you direct a symphony orchestra?". Ex husband - "no, I direct a band". Mr. Stick with growing excitement - no doubt he had visions of the Proms and Land of Hope And Glory -"you mean like Sousa?" Ex-hubbo- "no, I direct a high school band". A much deflated and less interested Mr. Stick replied "Oh. Quite". I had to pinch my husband's leg to keep him from giggling out loud.
I am quite sure I have offended enough folks for one day. I really hope you enjoy my take on life in Merry England. I am quite sure you would love my new home. It is quite nice.
Thursday 31 October 2013
Wednesday 30 October 2013
Conjugating Hoover
One of the household items we left behind was our vacuum cleaner. We had absolutely not one more millimeter left in the moving van of treasures we shared with family and friends, and it seemed ridiculous to bring an appliance with the "wrong" voltage and plug over the pond. Not to mention expensive. We knew we could replace it in England. In looking for a new vacuum cleaner, I discovered an interesting factoid. In England, Hoover is not just the brand of a vacuum cleaner. It is how folks describe ALL vacuum cleaners. Not only that, when engaging in the stimulating activity we call vacuuming, it is referred to as hoovering. To hoover is to use a machine to suck up the little bits that muck up ones carpet. Our real estate agent was keen to show us our carpets had been recently hoovered. Who knew?
Thankfully my family was secure enough financially to allow for such luxuries as a deluxe box of Crayola Crayons. Not just the basic 8 crayon starter set, but the one with burnt sienna, thistle, salmon and aubergine. I, being quite astute even then, deduced quite quickly that aubergine was the same exact deep plummy purple with dark green undertones as an eggplant. Gorgeous color, disgusting food product. But I digress. Anyhoo, the English prefer to refer to said disgusting food item by its color. Aubergine does sound immensely more appetizing than eggplant. It has not gone unnoticed that many of the recipes actually state "and you cannot even taste the eggplant/aubergine".
I am slowly learning to adapt to this wild new world and language. I have learned that nappies are not brief siestas, and that I should never leave home without my brolly. There are no ATM's here, but cashpoints are plentiful. Bubble and Squeak is a pan of leftovers fried on the hob or stove top, and I should never comment on a tourist's fanny pack. Look that one up. A valance is not a curtain at all, and is exactly what I needed as a dust ruffle for my new divan..which incidentally is not a seat, but my bed. Whew. My brain is tired......
Luckily I was familiar with the brand of Hoover, and understanding what folks were saying was not a stretch. My synapses were given much more of a workout over several mentions of courgettes. Gordon Ramsay seemed to know exactly what they were, so I knew they had to do something with cooking. Courgette sounds like a delicious dessert...perhaps a gooey french delicacy. Nope. A courgette is a squash. Specifically a zucchini squash. So much for luscious indulgence. I figure the naming was the result of a evil plan hatched by Mums to get their kids to eat green things.
Thankfully my family was secure enough financially to allow for such luxuries as a deluxe box of Crayola Crayons. Not just the basic 8 crayon starter set, but the one with burnt sienna, thistle, salmon and aubergine. I, being quite astute even then, deduced quite quickly that aubergine was the same exact deep plummy purple with dark green undertones as an eggplant. Gorgeous color, disgusting food product. But I digress. Anyhoo, the English prefer to refer to said disgusting food item by its color. Aubergine does sound immensely more appetizing than eggplant. It has not gone unnoticed that many of the recipes actually state "and you cannot even taste the eggplant/aubergine".
I am slowly learning to adapt to this wild new world and language. I have learned that nappies are not brief siestas, and that I should never leave home without my brolly. There are no ATM's here, but cashpoints are plentiful. Bubble and Squeak is a pan of leftovers fried on the hob or stove top, and I should never comment on a tourist's fanny pack. Look that one up. A valance is not a curtain at all, and is exactly what I needed as a dust ruffle for my new divan..which incidentally is not a seat, but my bed. Whew. My brain is tired......
Tuesday 29 October 2013
Hey Jude!
It was a dark and stormy night...ahem, sorry, could not resist. The St. Jude storm, so named because Monday was the feast of St. Jude Thaddaeus, hammered my humble abode all through the night and then swept its way up to Denmark. The storm caused massive transportation delays and cancellations and wind gusts up to 100 miles per hour. And more importantly, it ripped my fence apart in our back garden. The fact that St. Jude is the patron of lost causes is not lost on me. I hope my fence can be fixed.
Why name a storm after St. Jude? Monday was also the feast day for St. Anastasia II, St. Ferrutius, St. Honoratus of Vercelli and ten or twelve more. The obvious reason is that St. Jude is much easier to pronounce. Surely, though, that could not be the only reason. In fact, storms in the U.K. don't usually get named at all. The tradition of naming storms seems to come from my side of the pond. The explanation given for naming storms is that a named storm aides in ease of disseminating crucial advisories and warnings. Right.
In the US, storms have been named since the 1950's. At first, those rascally masters of meteorology used female names only. Whilst a part of me does understand the practice as I have raised two daughters, I can also totally understand why feminist groups took exception to the practice and forced the weather services to include male names. Some of the names are quite memorable. We can all with ease remember Hurricanes Andrew, Hugo, Katrina and Sandy. I also remember hearing about Hurricane Camille, although I was too young to fully comprehend how some chick with an odd name could devastate the entire Eastern Seaboard.
The National Weather Service has apparently exhausted its stash of reasonable, easy to remember and/or spell names. This year we have Rebekah, Humberto, Nestor, and Chantal among others. Really? While I concede that Hurricane Joe doesn't quite have the oomph one would expect as a moniker for a destructive storm, Nestor does? And besides, if the weather service wants really inventive, creative and memorable names for a storm, go ask a teacher. My sister taught Crystal Sparkle Chandelier one year. I kid you not.
Maybe in the end naming the storm after a saint is a good thing. I would think it would be harder to say the words our mothers admonished us not to when referring to a saint. I saw not a single piece of plywood with St. Jude go home! or similar as is the norm in the States. Folks thought it appropriate that we would have a patron saint to help us through the loss of life and property. Maybe they have it right here. I guess we should all be grateful it was not the feast day of St. Quadragesimus....
Why name a storm after St. Jude? Monday was also the feast day for St. Anastasia II, St. Ferrutius, St. Honoratus of Vercelli and ten or twelve more. The obvious reason is that St. Jude is much easier to pronounce. Surely, though, that could not be the only reason. In fact, storms in the U.K. don't usually get named at all. The tradition of naming storms seems to come from my side of the pond. The explanation given for naming storms is that a named storm aides in ease of disseminating crucial advisories and warnings. Right.
In the US, storms have been named since the 1950's. At first, those rascally masters of meteorology used female names only. Whilst a part of me does understand the practice as I have raised two daughters, I can also totally understand why feminist groups took exception to the practice and forced the weather services to include male names. Some of the names are quite memorable. We can all with ease remember Hurricanes Andrew, Hugo, Katrina and Sandy. I also remember hearing about Hurricane Camille, although I was too young to fully comprehend how some chick with an odd name could devastate the entire Eastern Seaboard.
The National Weather Service has apparently exhausted its stash of reasonable, easy to remember and/or spell names. This year we have Rebekah, Humberto, Nestor, and Chantal among others. Really? While I concede that Hurricane Joe doesn't quite have the oomph one would expect as a moniker for a destructive storm, Nestor does? And besides, if the weather service wants really inventive, creative and memorable names for a storm, go ask a teacher. My sister taught Crystal Sparkle Chandelier one year. I kid you not.
Maybe in the end naming the storm after a saint is a good thing. I would think it would be harder to say the words our mothers admonished us not to when referring to a saint. I saw not a single piece of plywood with St. Jude go home! or similar as is the norm in the States. Folks thought it appropriate that we would have a patron saint to help us through the loss of life and property. Maybe they have it right here. I guess we should all be grateful it was not the feast day of St. Quadragesimus....
Sunday 27 October 2013
Milk, Bread and Batteries
The BBC has issued an severe warning for the storm of the decade, century or month, depending on the expert interviewed. This storm is to pummel most of England and Wales with sustained winds of over 40 mph and gusts to over 80 mph. Fun times, fun times. I, being a child of the Southeastern United States, did what one does when such a warning is issued. I headed to the nearest grocery store and purchased bread, milk and batteries.
Why bread, milk and batteries you ask? The same reason I wear white only between Easter and Labor Day. It's a rule. Where I come from bread, milk and batteries are the staple goods one has for ice and snow storms and hurricanes. With the mere mention of a storm approaching, hoards of disaster-ready folks pour into every Wal-Mart, Costco, and grocery store available and reduce the stocks of said items to a single pint of nearly expired buttermilk, a mangled and mashed sack of pita bread and endless packs of hearing aid batteries as if some weird version of a medieval plague had swept through the store.
Folks are not as easily rattled here. Milk and bread were available in abundance at our store. I was able to purchase batteries with ease. There was no panic; no alarm. Several folks reminded us to tie down our wheelie bins (garbage cans y'all) in preparation for the storm. Period. In fact, until this morning, on the news broadcasts people were encouraged to check the on-line details for the upcoming storm. No throngs of rain-jacketed weather correspondents showing footage of leaves blowing or light poles swaying. Calmly, and with same enthusiasm one might say...read a phone book out loud, the anchors simply said we are to have hurricane force winds and to be prepared because it could be severe. That is it.
And prepared I am. I have the aforementioned bread, milk and batteries. I have peanut butter. I have a gas stove and a fireplace. I even have matches to light them. My computer and phone are charged and ready. I have noted the emergency response numbers. I have a stack of books to read. I have planned a long nap. The wheelie bins have been anchored. I have a three month supply of Jaffa Cakes and digestives. I am ready. I figured this town has survived Norman conquests and Bloody Mary and the Great War and the economic crash. My house has lived through more storms than Jim Cantore.
And speaking of Jim Cantore, without him, how will I really know how bad this storm is?
Why bread, milk and batteries you ask? The same reason I wear white only between Easter and Labor Day. It's a rule. Where I come from bread, milk and batteries are the staple goods one has for ice and snow storms and hurricanes. With the mere mention of a storm approaching, hoards of disaster-ready folks pour into every Wal-Mart, Costco, and grocery store available and reduce the stocks of said items to a single pint of nearly expired buttermilk, a mangled and mashed sack of pita bread and endless packs of hearing aid batteries as if some weird version of a medieval plague had swept through the store.
Folks are not as easily rattled here. Milk and bread were available in abundance at our store. I was able to purchase batteries with ease. There was no panic; no alarm. Several folks reminded us to tie down our wheelie bins (garbage cans y'all) in preparation for the storm. Period. In fact, until this morning, on the news broadcasts people were encouraged to check the on-line details for the upcoming storm. No throngs of rain-jacketed weather correspondents showing footage of leaves blowing or light poles swaying. Calmly, and with same enthusiasm one might say...read a phone book out loud, the anchors simply said we are to have hurricane force winds and to be prepared because it could be severe. That is it.
And prepared I am. I have the aforementioned bread, milk and batteries. I have peanut butter. I have a gas stove and a fireplace. I even have matches to light them. My computer and phone are charged and ready. I have noted the emergency response numbers. I have a stack of books to read. I have planned a long nap. The wheelie bins have been anchored. I have a three month supply of Jaffa Cakes and digestives. I am ready. I figured this town has survived Norman conquests and Bloody Mary and the Great War and the economic crash. My house has lived through more storms than Jim Cantore.
And speaking of Jim Cantore, without him, how will I really know how bad this storm is?
Saturday 26 October 2013
The Wisdom of Pooh
Sometimes, words are inadequate. A dear friend has lost his husband, confidante, friend and soulmate.
“How lucky I am to have something that makes saying goodbye so hard.”
A.A. Milne
“If ever there is tomorrow when we're not together... there is something you must always remember. you are braver than you believe, stronger than you seem, and smarter than you think. But the most important thing is, even if we're apart... I'll always be with you.”
A.A. Milne
“How lucky I am to have something that makes saying goodbye so hard.”
A.A. Milne
“If ever there is tomorrow when we're not together... there is something you must always remember. you are braver than you believe, stronger than you seem, and smarter than you think. But the most important thing is, even if we're apart... I'll always be with you.”
A.A. Milne
Friday 25 October 2013
What I Miss
I have had many, many questions about what I miss being in my new post code and what I don't love so much. I realize with time this list may change, but I may have another day where my writer's block gets the best of me and I can print a revision. Oh, the anticipation. I can feel it! Here goes...
What I miss...
1. My family and friends. That is a given. And since I cannot refer to one and not to all specifically as that would make my Christmas visit awkward, I will leave it at that.
2. Chick-fil-A. I used to miss it on Sundays at home. Now I find I miss it on weekdays too. There is little better than a toasted bun filled with a crispy fried chicken breast and topped with a garlicky pickle. YUM!
3. Mexican food. I realize there are some Mexican restaurants in the larger cities in England. And they claim to be authentic. I miss the local Americanized version that exists in every single small town in the US. I miss endless tortillas and salsa and green margaritas.
4. Crap TV. Don't get me wrong, there is crap here too, but both the shows they export and the shows produced here in the crap genre are the crappiest of the crap. There are some wonderful shows here too. I miss Bravo and HGTV. I miss the American version of Food Network. Man V. Food is not my idea of quality Food Network programming. I miss Project Runway and So You Think You Can Dance. I miss CBS Sunday Morning and Master Chef. I do not miss CNN, any program about cupcakes, or the Kardashians.
5. Saturday college football. To be fair, my idea of a great football Saturday was to provide the food and snacks for the family. The husband and younger child would start watching coverage from game day and watch until the Oregon game was over in the wee hours of Sunday. I read. I snuggled up in a blanket and a book on the couch, fed and watered them, and was totally happy. I read a lot. And I even watched the occasional play!
6. Fall leaves. Fall is my favorite season. I love how brilliantly blue the sky becomes against the kaleidoscopic colors of fall leaves. I love apples and the delicious array of delicacies one can make with apples. I LOVE cider. I love sweaters and retiring all things sleeveless for another year. I love tights and corduroy. I love the swoosh-swoosh sound corduroy makes when you walk. I love soups and stews and thick, rich comfort foods. I don't love how folks refer to the weather as "crisp". Crisp is an apple. Not the weather.
7. Driving. I miss driving around and exploring new places. I don't miss traffic. I miss the freedom being able to drive gives one. There are plenty of buses and trains - and I can walk the entire town in about thirty minutes. I love walking, and we try to walk every day. I don't love walking in the rain. And it rains nearly every day. 'Nuff said.
8. I miss Duke's Mayonnaise, Hidden Valley Dry Ranch Dressing, Jif peanut butter, and Ruffles with Ridges. I can get black-eyed peas here, and in Virginia they were in the international food section. I miss Trader Joe's. I miss them a lot. I miss pimento cheese. There is a Leicester cheese and spring onion sandwich here that is similar. It is delicious! It tastes like John's Gramma's cheese ball. But it still isn't pimento cheese.
9. Iced tea. The English do know how to do tea. Hot tea. I miss a giant glass of slightly sweet tea with fresh mint and lots of ice. Yum!
10. American sizes. The sizes for clothes here are one to two above American sizes. For example, if you wear a size 12 in the US, you would wear a 14 or 16 here. I do not need any help in the feeling like an elephant department.
All in all I really do like it here. It is an adjustment. I've had to learn all new currency and measurements. I've had to adjust a lifetime of cooking to local ingredients. I have had to learn to listen as one accent does not fit all of England. I have had to figure out radiators and gas appliances. I have learned that kindness breeds kindness. Folks have been incredibly friendly and patient and helpful. And I will survive without my mayo and peanut butter!
What I miss...
1. My family and friends. That is a given. And since I cannot refer to one and not to all specifically as that would make my Christmas visit awkward, I will leave it at that.
2. Chick-fil-A. I used to miss it on Sundays at home. Now I find I miss it on weekdays too. There is little better than a toasted bun filled with a crispy fried chicken breast and topped with a garlicky pickle. YUM!
3. Mexican food. I realize there are some Mexican restaurants in the larger cities in England. And they claim to be authentic. I miss the local Americanized version that exists in every single small town in the US. I miss endless tortillas and salsa and green margaritas.
4. Crap TV. Don't get me wrong, there is crap here too, but both the shows they export and the shows produced here in the crap genre are the crappiest of the crap. There are some wonderful shows here too. I miss Bravo and HGTV. I miss the American version of Food Network. Man V. Food is not my idea of quality Food Network programming. I miss Project Runway and So You Think You Can Dance. I miss CBS Sunday Morning and Master Chef. I do not miss CNN, any program about cupcakes, or the Kardashians.
5. Saturday college football. To be fair, my idea of a great football Saturday was to provide the food and snacks for the family. The husband and younger child would start watching coverage from game day and watch until the Oregon game was over in the wee hours of Sunday. I read. I snuggled up in a blanket and a book on the couch, fed and watered them, and was totally happy. I read a lot. And I even watched the occasional play!
6. Fall leaves. Fall is my favorite season. I love how brilliantly blue the sky becomes against the kaleidoscopic colors of fall leaves. I love apples and the delicious array of delicacies one can make with apples. I LOVE cider. I love sweaters and retiring all things sleeveless for another year. I love tights and corduroy. I love the swoosh-swoosh sound corduroy makes when you walk. I love soups and stews and thick, rich comfort foods. I don't love how folks refer to the weather as "crisp". Crisp is an apple. Not the weather.
7. Driving. I miss driving around and exploring new places. I don't miss traffic. I miss the freedom being able to drive gives one. There are plenty of buses and trains - and I can walk the entire town in about thirty minutes. I love walking, and we try to walk every day. I don't love walking in the rain. And it rains nearly every day. 'Nuff said.
8. I miss Duke's Mayonnaise, Hidden Valley Dry Ranch Dressing, Jif peanut butter, and Ruffles with Ridges. I can get black-eyed peas here, and in Virginia they were in the international food section. I miss Trader Joe's. I miss them a lot. I miss pimento cheese. There is a Leicester cheese and spring onion sandwich here that is similar. It is delicious! It tastes like John's Gramma's cheese ball. But it still isn't pimento cheese.
9. Iced tea. The English do know how to do tea. Hot tea. I miss a giant glass of slightly sweet tea with fresh mint and lots of ice. Yum!
10. American sizes. The sizes for clothes here are one to two above American sizes. For example, if you wear a size 12 in the US, you would wear a 14 or 16 here. I do not need any help in the feeling like an elephant department.
All in all I really do like it here. It is an adjustment. I've had to learn all new currency and measurements. I've had to adjust a lifetime of cooking to local ingredients. I have had to learn to listen as one accent does not fit all of England. I have had to figure out radiators and gas appliances. I have learned that kindness breeds kindness. Folks have been incredibly friendly and patient and helpful. And I will survive without my mayo and peanut butter!
Wednesday 23 October 2013
Tea Time
I love tea. I love scones. I adore scones with my tea. Although I will allow that lands of milk and honey do sound appealing, I would take an overgrown empty lot as long as I have luscious buttery clotted cream on a warm fruited biscuit slathered in exquisite strawberry preserves or tangy marmalade. In fact, I have decided if heaven doesn't have clotted cream, I am buying a ticket south.
Our first day out in England seemed the perfect opportunity to indulge in this most delicious of repasts. I had arisen at o'dark thirty in order to catch the train, and had breakfasted at 6:00 am. By ten thirty or so, I was a bit peckish. That is English for needing sustenance y'all. Anyhoo, I decided my daughter and I could share a lovely leisurely snack of tea and scones. The quaint and quirky story-book cafe we chose had an extensive range of options for our tea. There was only one problem. I was not "supposed" to have tea at 10:30. Apparently this is a rule.
I, of course, was completely unaware of my faux pas, and the menu did not note a specific time for which tea was appropriate. Salivating at the mere thought of that glorious clotted cream, I did not notice the commotion I had caused with my order. The murmuring in the cafe steadily rose until when my tiered stand of deliciousness appeared at my table, I could feel the electricity of the building excitement. At first in my naivete about English customs and practices, I thought I was hearing murmurs of approval and admiration. I was sadly mistaken.
It seems I had committed a serious crime against the very custom I wanted to savor. It was entirely too early in the day for tea and scones. Apparently tea when served with pastries or sandwiches is an afternoon treat. It was not yet noon. Could I have looked more decidedly un-English? And did I mention our table was situated right in the middle of the restaurant?
Can I just say that the pleasure of enjoying a perfectly brewed pot of aromatic Darjeeling whilst nibbling on freshly baked scones is somewhat diminished when one fears they will be dragged to the center of town to face whatever judgement is deemed appropriate when one is caught breaking a centuries old tradition. I kid you not, the lady next to us using a decibel level not unfamiliar to those in a world cup final situation, discussed at length my crime with her dining companion. Others were more discreet opting to use horrified facial expressions and tongue clucking to demonstrate their complete and utter disapproval.
I decided my only way out of this "situation" was to blame it on the Texans. It seems that most folks in England know just a handful of places in the United States; New York, Washington DC, Miami Beach, Hollywood, Disneyworld and Texas. Since my own forefathers and foremothers would be turning in their graves appalled at my behaviour, I could not let my true genealogy be known. I sound southern. Therefore, for one day and one day only, I became a Texan. I exclaimed about how big that 'ole biscuit was. I announced my scone was special enough to be served with the Holy Grail of Texan cuisine -the steak. I y'alled and howdied my way through that debacle of a tea time. And it worked.
I since have learned to order my tea in the hours beyond noon when I choose to indulge in my now absolute need for scones. If the clock does not read an acceptable time whilst out and about, I resign myself to tea and, well..tea. Except when at home. If I want scones and tea at nine in the morning or eleven o'clock at night, I indulge. Slathered with that luscious Cornish clotted cream, there really isn't anything better.
Our first day out in England seemed the perfect opportunity to indulge in this most delicious of repasts. I had arisen at o'dark thirty in order to catch the train, and had breakfasted at 6:00 am. By ten thirty or so, I was a bit peckish. That is English for needing sustenance y'all. Anyhoo, I decided my daughter and I could share a lovely leisurely snack of tea and scones. The quaint and quirky story-book cafe we chose had an extensive range of options for our tea. There was only one problem. I was not "supposed" to have tea at 10:30. Apparently this is a rule.
I, of course, was completely unaware of my faux pas, and the menu did not note a specific time for which tea was appropriate. Salivating at the mere thought of that glorious clotted cream, I did not notice the commotion I had caused with my order. The murmuring in the cafe steadily rose until when my tiered stand of deliciousness appeared at my table, I could feel the electricity of the building excitement. At first in my naivete about English customs and practices, I thought I was hearing murmurs of approval and admiration. I was sadly mistaken.
It seems I had committed a serious crime against the very custom I wanted to savor. It was entirely too early in the day for tea and scones. Apparently tea when served with pastries or sandwiches is an afternoon treat. It was not yet noon. Could I have looked more decidedly un-English? And did I mention our table was situated right in the middle of the restaurant?
Can I just say that the pleasure of enjoying a perfectly brewed pot of aromatic Darjeeling whilst nibbling on freshly baked scones is somewhat diminished when one fears they will be dragged to the center of town to face whatever judgement is deemed appropriate when one is caught breaking a centuries old tradition. I kid you not, the lady next to us using a decibel level not unfamiliar to those in a world cup final situation, discussed at length my crime with her dining companion. Others were more discreet opting to use horrified facial expressions and tongue clucking to demonstrate their complete and utter disapproval.
I decided my only way out of this "situation" was to blame it on the Texans. It seems that most folks in England know just a handful of places in the United States; New York, Washington DC, Miami Beach, Hollywood, Disneyworld and Texas. Since my own forefathers and foremothers would be turning in their graves appalled at my behaviour, I could not let my true genealogy be known. I sound southern. Therefore, for one day and one day only, I became a Texan. I exclaimed about how big that 'ole biscuit was. I announced my scone was special enough to be served with the Holy Grail of Texan cuisine -the steak. I y'alled and howdied my way through that debacle of a tea time. And it worked.
I since have learned to order my tea in the hours beyond noon when I choose to indulge in my now absolute need for scones. If the clock does not read an acceptable time whilst out and about, I resign myself to tea and, well..tea. Except when at home. If I want scones and tea at nine in the morning or eleven o'clock at night, I indulge. Slathered with that luscious Cornish clotted cream, there really isn't anything better.
Tuesday 22 October 2013
Yankee Ingenuity
Before I begin, I apologize to those of you who had difficulty accessing the blog yesterday. I am without my two trusty IT consultants/children, and have had to rely on my own sorely lacking technological skills...or lack thereof. On with the post!
We arrived in our newly adopted town loaded down with nine suitcases. Filled with clothing. Every single item of clothing we each owned. And shoes. Lots of shoes. We were prepared for both scaling lofty peaks and the odd black-tie dinner party. We could now golf in comfort as well as flip-flop down a sandy beach. Unfortunately, we had not a pot, a towel, a chair of any sort or a bed. No worries! Our trusty container of all of our worldly goods was due to arrive in a mere three weeks! We could do anything for three weeks! Right?
We had temporary digs arranged whilst sorting out our more permanent home. We had one week to secure the items needed to make a our home comfortable until our furnishing arrived. Storage is a huge issue here, as it is rarely exists, and the idea of spending our precious pounds on items we would have in a matter of weeks seemed silly. This was going to exceed the bounds of a PhD education, a lifetime of HGTV marathons and require good old Yankee ingenuity.
In the US, one can walk into any number of vast, expansive big-box stores and walk out with cat litter, a refrigerator, firearms and Milk Duds...all from the same shopping trip and with marked savings from their competitor. In the UK, such gigundo monuments to capitalism exist, but only in the larger cities. So instead of meandering through 1066 country imagining ourselves at a medieval banquet, or listening to Big Ben chime the hour, or enjoying a quaff in an ancient pub, we went to ASDA and Argos. They are the British equivalents to Wal-Mart and Keys or Sam Solomon. We had found shopping NIRVANA!
Air mattress seemed to be the logical substitution for regular beds. We could store them to use when university child wanted to bring friends home to visit. We were genius!Or so we thought. Sleeping on an air mattress after the age of five proves to be both a challenge and the modern version of medieval torture. We did splurge on the deluxe models...I do, however, believe shipping pallets covered in a thin, scratchy wool blanket would have been infinitely more comfortable. And easier to board. Our mattresses became more like glorified rafts and staying on them as easy as navigating the North Sea in a rubber kayak. In a storm. Let's just say getting up during the night, as one does after a certain age, was an adventure I would just as soon forget.
For chairs, we decided to get cushioned lounge chairs that could go out in the garden once our "real" chairs arrived. Again, we thought we were so very, very smart. We picked out a lovely trio of sun loungers topped with bright orange and bottle-green striped cushions. It was the end of the season. And for the first four or five minutes we watched our newly acquired TV in absolute blissful comfort. As one much more astute than we might have already deduced, however, these types of chairs are not intended for long bouts of sitting. They have relatively thin cushions supported by a spring system constructed of wire not unlike dental floss. My only consolation is that the chairs were only a few pounds. For three of them. Probably should have been a clue.
The other needed items were much easier to procure and use. We bought a wok and a few multi-purpose bowls, towels, laundry supplies and other various sundries from our local DIY store. And finally after 21 days, the clouds parted, the angels sang, and all was well in my little world - our shipping container arrived. We had done it! We had survived our middle-class, suburban, camping adventure/Hell! It was like Christmas! Real beds with real mattresses and pots and pans and wine glasses and chairs!
I am glad we had the experience we did. I can honestly say I truly appreciate what we have. I can also honestly say that this years bonfire may have some strangely familiar items on it...perhaps a stripey sun lounger and a bed raft or two? Just sayin'.
We arrived in our newly adopted town loaded down with nine suitcases. Filled with clothing. Every single item of clothing we each owned. And shoes. Lots of shoes. We were prepared for both scaling lofty peaks and the odd black-tie dinner party. We could now golf in comfort as well as flip-flop down a sandy beach. Unfortunately, we had not a pot, a towel, a chair of any sort or a bed. No worries! Our trusty container of all of our worldly goods was due to arrive in a mere three weeks! We could do anything for three weeks! Right?
We had temporary digs arranged whilst sorting out our more permanent home. We had one week to secure the items needed to make a our home comfortable until our furnishing arrived. Storage is a huge issue here, as it is rarely exists, and the idea of spending our precious pounds on items we would have in a matter of weeks seemed silly. This was going to exceed the bounds of a PhD education, a lifetime of HGTV marathons and require good old Yankee ingenuity.
In the US, one can walk into any number of vast, expansive big-box stores and walk out with cat litter, a refrigerator, firearms and Milk Duds...all from the same shopping trip and with marked savings from their competitor. In the UK, such gigundo monuments to capitalism exist, but only in the larger cities. So instead of meandering through 1066 country imagining ourselves at a medieval banquet, or listening to Big Ben chime the hour, or enjoying a quaff in an ancient pub, we went to ASDA and Argos. They are the British equivalents to Wal-Mart and Keys or Sam Solomon. We had found shopping NIRVANA!
Air mattress seemed to be the logical substitution for regular beds. We could store them to use when university child wanted to bring friends home to visit. We were genius!Or so we thought. Sleeping on an air mattress after the age of five proves to be both a challenge and the modern version of medieval torture. We did splurge on the deluxe models...I do, however, believe shipping pallets covered in a thin, scratchy wool blanket would have been infinitely more comfortable. And easier to board. Our mattresses became more like glorified rafts and staying on them as easy as navigating the North Sea in a rubber kayak. In a storm. Let's just say getting up during the night, as one does after a certain age, was an adventure I would just as soon forget.
For chairs, we decided to get cushioned lounge chairs that could go out in the garden once our "real" chairs arrived. Again, we thought we were so very, very smart. We picked out a lovely trio of sun loungers topped with bright orange and bottle-green striped cushions. It was the end of the season. And for the first four or five minutes we watched our newly acquired TV in absolute blissful comfort. As one much more astute than we might have already deduced, however, these types of chairs are not intended for long bouts of sitting. They have relatively thin cushions supported by a spring system constructed of wire not unlike dental floss. My only consolation is that the chairs were only a few pounds. For three of them. Probably should have been a clue.
The other needed items were much easier to procure and use. We bought a wok and a few multi-purpose bowls, towels, laundry supplies and other various sundries from our local DIY store. And finally after 21 days, the clouds parted, the angels sang, and all was well in my little world - our shipping container arrived. We had done it! We had survived our middle-class, suburban, camping adventure/Hell! It was like Christmas! Real beds with real mattresses and pots and pans and wine glasses and chairs!
I am glad we had the experience we did. I can honestly say I truly appreciate what we have. I can also honestly say that this years bonfire may have some strangely familiar items on it...perhaps a stripey sun lounger and a bed raft or two? Just sayin'.
Monday 21 October 2013
New beginnings
I am a bit rusty, so I hope you will bear with me as I get my groove back. I thoroughly enjoyed my cleopatrasparachute blog, and frankly miss blogging. My husband and I have recently relocated to the UK, and I thought this would be a great way for us to stay in touch with our family and friends...and to provide a non-toxic, non-habit forming sleep aid as needed! I am open to suggestions, and will share as much as you can stand! So, grab a cuppa and let's get this started..
I am now officially an empty nester. Our younger daughter graduated from high school, and was accepted to University in England. Our older daughter had already flown the coop, and moved to Georgia. Add to the mix a bit of a mid-life career evaluation, and it seemed moving to England made sense. My husband had spent the bulk of his career overseas, moving to the US only ten years ago. I have a perverse love of crappy weather, so I was keen!
Six weeks ago, we arrived at London Heathrow weary, excited, and stunned. Not to mention rumpled and completely disenchanted with transatlantic flight. Our initial flight was cancelled and we were re-routed to another airport. We lost our carefully chosen seats, and ended up in the much detested middle section with broken entertainment consoles. Let me just say, there isn't enough mid-range airline issue Vin de Ordinaire to make the trip in any way pleasant. But I digress. We finally landed in the early morning hours local time. We were here. We still could not believe we had done THIS.
We loaded up our rental car with our nine (not a typo- it really was nine!) suitcases, turned on the GPS and made our way to our new home via the "wrong" side of the road. And Mom, the dude with an English accent is standard on GPS thingies here! Who knew? After about twenty miles and numerous roundabouts, John began to relax. We drove to Brighton first so John could get his salary paperwork completed, and then on to our new home in the lovely town of Rye.
I have been fortunate enough to travel through much of England, Ireland, Scotland and Wales, but had somehow missed Rye in my previous adventures. In coming here, I had to trust - without reservation -my husband's choice of a town. Any female reading this knows just how difficult that is to do. After all, this is the same guy who picked a flea infested, moldy, stale cigarette smoke scented, airless hotel in Orlando for a family jaunt to Disney because "it has a free breakfast and is close to the gate". Needless to say, I haven't forgotten. This time I had to let it all go. John had taken the train from his new post to as far as he was willing to commute, and looked around for the best fit for us. I think he did very well. There. It is in print. Rye is an old port city with roots going back to Medieval times. One of the oldest structures in town dates from the 1100's. The town is situated up on a hill overlooking three rivers and out to the English Channel about two miles away.
Anyhoo, we arrived in this most ancient of towns, not quite knowing what to expect. Our shipping container was weeks away, we were in temporary lodging for the first week, every single toilet had a different flush mechanism, and we had no local bank account. And we talk funny. I had always thought the English had an accent....turns out it's us. I do pretty well overall, but my use of y'all does seem to make the stodgiest of Brits dissolve into third-grade giggles. And this after I had practiced long and hard trying to remove my southernisms from my vocabulary. Sigh.
I hope to see you again soon in the blogosphere... Cheers!
I am now officially an empty nester. Our younger daughter graduated from high school, and was accepted to University in England. Our older daughter had already flown the coop, and moved to Georgia. Add to the mix a bit of a mid-life career evaluation, and it seemed moving to England made sense. My husband had spent the bulk of his career overseas, moving to the US only ten years ago. I have a perverse love of crappy weather, so I was keen!
Six weeks ago, we arrived at London Heathrow weary, excited, and stunned. Not to mention rumpled and completely disenchanted with transatlantic flight. Our initial flight was cancelled and we were re-routed to another airport. We lost our carefully chosen seats, and ended up in the much detested middle section with broken entertainment consoles. Let me just say, there isn't enough mid-range airline issue Vin de Ordinaire to make the trip in any way pleasant. But I digress. We finally landed in the early morning hours local time. We were here. We still could not believe we had done THIS.
We loaded up our rental car with our nine (not a typo- it really was nine!) suitcases, turned on the GPS and made our way to our new home via the "wrong" side of the road. And Mom, the dude with an English accent is standard on GPS thingies here! Who knew? After about twenty miles and numerous roundabouts, John began to relax. We drove to Brighton first so John could get his salary paperwork completed, and then on to our new home in the lovely town of Rye.
I have been fortunate enough to travel through much of England, Ireland, Scotland and Wales, but had somehow missed Rye in my previous adventures. In coming here, I had to trust - without reservation -my husband's choice of a town. Any female reading this knows just how difficult that is to do. After all, this is the same guy who picked a flea infested, moldy, stale cigarette smoke scented, airless hotel in Orlando for a family jaunt to Disney because "it has a free breakfast and is close to the gate". Needless to say, I haven't forgotten. This time I had to let it all go. John had taken the train from his new post to as far as he was willing to commute, and looked around for the best fit for us. I think he did very well. There. It is in print. Rye is an old port city with roots going back to Medieval times. One of the oldest structures in town dates from the 1100's. The town is situated up on a hill overlooking three rivers and out to the English Channel about two miles away.
Anyhoo, we arrived in this most ancient of towns, not quite knowing what to expect. Our shipping container was weeks away, we were in temporary lodging for the first week, every single toilet had a different flush mechanism, and we had no local bank account. And we talk funny. I had always thought the English had an accent....turns out it's us. I do pretty well overall, but my use of y'all does seem to make the stodgiest of Brits dissolve into third-grade giggles. And this after I had practiced long and hard trying to remove my southernisms from my vocabulary. Sigh.
I hope to see you again soon in the blogosphere... Cheers!
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