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....

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 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.

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.

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...

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!

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.

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.

"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       

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.

Thanksgiving is Not a Meal

Anyone who spends any amount of time on Facebook surely has seen the running seasonal commentary about all things Thanksgiving. This year the chorus of laments for stores opening on this "sacred" day reserved for giving thanks is loud and righteous. I have seen post after post about THE meal. I have seen efforts to proclaim to all the things one should be thankful for. Endless debates on stuffing vs. dressing and whether or not to put marshmallows on the sweet potato casserole have made me a weary cynic.

To be fair, I have never been a fan of the Thanksgiving meal. The preparation for the meal alone is enough to turn me off. Days of shopping in crowded supermarkets fighting for the last few cans of cranberry sauce and figuring out how to make the large 20 pound frozen behemoth into something slightly more edible than sawdust can make for a cranky cook.  There are the seemingly endless return trips to the store for more butter and eggs and Aunt Sally's gluten free, low salt, no fat, organic, free range culinary requirements. And the cook never gets to see the Macy's Parade. She is too busy making sure the gravy is lump-less and gibletted (ugh) and the rolls are not burning.

All of this frenetic preparation for a twenty minute meal. And sometimes you have to share said meal with family members you are quite sure would be helpful in a lengthy anthropological study, but with whom sharing a meal is less than inspiring.  And then there are the hours of clean-up. I have washed and dried utensils I do not recognise. Some genius invented a pickled peach fork and asparagus tongs and individual butter spreaders which of course must be used for Thanksgiving! And would someone please tell me why there is always one family member whose bodily functions decide to function during the dishwashing? Sigh.

 I am thankful. This year, I am thankful I can be thankful without the production of an artery-clogging indigestion-induced post turkey coma.  I am thankful for my fellow nurses who end up attending to many of those affected by over-indulgence. I am thankful I do not have to join them in caring for the Uncle Joe's of the world who have decided Thanksgiving is the gastronomic equivalent of the Olympic games. I have much to reflect upon and to be ever so grateful.

I am thankful that the Native Americans showed genuine hospitality and compassion for the freezing and starving Pilgrims. The Native Americans showed the Europeans how to survive in the strange new world they found themselves in. We haven't exactly shown our thanks to our indigenous peoples, though. I would like us as a nation to be more thankful starting by not using caricatured images of "savages" that depict the stereotypical "Indians" of B-Westerns. They deserve better from a nation who stole their land, and decimated their peoples.

I am thankful for the food we have available in abundance; even that tired dry turkey I detest so.  I wish I could be thankful for the end of hunger worldwide. It is hard for me to justify a gorge-fest when so many have so little. I am thankful for food banks and the tireless volunteers staffing them who give their time so others can have the basic foodstuffs we all take for granted.

I am thankful for shelter and warmth and clean water. I hope soon to be thankful that every single person affected by the recent typhoon will have a safe, dry place to live. That their physical wounds would be healed, and they find comfort. I hope to be thankful one day that every child on this great grand earth will know the joy of tasting clean cool water.

I am thankful for my family. I am thankful for the technology that allows me to talk with them as often as I want or need with ease. I am grateful they have jobs, and homes, and families of their own. I am thankful they love me. I am thankful I do not have to fear for their safety. I hope one day we find ourselves a grateful world thankful that all wars have ceased and all families are united and not torn apart by oppression and terror.

This thanks of mine goes beyond the dinner hour. It lasts well into the wee hours of Black Friday and is there for Cyber Monday. My thanksgiving surpasses any appreciation of pecan pie or green bean casserole or pilgrim hats or jellied salads. Thanksgiving is not a meal. Or a day. Thanksgiving is a realisation of just how lucky we are. And a willingness to see that others have just as much.

Oh I am sure there will be a twinge or two of sentimental longing for the Norman Rockwell inspired gathering at the groaning board. I will salivate briefly thinking of Gran's Lane Cake I will not enjoy this year. As much as I do not like the actual foul,..ahem, fowl star of the repast, I will miss for just a moment waking up to the smell of its skin crackling under the oven's heat. I will miss watching the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade with my girls and my sister as we  cheer on the marching bands and pan the awful attempts at lip syncing by this year's stars. For just a moment. And then I will realise it is the people at the table I miss. It is the memories of my lifetime in each carefully prepared dish that I won't be tasting. And for a moment I will be swept away in a kind of sadness. Until I remember I don't have dish duty this year.

Beautiful Day

I once visited Maine and exclaimed about its beauty to a local. He responded with "thank God for the rough winters; they keep the tourists from staying." I think that must be true for England. The weather can really be dreadful here, but there are days like yesterday and today that make you forget the drear and fall in love with this magical place all over again. I have decided the English make more of the dreary weather just to keep everyone from staying here!
Enjoy!

London...

and Rye.

Reciting Phonebooks

I did say I would be be wiling to go hear James Earl Jones read aloud from the phone book. And I meant it. And frankly the phone book recitation would have been preferable to the play we endured in London. To be fair, James Earl Jones in Much Ado About Nothing was brilliant! He is the real deal. I wanted so much to like the production because he gave it his all, but it was just not enjoyable.

Vanessa Redgrave did not perform due to illness. Her understudy played her part with enthusiasm and was delightful. I was just as happy with her performance as I would have been with Redgrave's interpretation. The lovely couple sitting next to us were crushed. As I had been looking forward to James Earl Jones with great anticipation, so had they over seeing Vanessa Redgrave. The gentleman, well into his seventies, had never seen her perform live. It was a dream of his to do so.

The production did not live up to expectations. As directors are want to do it seems, the play was reset into the modern era on an American air base in England near the end of World War II.  The set was simple. It was a plain brown arch most critics here likened to an Ikea coffee table. The critics would be correct.  Add a  couple of chairs, a 1940's era phonograph and that is it. Cool. I have an imagination, right? Turns out, I did not have near enough imagination to fill in the blanks and keep up with the story.

I have been critical of those who would speak in an affected over-done faux English accent.  Let me tell you, a Brit trying to sound American is worse. Holy cow. Every single actor sounded like a morph of Jimmy Carter and Willie Nelson. It was awful. One particular actor so over enunciated and over played his accent to the point he sounded inebriated. Good grief! Is that how we sound to Brits? And do all Americans sound like cowboys or stupid people to those outside the United States? Or worse, stupid cowboys?

I loved the Old Vic. Just being able to see the magnificent chandelier and richly velveted box seats  and the stunning grand staircases made the trip worthwhile. We had a lovely pre-theatre drink in The Pit, the bar below the Old Vic. We had another drink whilst waiting to be admitted to our seating section. We did not have enough drinks, sadly, to make the play anything more than tedious.

I do not regret going. I have loved James Earl Jones since I first heard him utter the alphabet on Sesame Street. I am thrilled I was able to hear his voice in person. He is as powerful a figure on stage as I had imagined. He needed to employ that light sabre from Star Wars and take charge of the death star that was Much Ado About Nothing.

Sunrise, Sunset

It gets dark here much too early. I have heard folks from my home planet complain about the early duskiness since daylight savings time ended, but folks, it doesn't get DARK at 4 p.m. where you are. And I don't mean dusky. That starts at about 3:30. For this very light dependent creature, not having light beyond teatime is just plain HARD.

Yesterday was bright and beautiful with sunshine and puffy clouds. I am not sure, but I think I heard Julie Andrews in the distance.  I hurried to throw some laundry in the wash to take advantage of the now not so dependable sun. And for a couple of wonderful hours, my jeans and sheets and towels sunbathed happily on my line. Unfortunately, a couple of hours does not a dry towel make. In the waning daylight, I released my freshly laundered items from their clothes-pinned incarceration and hauled them indoors to drape over every singe radiator in the house.

I don't mind having toasty-oasty dry clothes freshly baked from my radiators (see radiator pants entry) but when it is dark...and I mean PITCH BLACK NOTHINGNESS outside, and you have clothes and towels and pillow cases strewn about,  one's house starts to take on a rather seedy appearance. Translation - depressing. I have decided Hyacinth Bucket has a tumble dryer. I do not think she would allow for such commonness.

I whined and moaned to John about the fleeting daylight, and he was thrilled to tell me that on the shortest day, the sun will set at 3:50 pm...that is not even 4 o'clock folks. By three my body will decide it is supper time! John was so excited to share this depressing factoid with me. I wanted to weep. Oh, and said shortest day is over a month away. I may not survive until December 21st. I do now totally get the whole bear hibernation deal. I would gladly curl up in a warm cave and sleep until the sun decides to grace us with its presence for more than a few hours.

I guess I am going to have to rise a bit earlier to take advantage of every single nano-second of daylight. The problem is that the opposite of nighttime darkness is not always glorious Rodgers and Hammerstein production number worthy sunshine. More often than not, nighttime darkness gives way to murky drizzly overcast misery-filled day-not-light. Luckily, man learnt how to build fire (see man make fire entry), and I can enjoy a cosy snuggle in front of its crackling comfort.

I must go now...the sun is shining and I must drink it all in whilst I can!

This was taken just before 3 pm as the sun decided to leave my garden. At 3:30 pm it was too dusky for  the picture to show up.

Going to See God at the Old Vic

I, like every other curious child, wondered what God looked like and what he sounded like. I had decided early on what heaven looked like, but God was much harder. My Heaven is green with Heidi-esque snow capped mountains and clear babbling streams. There are lambs and puppies and the odd cow in my heaven. There is a pub. Of course there is a pub. And a Krispy Kreme. I always imagined it to have this wonderful open air home for the aged where the smiling gentle souls of my grandparents and great- grandparents sit and tell stories and sing favorite hymns for the newcomers. My heaven has a great orchestra of Mahler's imagination filled with horns and an enormous pipe organ. In my heaven, my Dad sits for hours debating nuclear physics with Einstein, and sharing witticisms with Mark Twain and Will Rogers.

God is harder to imagine.  I think I long gave up on imagining what God looks like, but still God has to have a voice. God's voice has to  have the resonant deep timbre found in basso profundo performances of Russian choral music. He has to speak with absolute authority, yet exude a quiet tenderness as well.  God must know how to sing. I cannot imagine a tone deaf God trying to belt out the great hymns of Wesley. I think he might be Welsh. The all-male choirs in Wales can make the most insipid tune inspirational.  I don't imagine God has a tenor voice..no offence to tenors, but it would be like having Alvin the Chipmunk play Darth Vader.

And there it is. God's voice is the same voice as Darth Vader; specifically James Earl Jones. I first heard what I imagined God's voice to sound like on Sesame Street of all places. It was 1969 and I was five. God was counting to ten.  He then recited the alphabet. From that moment, God was James Earl Jones. When he stated with authority he was Luke's father, I knew it must be so. There is not a shred of doubt that "THIS is CNN"....whatever THIS is.

John and I are travelling to London tomorrow night to see God, aka James Earl Jones along with Vanessa Redgrave perform in Much Ado About Nothing. The performance will take place at the Old Vic, a theatre with a vast, rich history. Sir John Gielgud and Sir Laurence Olivier performed here. Dame Maggie Smith and Dame Judi Dench have graced the stage. The Old Vic is now under the artistic direction of Keven Spacey. I cannot be more excited!

 John was concerned that we couldn't get close enough for my terrible eyes to see as well as he would like. No worries to me. I would pay large sums to go hear God...ahem, James Earl Jones,  read the phone book. Can you imagine what bedtime must have been like for his son?  Harold and the Purple Crayon must have sounded amazing.

I will be disappointed when I get to heaven and God's voice is not James Earl Jones'. In the meantime, I plan on enjoying my bit of heaven on earth tomorrow night.

Radiator Pants

It is true that the weather over the pond can be less than wonderful once Autumn hits, unless you are a frog or duck. Fortunately, we have grand bursts of glorious sunshine that tease and coax us to stay until the drear is over. And we have something even more amazing to help ease the doldrums of the waning daylight and the near constant murky damp. We have radiator pants.

Radiator pants are an unintended and yet smashingly brilliant by-product of central heating in England. We are some of the many, many folks here who do not own a tumble dryer. There is a steep price to pay for soft billowy sheets and fluffy towels, and I don't mean a financial price. Most people have no room for a tumble dryer and have to sacrifice an eating space or use a clever table cover and awkwardly placed chairs in a vain attempt to hide said tumble dryer. But I digress. Anyhoo, most of us still have to hang our clothing out on a line or fill every nook and cranny in the house to dry our clothes.

Radiator pants are the bomb-diggety.  That translates to "nice" in merry England. I have learned these Brits are less than effusive. When you have the privilege of wearing toasty warm clothing just pulled off a steamy radiator, you have found Nirvana. It is exquisite. Of course, I am using pants in the American sense, as in jeans or slacks. I suppose one could get just as comfy cosy from radiator underwear or briefs, but I would suggest using care to avoid any unintended scorching...I knew I was on to something when I heard the British comedian, Russell Howard,  speak of radiator pants in his routine one night. I think he was referring to his seven days a week super hero underpants, and not his blue jeans, however.

 I am equally thrilled with a freshly warmed towel after my shower; radiator becomes towel bar! Genius.  Radiator dried and subsequently warmed socks are the best. There is little  better than slipping on a pair of toasty, snuggly socks before traipsing around on icy wooden floors. Facecloths warmed from the radiator make for a delightful soothing pre-bed routine.

When we were children, we lived in a tiny house with a large heating grate at the bottom of the stairs. This basically provided heat for the entire house. It would get very hot, and we were of course, reminded daily to stay off of it to avoid injury. And daily, we being children, would ignore the warnings and stand on said grate. We did not go so far as to stand in bare feet, but in our fuzzy slippers. We would remain on the grate until the smell of burning fuzzy slipper material would indicate it was time to exit. Every single pair of slippers I owned from age four to eight had this blackened criss-crossed grid pattern on the bottom. I can still conjure the acrid yet somehow comforting smell of my burning bedroom slippers.

Radiator pants take me back to my childhood. They are a simple yet powerful reminder of times before modern conveniences invaded our spaces. Already it seems ludicrous that this Victorian era house I live in is wired for Internet and cable. I have indoor plumbing and an kitchen fitted out with a double convection oven and a six burner gas stove. I have a luxurious claw-foot tub, but I also have a rain shower head in my, well...shower.

I don't love hanging my wash all over the house. It is a mad scramble for decorum when someone comes over..nothing like having your unmentionables hanging on display when the Vicar comes by. But the warmth and comfort one experiences by putting on freshly warmed radiator pants makes it worth the inconvenience.

Of Pirates and Posies

We had a busy weekend in our adopted town. Saturday we joined 10,000 other brave souls as we watched an enthusiastic parade through town with torches, drummers and floats. The festivities marking Guy Fawkes Day culminated with the lighting of an enormous bonfire and fireworks show. Thanks to husband's strategic thinking, we booked dinner at a centrally located restaurant and were able to watch from the comfort of indoors.

On Sunday we joined the residents of our town for a somber parade from Town Hall to our parish church for a Remembrance Day Service. The Lord Mayor lead the procession. Wreaths were placed by various military and civic groups and tiny white crosses were planted by the little children. What a beautiful service on a gloriously clear cold day.

Eat Fresh

I finally did it. I succumbed to my inner American-fast-food-craving-five-year-old and went to Subway. I was getting a wee bit homesick, and the smell of freshly baked sub rolls wafted through the train station practically demanding that I stop. And stop I did. I was almost giddy. On the walls were black and white renderings of New York City and Chicago and Washington DC. I saw packages of Doritos glistening in red and gold and blue. Coca Cola products were standing at attention in the cooler waiting for me to chose which lucky one would perfectly compliment my sub choice. I was ready.

Even though I knew exactly what I wanted, I glanced up at the menu for reassurance. It was my first clue that I was no longer in America.  Oh sure, they had the standard Italian BMT, the Subway Club and the Spicy Italian.  They also had Chicken Tikka and Chicken Tandoori. Cool! I can handle an addition or two. Just let me have my sub the way I like it. I ordered my Italian BMT and was practically salivating in anticipation. They toasted it perfectly melting my provolone into a delicious pool of, well...meltiness. I ordered my standard ingredients: tomato, black olives and oil and vinegar. They carefully laid my tomato slices and black olives on this masterpiece in progress, and then it happened. My long-awaited warm, soft bun of delectable goodness could not be completed. Subway UK does not offer oil and vinegar.

The sandwich maker must have thought I was suddenly afflicted with some bizarre disease that left me mute with a look of stricken horror frozen on my face. When I was finally  able to compose myself, I managed to choke out some pathetic jumble of words that sounded something like "whatamisupposedtodowhatelsedoyouhave?" The poor employee painted on her brightest smile and said "the suggested sauces are Chipotle  Southwest or BBQ Sauce".  Okay. The southwest one I sorta get..it is at least spicy, but barbecue? Remember I ordered an ITALIAN sandwich. And as an American I can say with some authority that we don't tend to put barbecue sauce on our cold cuts. Ick.

I managed to pull myself together, and ordered the Chipotle Southwest sauce. It was an extra 80p, by the way.  I was heartbroken. I had already resigned myself to the Doritos in disguise...same chips, different names. Nacho Cheese Doritos are Tangy Cheese; Cool Ranch is Cool Original over this pond. At least they taste pretty much as expected. I grabbed my Coke from the cooler and sat down to eat armed with chocolate chunk cookies to provide comfort, although the excitement had waned to defeated resignation.

I was pleasantly surprised! My sandwich was absolutely delicious! I did not once miss the oil and vinegar I had so become accustomed to. An unexpected added benefit was the complete absence of vinegar induced sog which is a known hazard to Subway aficionados in the United States. I could definitely get used to this. I realized that I had become one of "those people" who travel expecting everything to be exactly the same as home, just with wonderful scenery and Disneyesque adventure and experience. I don't want to be like that. I want to enjoy the similarities and savor the differences in my new home.

They do still put special sauce on the Big Macs though...right?


Italian BMT and Subway Club are  registered trademarks of Subway. Big Mac belongs to McDonald's (the restaurant, not clan)  and is trademarked. Doritos and its various iterations are also registered trademarks. So is Coca Cola. I am not trying to advocate for or against any of these products and since I have a readership in the tens,  I really think that should cover it.

Man Make Fire

It is officially cold outside. We have the good fortune to have a working fireplace in our flat, so it seemed completely obvious and reasonable that we would want to enjoy a cosy evening in front of a roaring fire. Only one snag stood in the way of our toasty comfort. Man. Specifically my dear husband, John.

Despite the fact that from the dawn of time it is a MAN pictured making fire for his family,  it is not necessarily a trait shared by all men. In spite of not having been blessed with the intrinsic knowledge required to repair engines, re-roof a house or build  a fire, man, specifically the man in my home, refused to be deterred  because building fire is a manly thing to do. So is urinating in the vertical position.  I do hope he will resist the urge to prove his manliness by demonstrating that impressive feat at our next dinner party. But I digress. 

The fire should have been easy to build. We had in our possession a cord of very dry, well-seasoned oak logs as well as a bundle of kindling that rivalled gasoline in its flammability. We had a newspaper or two to help start the fire.   Before this attempt at something men have done for bazillions of years without the benefit of two advanced degrees, we also had a box of 500 kitchen matches. Within mere moments of introducing a single spark to this pile of nearly explosive, highly flammable wood product, we should have witnessed an epic inferno of licking flames. 

We did not. We had a wee bit of  smoke. We had a fireplace littered with the scorched remains of hundreds of matchsticks. We saw a glowing ember and the excitement built to a level not unlike a child discovering Santa had dropped by, but, alas, no fire. And to think we were worried the fire would not extinguish fully before we went to bed. I can assure you, that fire was OUT. It had, in fact, never really started. And left man bewildered and a bit emasculated.

Man did not give up his quest for flame. He did what he knew best. He researched. He Googled and Wiki-Pediaded (it's a word - I decree it so) and watched YouTube videos of fires large and small. He checked his quickly dwindling supply of matches for defects. He carefully chose the driest, best split log in our possession. He changed newspapers to a tabloid in the hopes it would dissolve in flames quicker than the more traditional papers. He honed his wood stacking skills. He practised in front of a mirror to get the proper aperture to blow oxygen on the fire. He was ready.

With fanfare resembling the opening of Parliament, man began his now well choreographed fire preparations. Logs were laid with absolute precision. I cannot be entirely sure, but I believe I caught a glimpse of my Dad's  slide rule, circa 1958,  being used. Perfectly formed loose balls and tightly twisted sticks of newspaper were carefully crafted. Kindling was positioned for optimal efficiency. A few of the last  remaining matches were struck as the anticipation mounted to a crescendo. And after two days, 496 matches, three Sunday editions of the newspaper, 9 pieces of kindling and 6 perfectly seasoned fire logs, we had fire! A glorious, crackling, autumnally scented fire. 

And to think early man achieved the same thing with a rock and, well...another...rock...

England Burning

Eleven years ago today I made my first trek across the pond to England. John was living in Scotland at the time, and I was in America. The plan was for me to fly into Heathrow, sight-see in London for a few days, and then venture up to Scotland and Ireland. I was more than excited. I had never been out of the country except for a brief sojourn across the Mexican border into Juarez way back when one didn't even need a passport.

It was a long trip. I left my home in North Augusta at 3:30 a.m. to drive to Columbia sixty miles away. From Columbia I flew to Washington  D.C. where I was awarded for my early awakening and punctuality with a lengthy layover and a delay. Finally, I boarded the flight for London. I spent the first hour or so getting "comfortable" and enjoying my spectacular airline produced gastronomic feast. After a bit of wine to calm the nerves, I adjusted my frame into a shape not unlike a pretzel attempting yoga and tried to forget the vast ocean beneath me.

I did not sleep. I tried drinking alcohol. I tried Benadryl. I tried endless episodes of mindless sitcoms. I tried reading. I tried drinking more alcohol. Nothing worked. I knew the flight was only eight hours, but it seemed like eighty. Thousand. And the more I tried to get comfortable, the more miserable I became. My entire relationship with John was suddenly in jeopardy. I had to decide if I loved him enough to continue making transatlantic crossings just to see him! England sounded really great until hour five of this ridiculous tour bus on wings. Complete with port-a-potty and funky smells.

Just as I was beginning to think I had ended up in some alternate reality HELL, the flight attendants started making preparations to land. We "freshened up" and enjoyed a bizarre concoction they called a full breakfast.  In fact, when asked if I wanted a full breakfast by the flight attendant, I struggled with the concept. Why would I want a partial breakfast? Is that her way of encouraging me to cut back on calories? Fortunately  I was bleary-eyed and sleep deprived enough that I just nodded in confusion. Lucky me. Apparently full breakfast means they take a perfectly delicious and acceptable breakfast and add pork and beans and black pudding. Right. I also thought it strange they served us breakfast at it was now nearly 8pm in England. Obviously I had to get accustomed to way more than a funny accent.

Anyhoo, after choking down all but the black pudding - you really didn't think I was gonna eat that crap did you? - we opened our window shades to see if in the dark we could catch a glimpse of England. I nearly had a heart attack. Just as I was patting myself on the back for not crashing into the Atlantic, I realised in horror that England was ON FIRE! All the way to Heathrow were hundreds and hundreds of fires! And nobody but me seemed concerned one bit!  For a split second I thought I must possess weird powers that allowed me to see fire when no one else could.  Good LORD I needed sleep. I was nearly to the point of swearing off alcohol forever, when I overheard the man behind me explaining to his seat mate about Guy Fawkes Day. I had arrived in England on November 5, which is the day England celebrates Parliament being spared from being blown to smithereens by some guy named Fawkes. In 1605.

Apparently the way in which the English celebrate that guy's failure is to build ginormous bonfires. And march around their very old, and in the case of Rye, very wooden towns with gas soaked burning rags tied on large wooden sticks. Because it totally makes sense to celebrate an institution being spared from a fiery destruction by risking the fiery destruction of an entire country.  Turns out I wasn't experiencing any previously undiscovered super-powers or alcohol induced hallucinations. What I was seeing from my flying tin can was hundreds and hundreds of bonfires all across the English countryside.

They really should warn the Americans.

Tricked

My dear husband went to Denmark this past week for a conference. I stayed behind. No biggie! I have been alone many, many times and frankly enjoy the peace and quiet. Not to mention being able to scarf down an entire pint of Ben and Jerry's and declaring it dinner. Anyhoo, husband assisted in getting the house ready for the assault of St. Jude - storm, not saint - and made sure I was armed with firewood, candles, batteries, peanut butter and Ben and Jerry's.

What my husband did not do, is to help me ready for Halloween. He stated with the utmost authority that Halloween was an American candy-fest that English children did not partake in. He was backed up by the fact that the stores here were not laden with bags and bags of cavity inducing sweets. Not one pop-up costume store was in sight. Sure, there was the odd jack o'lantern, and an occasional spider web, but no haunted houses and trunk-or-treat events and costume contests. And truthfully, the spider web had more to do with poor housekeeping on my part. Therefore, and ergo, and so it would seem, I ignored Halloween.

Halloween found me. I was sitting here exhausted from being traumatised by the less than saintly storm, when I heard quite a commotion outside. Apparently every single child under the age of thirteen in all of Southeast England had congregated to go trick-or-treating! What I heard were the throngs of parental figures out taking pictures of their costumed off-spring. Imagine the expletives that burst forth from my lips. Or maybe don't. It was not pleasant. But, I digress. I started running around to see if I had anything more than a lint covered breath mint in the bottom of my purse. Could I give these children wine? Socks? A book? I had these things. What I did not have was Halloween candy. Or so I thought.

Turns out my Mom sent me the most AMAZING care package. It was filled with Jif peanut butter, and Hidden Valley ranch dressing, and Trader Joe's peanut bars, and wait for it...HALLOWEEN CANDY! Whew! I had avoided depleting the husband's wine stash and could remain socked for the winter. Turns out, the kids all thought I was a rock-star for handing our Reese's Peanut Butter Cups, and Hershey Bars, and M&M's. I will admit I hid my Heath Bars from the children. Those are mine, and if I had to sacrifice a bottle of Vin de Poo Poo, I would have.

I was impressed. With no stores selling pre-fab costumes around for miles, the kids were in very clever home-made costumes. I did not see a single slutty nurse, slutty witch or slutty devil. I do not miss Halloween costumes in the U.S., by the way. Kids were believable pirates and goblins and the cutest little ghosts you have seen. I really enjoyed the experience! Do not,  however, tell the husband I had fun. I am still a bit miffed at him for steering me wrong.