Stuck in the Toffee Pudding

Pining for Pumpkin

2011-11-24T21:37:00.001Z

I am here to unmask the unsavory American ex-pat practice of pumpkin hoarding. Why pumpkins as opposed to, say, Talking Elmo, or the next generation Nintendo Wii, you ask? As a girl who used to live in Morton, Illinois, Pumpkin Capital of the World, I too used to be baffled as to why anyone would stockpile it. Here's the local lowdown on the lowly squash.

First of all, it's common knowledge that British people don't know what the heck to do with pumpkin. It's starting to weasel its way into British cuisine among other commonly roasted winter vegetables like butternut squash and sweet potatoes, but the mere thought of putting pumpkin in anything resembling a dessert makes them want to pull their knitted tea cozies over their heads. It's yet another American import best left to go the way of Pepsi Clear and New Kids on the Block. Granted, I did lay my hands on a small pumpkin meant only for decor purposes.

It's simply not enough, I say. I need hardcore canned pumpkin. I don't want to spend my weekend splitting, scooping and roasting a paltry, petite pumpkin for the whopping cup of pulp I'd get after four hours. Yes, I am just that lazy. Things got tricky when I found out too late that the UK grocery store Waitrose carries canned pumpkin as a novelty item. I arrived much too late. Word had long gotten out on the ex-pat email chain about the latest canned pumpkin sighting, and my fellow pumpkin pie eaters had stripped the joint bare. There wasn't a gourd within a twenty-mile radius. The empty shell of my spiced pumpkin daydreams had been smashed by loud, ice-seeking hoodlums. No pie, cake, bars, or even pumpkin chili like I used to dish out at the Morton Pumpkin Festival. I despaired in aisle five.

At home, I get no sympathy. Pumpkin pie is repulsive to the British. When I would get my hands on a piece in the U.S., I could use it like Deepwoods Off on poor Chumley. An American friend was bold enough to make a pie with the canned gold for her English relatives, but it was clear none of them enjoyed her handiwork. When she gave a blanket dispensation for not finishing their respective slices, half a dozen forks chinked on dessert plates with puffs of relief. Tea was served to aid in recovery.

Think of those in pumpkin poverty this holiday and raise a piece for me. Don't forget the Cool-Whip.

Quorn! What's it good for?

2011-11-03T13:59:00.000Z

If you ask Chumley to answer this question, his reply would be a resounding, "Absolutely nothing!" It seems we have had a bit of a barney over meat replacement. Here's my side of the story.

I accidentally ordered Quorn Chili in a restaurant, thinking it would contain little bits of corn. It sounded interesting. It was officially good, despite the lack of niblets. As I learned later, Quorn is a meat replacement, or mycoprotien, as it's more properly known. It's a fungus among us: originally discovered growing in a field in Buckinghamshire in the 1960's and developed into a very successful meat replacement in Europe. According to its website, it's grown industrially in large vats and bound together with egg white to make it the texture of ground beef. It's also formed into countless other meatless items: fish-free fingers, chickenless tidbits, and nowhere near the deli slices.

When I looked up the nutritional information, it was almost unbelievable. It has no cholesterol, half the calories, and only 3% fat. Half a million Quorn entrees are eaten in the UK every day. It blends flavors into whatever it's cooked with, so I decided to put Quorn mince into our next spaghetti bolognese. Needing to create blind testing conditions, I didn't inform Chumley. He happily ate it, commented it was good, and was none the wiser. Just to recreate my study, I did it again with the same result. The third time, I got the guilts. After dinner, I confessed.

Chumley looked like he had been poisoned by some rabid eco-terrorist. It was far worse than when he's been exposed to toxic rhubarb. (I didn't even mention it being grown in vats - that wouldn't have been therapeutic.) The fact he had failed to identify it as not meaty on three occasions apparently pulled no weight. He promptly demanded that I buy more bacon the next time I went shopping. To get the fungus out of his system, he ate bacon sandwiches for two straight days with a militant determination. I was sure he would turn to solids. The pernicious grease was starting to form a permanent slick on all my good skillets.

I've been threatening to make a State Fair blue ribbon recipe out of apples and a can of Spam we were gifted, but I just don't think he can handle that kind of trauma after I damaged his meaty ego. I just know he would love the chance to regale me with Spam jokes, but it's just too much of a risk.

If you're brave enough to try Quorn and live in the US, look for it at Super Wal-Marts everywhere, or peek in your nearest industrial vat for what I hope is a nice surprise.

Secrets to Living in England

2011-10-17T17:17:00.000+01:00

Here are a few quick and simple rules that would make any American's visit to England just that bit more enjoyable, regardless of its duration.

1. Never turn down a cup of tea. I know there are times when tea seems like so much bog water and one could really do with a nicely cold can of A&W Diet Root Beer instead, but tea denied is a social opportunity deferred. English friends won't know what to do with you, or in fact, how to continue any conversation you might have been having up until that point. Your teeth will lose that unmistakeable brown cast only six cups a day can bring on. Worse yet, no one will offer you any biscuits or scones to go with your bolshie soda. So, suck it up literally and pony up for the PG Tips.

2. Avoid using the term "spastic" at all costs. Saying that one of your particularly nerdy friends is "such a spaz" in any U.K. company will swiftly get you labeled as a monster who might as well start hurling anti-gay and racial slurs while you are at it. Calling someone spastic means they have cerebral palsy, and that adjective doesn't carry any of the lighthearted undertones as it does in American English.

3. You're not in Kansas anymore, so get over it. It's badly embarrasing to see unenlightened Americans running around, demanding glasses brimming with ice and jars of marshmallow Fluff. Have some respect for the foreign country you are in, and realize how much American culture has already been stuffed down the rest of the world's throats. Avoid cramming it full of Twinkies to boot. Maybe you might get around to appreciating some of their culture if you stopped whining about the unavailability of your own. (But whatever you do, don't get conned into trying Marmite. It's not worth it, unless you'd be into licking the bottom of a brewery vat.)

4. Learn to queue the right way. Whatever you do, don't start jumping into short lines at the supermarket simply because they've opened a new till lane and you happened to get there first. Look to see who's been waiting the longest, and make sure they can avail themselves of the opportunity to be served before you. Being cavalier with queues is a recipe for disaster in the form of sour looks, sharp comments, and possibly being flagged as a problem shopper by staff. Queue jumping is a fundemental violation of English social order, and you will be treated like the pariah that you are for engaging in it.

5. For the love of Pete, just give up on callling your mobile your 'cell phone,' and stop feeling mortally wounded when Microsoft Word says you've spelled 'humor' wrong. Sure you know deep down you're right, just like it's 5 o'clock somewhere. But that somewhere isn't the UK. And issuing militantly misspelled notes to the locals will get you branded as dangerously straight off the boat, most likely packing heat. Console yourself with the fact that you win the language war every time you send an 'email,' as opposed to an 'epost.' You shouldn't ever start imitating the accent unless you are particularly fond of Dick Van Dyke's performance in "Mary Poppins," which is known to English ears as the all-time worst attempt by an American at putting on a British accent in cinematic history. Going to this extreme to blend will get you all the respect of a sideshow monkey, without the tips.

The Lady

2011-10-06T18:01:00.000+01:00

My father-in-law got me a very curious Christmas present. It was a subscription to a weekly magazine called “The Lady.” I had never heard of it before, and before the first issue arrived, I received a letter notifying me of my gift. “It's a funny old magazine,” he explained. “Very English. I hope you'll like it.”

The first issue arrived. The cover model was Dame Maggie Smith. I thumbed through and took in some of the advertising. This particular issue was heavy into chair lifts, retirement properties, baths with accessible marine doors for easy access, and a full-page ad for matronly cotton nightwear featured on the glossy back cover. My heart went out to the target demographic of advertisements by benevolent societies for “gentlepeople” fallen on hard times.

“It's a funny old magazine,” said a co-worker by sheer coincidence, who reminisced about finding an au pair placement while at university by consulting its advertising section. Sure enough, many pages of ads were devoted to most likely obscenely wealthy families looking for cooks, nannies, housekeepers, gardeners, house minders, and a nebulous term called “mother's help.” I imagine this last one is a particularly thankless job when I reflect on all the gross things my mother got stuck doing in my own childhood. Would the job description include extracting small pairs of soiled underwear from the washing machine after they had somehow become stuck in and completely disabled the agitator? The pay didn't seem particularly good, with sometimes the only remuneration being use of a “cozy” cottage on the estate. Some of the ads were very specific about the type of hooligan they were specifically trying to exclude from the applicant pool. “No one under age 45 need apply,” read one, the drafter apparently painfully unaware of a concept called reverse age discrimination.

Despite its fussiness and my urge to place it on a piece of furniture covered with a doily, next to our Queen's silver jubilee Wedgewood plate, I continued to enjoy reading it, if not for the entertainment value. I became rather well-versed in the various forms of stair lift and mobility scooters available. I enjoyed sidebars devoted on where to source the patterns for knitting one's own Royal Wedding action figures, complete with a small fleet of woolen corgis to surround the Queen. The article on England's Best Marmalade contest was light and breezy, as was the fashion feature on what outfits were sleek and stylish to wear to one's second wedding. I was knee-deep into an article on Colin Firth while on the train to Cambridge, with a lady of The Lady's target demographic age sitting directly across from me.

“I have that nightdress!” she said exuberantly, as a flipped the back cover to spy the usual raft of cotton nighties The Lady peddled on a monthly basis. “So comfortable, and great value for money.” I smiled and nodded in agreement to pacify her, while noting the asking price was £79 for something with a pattern I saw on a tea towel, and her certain clinical insanity for thinking that way. The matching robe would only set her back £139. Only people who took their loungewear very seriously would consider paying this king's ransom for what amounted to a wearable tea cozy. I continued to thumb through my copy, all the while catching her occasional pained glances and what looked like a trickle of saliva forming at the outer edge of her mouth. She was either in the throes of jealousy, or passing a gall stone. As the train pulled into Cambridge and I gathered my things, I was compelled to do my Christian duty.

“Would you like my copy?” I offered. Her eyes lit up with megawatt brilliance. “Oh, I couldn't,” she feigned in protest, as if she were asking me to drive her to her next crochet conference in Belgium. Her hand started to twitch in anticipation. “Really, my new issue arrives tomorrow,” I parried, “and the article on Colin Firth is well worth reading.” That comment sealed the deal, and I left a very happy pension-aged English woman in Coach A amused all the way to Stansted Airport.

It's a floating biscuit

2011-09-19T16:04:00.000+01:00

Old-time readers will be comforted to know that I have regathered my nerve and joined another water aerobics class, far away from the tatoos and scolding I've had to endure in previous sessions. See http://clairecraigevans.blogspot.com/2009/11/getting-down-with-oaps.html and http://clairecraigevans.blogspot.com/2009/10/tatoo-too-much.html for earlier trauma.

This might seem completely irrelevant, but my brother and I spent countless fun hours as children fracturing the lyrics of any number of songs, much to the annoyance of our mother with perfectionist tendencies. She wasn't so bothered the first to twentieth time we sang them, but perhaps we did wear a bit thin. One of our greatest hits was a fractured version of a Perry Como song some geriatric school music teacher insisted we learn. The real version went, "Catch a falling star and put it in your pocket, Save it for a rainy day." My brother and I were delighted with our reworked version, "Catch a floating biscuit, Put it in your pocket, Save it for a rainy day."

Everyone knows that you can't actually see floating biscuits, but they sure do make themselves known in other ways. In case you're wondering what exactly is a floating biscuit, let's just call it an ephemeral, usually noxious, olfactory experience brought on by cruciferous vegetables, etc.. True to our lyrics, a floating biscuit would be the ultimate kid weapon. How wonderful it would be to conjure up a holy stinker on demand, just when you really needed to use it on some kid enemy? Or your brother?

Today, however, I did see a floating biscuit. Don't worry, it's not what you're thinking - I didn't spy any suspect bubbles surfacing from any of the class participants. I wouldn't be surprised, though, as the demographic of the class would suggest that the majority of its participants enjoy prunes and All-Bran. Instead, our water aerobics "weights" look just like giant blue Bonio dog biscuits:

Weird. Stranger still is a baffling fake tree at poolside. I've passed it countless times before without a second glance, but I was amazed to notice just today that its leaves are the exact shape of cannabis. With the thick coating of dust they have on their plastic leaves, it even looks like gym management is letting it mellow for later harvest. Maybe membership is down and they need a new revenue stream. I'm sure the street value would a a couple pounds or so.

Don't worry, the entire pool area is nonsmoking.

Wherever it's from, don't go there

2011-08-10T11:20:00.001+01:00

As I've grown in linguistic ability thanks to being immersed in British English, sometimes I notice that American ad agencies wishing to communicate to the rest of the world ought to get out a little more. Case in point? Ocean Spray. Their lovely, fruity beverages are widely available in the UK, albeit in fewer versions than in the States. (I do miss all the grapefruit and tangerine permutations, but will happily settle for Light Cranberry Juice Drink.) Up until the last month or so, they were running those quirky television ads with folksy cranberry farmers hip high in berries. The commercials always ended with, "Ocean Spray. Straight from the bog." Of course, they meant here:

But in British English, they've just said their products come straight from here:

Bog is British slang for the toilet. Chumley couldn't sit through an ad without snickering smugly. Surely, that's not quite the imagery of fresh, wholesomeness the Ocean Spray people were thinking of. At least I found a picture of a clean toilet to keep us from poking out our minds' eye.

I'm happy to report that someone finally dislodged their head from the bog and thought better of their little slogan for use on UK viewers. It's officially been changed in their UK ads to, "Good taste. From a good place."

And we're all in a better place for it.

In Search of Life in the UK

2011-07-22T12:48:00.001+01:00

After twenty-six months of island living, the UK Border Agency, arbiter of imported and deported peoples, makes imported spouses succumb to an entrance exam in order to secure their permanent residency, or “indefinite leave to remain” as they call it. It's called the “Life in the UK” test, and it's used to vet both those who want to become citizens, as well as people like me who just want to hang out on a long-term basis. I was hoping it wasn't like the driving test, and there would be far fewer questions involving sheep.
I reported to my nearest bookstore and found the Official Life in the UK Study Guide, published by the Stationery Office. I read its introductory paragraphs, which crowed that since its introduction in 2007, it had quickly become a national bestseller. I found this claim a bit insincere, in that any foriegner wishing to remain on the island was forced to purchase this book. Maybe my judgement was hasty. Perhaps the government had hired Jeffrey Archer to sex it up a bit, and the book was actually worth reading on its own merits.

Alas, the benefit of my doubt was unwarranted. I had no idea what to expect. I guessed that the test might focus on purely governmental questions, like defining a constitutional democracy and perhaps some pithy factoids like the date the Magna Carta was signed. I saw a few questions on the Church of England, which I also thought were fair game thanks to the clue in the title.

I did not expect, however, the assorted general knowledge questions that may also appear on my electronically generated test. At first I was relieved that the answer to many multiple choice questions on consumer help appeared to be “Consult your nearest Citizens Advice Bureau.” I worked for this entity, and was very familiar with the types of things they helped the population with. However, the test answers suggested people consult Citizens Advice if they were having difficulty finding a dentist. I did not know we provided this service, but I did know of the government's general propensity to use Citizens Advice as a dumping ground for the disgruntled people they didn't have the time, staff, or inclination to help.

The test would be multiple choice and a bit of true false. As I dug deeper into the study guide, it was evident that I would have to digest and cough up statistics on the population of Wales, geography, various countries' patron saints and their feast days and the ethnic demographics of the greater London area if I wanted to pass. I prayed for questions about what profession took care of sick pets and the address of the Prime Minister's house London. All my English friends heard me read out questions asking for how many members were in Scottish Parliament, and shook their heads with the comment, "God. I don't think I could pass that test." I asked them to rephrase in supportive tones.

I was also hoping the words to “God Save the Queen” would not be on the test, as I had never taken the time to learn them. I know the melody. The Americans have ripped it off and renamed it “My Country, 'Tis of Thee.” The only part of the English version I knew was where the word “queen” appeared. I overcompensated here. When it was necessary to sing along, I mouthed along as best I could. My version usually went something like, “Blah, blah, blah, blah-blah, Queen; Blah, blah, blah, blah-blah, Queen; Queen, queen, queen, queen!”

Thankfully, neither that tune or the enigma of a song “Jerusalem” appeared. Since my island arrival, I've read numerous times that the general British population feels “Jerusalem” should be the national anthem. I knew it to be in heavy rotation at various national events, weddings, and football matches. Once, I thought I had seen the glimmer of a tear forming in the corner of Chumley's eye upon its playing.

Frankly, I didn't get it. It was a William Blake poem set to music, that described the green fields of England as the new Jerusalem. The lyric also floated the possibility that Jesus visited England at some point in his life, with most probable spot for his visit Glastonbury. Despite giving the song a chance and not hating its melody, I found its lyrical suggestions completely nuts. Everybody knows Glastonbury is a dairy farm that got famous for hosting the craziest musical festival on the island. It has a lesser stone circle than Stonehenge, but I could hardly see it as any sort of tourist attraction for Palestinians of modest means. If the lyrics are true, the subtext would be the dissapointment Jesus felt about travelling so far for just a few big rocks, artistically arranged. It's also doubtful he would have enjoyed the spectacle of some crazy English people wading through mud to listen to a week's worth of cutting-edge pipe and drum acts nearly two millenia before the invention of Wellies. I think Blake got a bit too jiggy with the opium pipe as he put quill to parchment on this one.

Relieved I would not be asked to recite or interpret either of these anthems, I was caught out by one seemingly simple question that had to do with the UK film rating system. I remember going with Chumley to a modest theater complex. I overheard one of the ushers mention “12a.” I had been to see movies there on a number of occasions before, but never remembered that the theaters were labelled by letter into subtheaters. “Wow. This theater is way bigger than I thought,” I remarked to Chumley, who couldn't understand what I was talking about as usual. I walked past theater 12, but 12a was nowhere to be found. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught an advertising display that read its film was rated 12a, meaning children under the age of 12 must be accompanied by an adult. I pretended that I was looking for the ladies loo, and followed Chumley into the correct auditorium. I have found that feigning a search for something reasonable is a far superior method of dealing with my profoundly stupid blunders than actually owning up to my thought patterns.

As is my habit, I felt the need to assure myself that failing the Life in the UK test would not be an option. I took eighteen practice exams, which took me back to the day before my driving test when I plotted all thirty-one possible test routes on my Peterborough A-Z map. There were twenty-four questions. I could miss six and still pass. I occasionally bungled the Muslim demographic statistics, but felt I could live with the risk that no more than six questions would concern Muslims.

I presented to the test centre, just in time to pay an extra fifteen pounds thanks to someone at UKBA picking up the clue phone and learning that in an age of austerity, prospective immigrants were sitting ducks for further fees on all manner of “services,” including this exam. Ten were scheduled in my group, but only three of us were native English speakers. I saw an Asian man take the chair beside me in the waiting room, firmly gripping his “Life in the UK” study guide in Mandarin. This did not bode well for him, I reasoned to myself, in that unless I had seriously misjudged all the test instructions, the exam would be in English. A flustered-looking Asian girl flew in five minutes before the exam start time, only to presumably learn from Mr. Mandarin that the powers that be would not let her sit the exam unless she paid for it first. She flew out of the room again, and was back looking slightly relieved and bearing what looked like a receipt. It occurred to me that the content of their conversation could be completely different, as I was not a Mandarin speaker. He could have equally told her there was a sale on peaches at Aldi, for all I knew.

Several more non-natives sauntered in at fifteen minutes past start time, and amazingly, the envigilator let them in. I was amused by the term “envigilator,” as it conjured up images of upright citizens running around airports and asking passengers who packed their bags. My mood had migrated into offcially peeved, as I had gotten up extra early and been daunted in finding the test venue's top-secret public car park. Despite the late-comers' countries of origin, clocks translated the world over.

We learned that each of us ten had to be individually ushered into the test room and registered on the UKBA's website by our envigilator. The young woman who registered me was closely supervised by an older woman perched on her shoulder like a geriatric parrot, squawking directions obvious to all but her. We came to the field on the webpage form that asked for my place of birth.

“Springfield, Illinois,” I stated, congratulating myself on staring strong by answering a question I knew.

The woman looked hessitant. I was about ready to start spelling Illinois when she cut in.

“How about I just put in 'Springfield?'”

I shot her my most citrus of looks. “That won't really help much. There are 52 different cities named Springfield in the United States. At least 35 states have one.” Clearly, she didn't really leave the Fens much.

“Oh. Then why don't I just put Illinois?” she parried.

Did this test facility pay a premium per keystrike? I sighed.

“Ah. Now you've narrowed it down to about thirteen million people.”

She gazed back at me with the reception of a snowy television console. Clarification was in order.

“Look, I've filled out enough of these forms before,” I went on, disgusted by the display of administrative laziness. “They want the city and state. That's how Americans identify locations.” I looked to her parrot for help, but she was distracted helping a woman who had never seen a computer mouse before.

“What? You've taken this test before?” she crowed, loud enough for anyone who spoke the English language to swivel their heads and stare at me as the flunkie she and the rest of the room now thought I was. My original point was floating somewhere above her head.

“No! I mean I've filled out enough UK Border Agency forms in my time to know they're going to want the city and state.”

She huffed in half apology, and picked up my passport to enter the passport number into another field.

“Now I need you to verify the information I've typed in is correct,” she recited off a flashcard in her mind. I craned over the computer screen and reached for my passport in her hand. I grasped it, but she pulled it away. “No! I can't let you have that back.”

Incredulous, but shortly thereafter blinded by white rage, I began to feel the surges of adrenaline hit my bloodstream and my pulse pound into my ears. I couldn't use the nearest blunt object, a very sturdy English-manufactured steel hole punch, to bludgeon her about the head and neck because I needed the pass certificate she very unfortunately had the power to generate for me. Funny how simultaneous access to the control and P keys can go directly to some people's heads.

Thankfully, her geriatric parrot rejoined the greivous bodily harm charge in the making and stepped in. “You need to give this woman her passport back right now,” she instructed in a tone that left no room for deviation. “She doesn't know her passport number off the top of her head. No one does!” The correction could have only been made better by the addition of “You Fool!” in Mr. T tones. Her parrot apologetically whispered, “It's her first day.” My trainee sheepishly handed it over, and I retrieved it from her grabby hand with a satisfying snap. Surprisingly, she had gotten everything correct.

I pitied the fool, said no more, and took my place next to a young man in the corner. He looked not quite as disgusted, but willing to count the lint balls under his mouse to pass the time. He was from New Zealand, and we gleefully dished on how absurd this entire test mandate was to those of us who spoke English as a first language.

I felt better and began the test. I was done in five minutes, thinking there was a fair chance I had missed one. I looked around to see everyone else beavering away, and wanting to avoid obvious hubris, I checked my answers to quell the pangs of guilt. At ten minutes, I could take no more and declared myself finished. Instead of being able to leave, I was forced to loiter on the premises for a grand total of three hours. I took the coveted piece of paper stating I had passed, resisting the urge to fold it into a pirate hat to match the eyepatch my envigilator will undoubtedly be precribed once another aggrieved foreigner puts out her eye. They had better get rid of that paper punch.

Gaining Pounds

2010-10-29T20:37:00.001+01:00

It's been an age since I've contributed to my body of blog work, and just when you'll think this post is about my not-so-triumphant return to Weight Watchers, I've found a job with a salary attached to it. For this shiny new job, I am required to travel by train to Cambridge each day. It is a 50-minute ride, which has introduced me to the world of commuting.

Commuting is an alternate universe. In it, the people you see everyday are barred by an unwritten code of commuter conduct that prohibits any more communication than the occasional sideways glance that could pass as an acknowledgement.

The world of commuting can be quite lonely, a fact I find ironic in light of being surrounded by scores of other people. There have been days that I craved contact in the sea of humans, but this usually resulted in no more than a show-pony, peroxide blonde woman dragging her overloaded pullman luggage over most of my left foot's tarsal bones. She snapped a curt, "Sorry," but it didn't really register, as my eyes were crossed and I was rendered incapable of making any noise that could pass as human speech.

Commuters get quite testy over seating in crowded situations. A middle-aged man barked, "Fine, you take it!" to a young girl who happened to get to the last seat on the traincar before him. If he was this irate before 9 a.m., I think I'm correct to assume the rest of his day was doomed to be miserable. I'd noticed a number of people carrying bags that said "Bench" on them. Chumley informed me this is a trendy urban brand, far too hip for me to recognize. At first, I thought it was some English attempt to reserve seating at the station, knowing that most were far too polite to take open and notorious possession of a cramped seat. Did they sell these special accessories at some secret commuter gift shop? More importantly, did they ship in time for Christmas?

Commuting starts to form a very familiar pattern: drop off, ticket check, platform dash, wait. The atmosphere is all the while seasoned with well-rehearsed platform announcements that half the time are unintelligible. Either the announcer is new to the English language, the announcer is from Liverpool (also making him new to the English language), or the announcer has a pressing engagement with the refreshment trolley woman somewhere behind platform 2a. In the case that the announcement is intellgible, they are made with such a blah de vive that they effectively suck away any enthusiasm for one's destination, much like an emotional Dyson.

I was walking briskly to my train one morning, when I was subjected to the following station-wide announcement: "The train now arriving at Platform 4 will form the 0-800 service to Norwich, calling at March, Ely, Thetford, and... braaaaaach!" At the time, my head happened to be within three feet of the nearest loudspeaker, so there was no mistaking what had happened. The announcer had just belched into the PA.

I tell you, those train station bacon rolls are deadly.

A Return to Stickiness...

2010-07-08T15:10:00.000+01:00

It's been ages since my last post, but I have an airtight excuse. It was, in effect, this fireplace and the house it was formerly attached to.

After passing the practical UK driving test (a story for another post, for sure), Chumley and I took custody of his 1911 semi (duplex) that was the bachelor pad B.C. (Before Claire.) Since early May, I have been living a waking nightmare episode of "This Old House" in which Norm Abram keeps finding rotten skirting board after rotten skirting board as we have a looming move-in deadline. I wake up afraid of flannel and low-rise work trousers.

Chumley's house had been occupied by tenants for the better part of the past six years, with some more careful than others. In addition to the hideous Flintstones fireplace that soon became my own personal DIY albatross, we had a pathetic state of plastering, no attached floor covering, rotten skirting boards, rotten floor, and the funk of 40,000 years thanks to the smokers who vacated most recently. One would have thought that they were smoking herring in here, based on the smell and the yellow ceilings.

In the past two months, I have personally busted out a fireplace, rewired a light fixture, rewired and replaced a door bell, and given myself a mild case of carpal tunnel syndrome by scrubbing an old oak floor once the devil's dustmongers (the plasterers) had sprayed it with pink tidbits, as well as everything else in the house. I have scoured ebay for repro bargains, cried as I wrote a check to the carpenter, and thanked God I did not fall through the upstairs floor ala Tom Hanks in "The Money Pit." These are things I thought I couldn't do, didn't want to do, and never want to do again. With every tradesman passing through, I required him to repeat the same mantra: "I've seen worse." I found it coldly comforting.

Here are some life lessons I've picked up along the way: wood filler is awfully hard to get out of the hair. Latex paint comes off your watch, but gloss paint isn't as forgiving. And never add water to knotting compound, or else it will congeal in a sticky, brown mess you most likely saw back in school science lab. No matter how desperate things get, do not imbibe the methylated mineral spirits unless your wish is a quick death. Some days, a splash in my drink sounded like a great idea.

After move in, we are edging toward finality. To give you an idea, here's the fireplace after we took the place retro:

Much more on this in posts to come, as the saga and our wallet unfolds...

Flying Toward an Election? You Bet Your Ash.

2010-04-23T11:56:00.001+01:00

An American friend of mine who had heard of the great abyss that was UK airspace until recently asked if our landscape was now "a post-apocalyptic waste land, like the true Earth in The Matrix or the world of Mad Max." I have yet to see Mel Gibson roaming the streets with a mangy mut, but we have seen a bit of volcanic ash settling on the cars overnight. I'm kind of reluctant to drive through the car wash in order to show an anticipated American guest what remains of Iceland and its economy, but that's really just an excuse to avoid cleaning the car.

For me as an overstimulated fruit enthusiast, I cringed to see the UK's tropical fruit shipments were being diverted to Spain from Africa or South America, or worse yet, just dumped altogether due to lack of air logistics. (Insert long, echoing "Noooo!" here.) I don't think they grow much Tropical Gold pineapple in Portsmouth. It's been two days since my last golden kiwi. That sounds like the opening line of a fringe support group. Order is restoring and I hear a jet overhead as I type, but television news is still carrying stories of UK tourists stuck on beaches in Tenerife. They sent a naval ship to pick up a load of stranded Brits from Spain. I'm sure the food was much better than the oxymoron of what passes for "airline food" these days.

Speaking of hot air, the news here has moved swiftly on to the upcoming UK election since airspace reopened. As an American, the British election season is so comparatively short and therefore much more civilized. An election date was announced just this month, and the election will be in early May. Spit spot, job done. There's none of this year-long campaign business or droning infomercials that is the US political process. Most interesting, the UK has an extremely viable third party in the running, which would challenge those that think there is no way a third party could ever break into the US policical system. Remember, they said US national healthcare wouldn't happen, too.

The recent, first-ever televised UK party leader debates are a good loan from the US system, as opposed to Texas toast or supersize fries. For those election buffs/political science majors out there, it's fascinating to see the pundits here discuss who appears better on television, much like the Nixon/JFK contrast in US ancient political history. The three party leaders are a bit staid. Perhaps they're just real people, or not as used to working arm in arm with image consultants and spin doctors.

Gordon Brown did look a bit ashen in the first debate. Well, is it any wonder?

Talk About Green Tea!

2010-04-06T13:03:00.002+01:00

Chumley and I decided to be somebody and use up pretty much all our Marriott Rewards Points in one go, posing as the rich and famous at the Grosvenor (pronounced GROVE - en- or) House Hotel on Park Lane in London this long weekend. We mock what we don't understand. By the time we got our luggage toted across London via the tube, we were feeling like two dim bulbs at a high-wattage address. Restorative fresh air was in order. A quick walk by the adjacent Dorchester Hotel's gardens brought the festive back.

As my grandma would say, that garden was cute as hell. The Dorchester is on the very short list of places to experience other-worldly English High Tea in London, with the High Prices to match. The highest of High Tea is certainly a meal, and the Dorchester is giving it away at £46.50. That's almost $75 a pop. But the pictures I took were free. Tea at the Dorchester attracts all sorts of visitors.

I'm sure carrot crudites are in order.

Tea, anyone?

Rancor at the Roundabout

2010-03-22T12:18:00.000Z

Warning: The images in this license are obscurred to protect the guilty.

So, as of last Friday, I am the proud owner of a letter that says I've passed the theory portion of my driving test. It was 50 multiple choice questions, some totally trippy, and 14 video clips where you must spot and click on the developing traffic hazards. My favorite hazard was the small flock of sheep. But wait, there's more. I still have to take the practical exam (driving portion.) Our local driver examination station has a 47% pass rate. Good Lord. It was easier to pass the bar exam. I know for a fact the pass rate was significantly better.

Driving on the left was surprisingly easier than I thought. Shifting on the left was a bit interesting - at least the pedals and gears are in the same place as before, except you're sitting on the other side of the car. It took me a while to reprogram the brain to judge distance from the center while sitting in the opposite (I'll avoid the term wrong) seat. It wasn't all daffodills and tulips, though. Here are some early exchanges from Chumley's School of Driving.

Me, driving around a roundabout: Look kids, Big Ben!
Chumley: Crickets chirping. Apparently, he has never seen "National Lampoon's European Vacation." Aren't we always learning more about our spouses? Pay attention!
Me: How do I get off this thing?
Chumley: Turn right.
Me: Right?! How do you expect me to do that?! It's a series of lefts!! Ugh!

Behold what I was dealing with, oh right-hand drivers, and feel my pain:

Chumley: I want you to go straight over the next roundabout.

Me: Won't that be difficult? This car doesn't have four-wheel drive like my old Jeep did.

Chumley: What are you talking about?

Me: You don't want me to drive through the grass, do you? (edging straight forward toward landscaping.)

Chumley: NO! Go around, AROUND! Take the opposite exit! UGH!

So, nota bene, turn right means take the exit at 3 o'clock. Go straight over means take the exit exactly opposite you. Most importantly, the quickest way to change Chumley's usually pleasant demeanor is to put him in fear for his life. For what it's worth, I do that less often nowdays.

My driving lessons on how to pass this dang driving test start next week. I hope the instructor speaks American.

Foreign Food Fetishes

2010-03-12T16:43:00.001Z

A dining companion asked me last night, "And how are you finding the food in England compared to the U.S.?" The honest answer is delicious in some cases, but dastardly in others. There's also a food limbo, where seemingly unmatched foods are thrown together and become tolerable to the beaten-down palate, but just barely.

My first case study is the ubiquitous English comfort food, beans on toast. Heinz has cornered the market on tinned (canned) baked beans here. Unlike Beenee Weenee, they are in tomato sauce as opposed to barbecue or some brown sugar-laden medium. The beans are a vital component of full English breakfast. Hot buttered toast has a remarkable calming effect to the English, and adding a ladle full of beans and a smattering of cheese (optional) is even more tranquilizing, I understand. I will eat beans on toast now that I've gotten some practice. But trust me, too many is hardly conducive to intestinal serenity.

Case 2 is a repulsive, noxious "condiment" called Marmite. My first experience of Marmite was in the States, when I observed Chumley smearing some on hot toast (see a pattern here?) It looked dark, syrupy and ominous. When I inquired further, Chumley made no attempt to describe Marmite, but instead urged me to take a sniff. One whiff and there was only one thought that came to mind. "This smells like some sort of... by-product!!" Sure enough, that's exactly the case. Marmite is the yeast squeezin's after the brewing process. I can only imagine its discovery by some legless man doing a face plant in the bottom of a brewery vat, accidentally licking the floor, and thinking it tasted good enough to mass market. I pray God will keep my path from crossing any more jars of Marmite. It is not to be borne.

I have been trying to convince Chumley that the combination of yellow sponge cake, maple buttercream icing and festive bacon may indeed be manly and toothsome, but so far, no dice. Case 3, not adopted officially as a recognized food item, is the bacon cupcake. Behold the creative use of bacon in tandem with maple. Isn't coating your crispy bacon with a little maple syrup a tempting thing to do? I generously offered to whip up a test batch for the guys at Chumley's work, but my offer was politely refused. Specifically, Chumley said, "Cake, good. Bacon, good. Baconcake, not good." I see. Perhaps the solution is to send the cupcakes with a side of bacon and see if any creative men make the connection, but I doubt a pile of bacon would last too long among purely XY chromosomes. Decorative bacon might be too much to wish for.

Case study 4: It turns out that one of the hallmarks of culinary Americana, the peanut butter and jelly (jam) sandwich, is repulsive to most Brits, including Chumley. Firstly, jelly in American translates to preserves or jam in English. Jelly in English is Jell-o in American, which could lead to a nasty surprise for the rookie American ordering it with hot buttered toast. I found out first-hand about the repelling powers of PB & J when I naively offered it to my movers on their lunch break. None of the burly, strapping men would even try it. Chumley said it was the best thing I could have done to put them off asking us for anything else. Hm.

I now keep one in the freezer for use on Jehovah's Witnesses and door-to-door salesmen.

Real Estate Spookulation

2010-03-05T14:29:00.001Z

We live near a lovely village called Alwalton. I am enamored, and I understand it has always been regarded as quite exclusive. In doing some web surfing for this post, I stumbled across this census-like listing of who exactly was living in Alwalton in 1279. I'm sure that is officially older than dirt. I note back then, someone's rent was three hens and one cock yearly. What a deal.

Should you need to send a package, buy a few groceries, or satisfy your need for a sudden crumpet and tea in the upstairs tearoom, Alwalton's post office is an excellent destination. Historically, I've taken guests to the Alwalton post office as a treat. I had a very reasonably priced fruited tea cake with butter, which was like a big, lovely, fruity English muffin. I can also vouch for the quality of the carrot cake and the takeaway Bakewell slices, which are an almond cake dosed with raspberry jam and a bit of icing. Just when I was worried about not fitting through the doorways horizontally, I noticed the sign on the ceiling beams warns, "Duck or Grouse!" The thatched roof is something to see, as well.

Not far down the street from the beloved post office was a property listed for sale for the absolute bargain price of 175,000 pounds. Better yet, the agency was hosting an open house the next Saturday. I was just curious, so I had Chumley check out the listing. It certainly fit the definition of quaint. According to the estate agent, with my helpful translations/editorial remarks:

A charming (dodgy) Grade II listed (big brother is watching you to see you don't do anything naughty like put up vinyl siding or a sunroom) semi-detached stone cottage in need of full modernisation (oh dear) with large garden (overall plot approximately 0.3 acres.) The cottage is thought to date back to the mid 17th Century with 19th Century alterations. (Double doh - it was last improved in the 1800's?) Built of limestone rubble with ashlar dressings and a Collyweston slate roof. (It's not going anywhere fast.) Situated in the heart of the picturesque village of Alwalton adjacent to the small village green. The accommodation now needs full modernisation. (Contender for "Understatement of the Year.") A particular feature of the property is the large (?!) garden that in all extends to just over 0.3 of an acre. To the front of the property there is a small garden (postage stamp) enclosed by a low hedge (obstacle course). Gated access to the side of the cottage leads to a large garden in all measuring just over 0.3 of an acre. The gardens are extensively laid to lawn interepersed into which there are a number of mature trees with a small garden timber shed (one could use this structure as kindling, but that's about all).

I scrutinized the picture, and something jumped out at me.
"Do you see what I see?" I asked Chumley.
"There's honestly no telling," he replied, quite rightly.
"Orbs! On the roof. It's haunted! Freaky!"
Chumley and his rational mind stared me down. "It's just a spot on the lens," he scoffed. "Still want to see it?" He was intrigued by what 19th Century additions would look like.

We showed up to a bustling house - apparently, word got out that it might go on the cheap. It was wired and plumbed, but barely. There was a spider in the bathtub the size of a small Toyota. I crept around each corner, on the lookout for that orb in the form of old Uncle Clive. Something resembling a tree held up the roof, which was bowing like an overloaded donkey's back, but was apparently structurally sound. "If it hasn't moved in the last 400 years, why would it start now?" Chumley reasoned. The structural surveyor had peeled back manky newspaper paper used to smooth out the wall surfaces upstairs, dated from 1953. Chumley started chatting about his vision for the place, what walls he would move, how it could look. I, for once in the decade, became deathly silent while trying not to concuss myself on the low ceilings. He finally sensed what was wrong.

"Please don't construe any of my comments as actual interest in buying this place," he said.

Thank God for that. We hear it did sell, allegedly for over the guide price. I hope whoever bought it has more vision than just old Uncle Clive rattling around upstairs.

Pub Quiz!

2010-02-24T09:36:00.000Z

I have yet another cultural experience to tuck under my belt (more like wedge, after Christmas). Chumley and I and a couple friends partook of a pub quiz. Quizzing is a sport here, but a striking cultural difference is that you can win some major coin doing it in the UK. No pesty little laws against gambling to worry about. We sat down with our scorecards and a drink at The Falcon Inn. The quizzmaster announced the pot would be 96 pounds, so the cash signs rolled over our eyes and we began.

In this incarnation, the quizmaster called a number. If it appeared on your scorecard, you wrote the answer down to the question that followed. It was possible you wouldn't have the number, which was especially peevesome if you actually knew the answer to the question being asked. It was much like trivia bingo, minus the troll doll good luck charms most serious US bingo players swear by. There were a few highly unattractive men in the vicinity, some with long hair, but I thought Chumley would leave me by the kerb should I attempt to rub their heads for good luck.

It's helpful to be the "token American" on a UK quiz team, as quite a few of the questions have to do with American movies, pop culture, or general knowledge. I whipped up the answer "Meryl Streep" for at least one question, and that seemed to earn me some street cred.

I was expecting quite a braniac population in pub quiz, but I needn't have worried about the table behind us. The question was, "What is the name of the dissident Spanish terrorist organization commonly referred to as the Basque Separatists?" I couldn't come up with that one, but Dangerous Dave at our table knew the answer. Once a winner had been announced, we heard the correct answer was the ETA.

"Oh, no!" squealed a ditzy female voice behind us to her male companion. "You told me it was the Sufferagettes! Hmmph!"

Chumley and I shared the obligatory eye roll and wondered when this player's head had blown a bubble. Trying not to laugh too loudly, Chumley muttered that the real Sufferagettes must be spinning in their graves about now. And that made a nice all-purpose bogus answer for the rest of the evening on the questions where we had no flipping clue.

No one won the pot. It should probably be donated to some women's voter league to ameliorate the karmic insult.

Scary Valentines

2010-02-12T11:20:00.000Z

We received our annual Valentine's Day card from my mother a few days ago, and I have it displayed on the sideboard. It's addressed to both of us. I find it festive, and my mother never misses an opportunity to be festive. Now that Chumley knows the cultural differences between US and UK Valentine's Day, he is content to have it on display. (At least he hasn't taken it off display.) However, this was not always the case.

I have a sneaking suspicion that my parents may like Chumley better than me, but suffice it to say, they are fans. As one would expect, my mother sent him a Valentine's Day card in the year after I had introduced them. It arrived festooned with a lovely foil heart sticker. I spied it at his house and mentioned it in passing. I was expecting gratitude that my P's thought highly of him, especially my mother. But instead, his response was, "Yeah, it really freaked me out."

Unlike the US, where elementary schools have Valentine's Day parties and every member of the class is expected to give a valentine to every other member of the class, Valentine's Day UK style is reserved for the truly lusty. I tried to find a card to send my parents this year, but gave up after too many references in the card aisle to underwear or the lack of it. Here's a great blog entry on She's Not From Yorkshire that makes the point. No wonder Chumley was freaked out. He knew mom liked him, but this was ridiculous.

Now that I've explained how wide the US Valentine net is traditionally cast, Chumley seems calmer. And the net is getting wider all the time. Case in point: if Jesus can be one's Valentine, what problem could Chumley possible have with a little mash note from my mother?

Calling All Pajama Shoppers!

2010-02-05T11:00:00.001Z

Tesco, the giant UK supermarket chain, made headlines this week by officially banning shoppers who show up in their pajamas (UK spelling: pyjamas.) When the presenter read the story as we were watching the morning news, Chumley looked up from his cereal bowl with a wry smile, as if to imply that I was among the offenders who had caused the policy in the first place. "As if!" I sputtered prophylactically.

There's no use denying that I love pajama time. If I'm at home and going nowhere for the rest of the evening, I've been known to declare pajama time as early as 7 p.m. Pajamas clear the mind and are much cheaper and safer than Valium, I think. I match them with my Easy Spirit slippers. Those occasionally need vacuumed due to so much wear and sock lint. Thanks to their almost shoe-like sole, I have been known to wear them to take out the trash. Or maybe return a library book to a drop box. This is a slippery slope I'm on, according to Chumley. I think he's afraid I'll start visiting the neighbors in my fuzzy pink robe (he bought me - facilitator!) for a tea and a chat.

Maybe the Brits have gotten wind of http://www.peopleofwalmart.com/. It's worth a look, if you haven't seen it. Chumley knew about it, and was all for the Tesco ban. "We can't be having that!" he said, comparatively.

I can't say I'm against Tesco on this one. This comes from witnessing one particularly inappropriate pajama experience: a young man wore flannel pajama bottoms emblazoned with bottles of Corona beer and lime wedges to his court date for driving under the influence. Ugh. That was almost as bad as the witness who showed up to testify wearing a t-shirt that said, "Honorary Oompa-Loompa," and took a nap on the benches outside the courtroom. People!

The Perils of Island Air Travel

2010-02-01T12:10:00.000Z

About nine years ago, I took the shortest flight I've ever experienced. Including takeoff and landing, our total flight time was around seven minutes. We were a group of female American law students concluding a weekend spent on the Aran Islands. The Arans are off the west coast of Ireland, across from Galway. After a weekend spent on rent-a-bikes visiting stone age fortresses and avoiding copious amounts of horse and sheep poo, we were loaded down with plenty of tea, toast, and Aran island sweaters.

Incidentally, this is the first time it dawned on me that for a region seemingly consumed with matters of health and safety, no major tourist attraction in the States would allow its visitors to do this:

Thanks to Tak from HK

Bearing this in mind, I arrived at the miniscule Inis Mor airport/strip of paved road with few expectations. Our plane would be the smallest I'd ever flown in, a BN2a Islander. It holds eight passengers and has a rear baggage hold capacity of 120 kg (264 lb). I presented the only person around with my bag, perfectly prepared for the usual routine of weighing and tagging. Despite being bulky, my new sweater couldn't weight that much.

Turns out, it wasn't the weight of the sweater I should have been worrying about. "Step on the scale," the crusty baggage dame told one of our party. Surely she did not mean personally, but I saw a particularly peanut-like member of our group mount a flat scale as the dame jotted down the numbers. This was turning into a Weight Watchers meeting from hell. My first instinct besides panic was to shed all unnecessary weight in the form of coats, shoes, and hair accessories. I didn't think I had time to sneak off to the bathroom/bush behind the building to adjust my weight further. I was torn between the instinct to minimize, and the weighty thought that if I decieved and we were overloaded, we were all going to die. My turn came. I closed my eyes and stepped aboard. She muttered something about stones, and told me to step down.

How kind, she must think I have stones in my pockets to weigh what I do, but what was the damage? I wondered. We were all joyously naive. We had been weighed in stones (increments of 14 pounds), and none of our group had a flipping clue what a stone was, other that we had nearly fallen off some over the course of our weekend.

We wedged ourselves on the plane, none the wiser, and it chugged down a strip that terminated at the edge of a cliff. After a few nails were quickly whittled down, we thankfully had enough momentum to avoid dropping like stones into the sea and enjoy the rest of our seven-minute flight.

We were in the hands of an Irish bush pilot. He wore shiny avaitor sunglasses and had coal-black hair. We arrived at the Connemara Airport and watched him swagger off... into the bar. It was 10 a.m.

I resisted being an American tee-total tattletale and admired him from afar. To me, a stiff drink sounded like a fine idea.

Language Lessons from the DVLA

2010-01-29T14:36:00.001Z

So, there I was, sitting on the sofa, trying to be productive by filling out the health section of the DVLA (Driver and Vehicle Licensing Agency) application. It was going quite well. I was denying I had all sorts of maladies and syndromes and feeling unusually healthy when question 9 stopped me and my black ink pen in its tracks:

Had I ever had, or currently suffer from, repeated attacks of sudden disabling giddiness?

This was a real question? Using the definition my American brain had learned, the answer would have to be, unfortunately, yes. Oh, horror.

Let's see. There was the time when Chumley and I went wedding cake testing. The shop was so generous, they gave us six pieces of cake, all slathered in different flavors of italian buttercream icing. When I expressed interest in the ganache, the cake lady used a trowel to spade a massive portion of dark chocolate nirvana into a styrofoam carry-out (take away) container, and helpfully suggested we take it home. Of course, I ate the most of the cake and the all ganache with the spork (spoon-fork) she helpfully included. Next thing I know, Chumley claimed I was levatating off the couch. I think I was flapping my wrists for some reason, but I really have no recollection of events before the massive sugar crash of 2008.

There was also the ugly Mountain Dew (US soft drink) incident of 2007, where I ignored my heightened sensitivity to caffeine and drank a 22-oz bottle of the high-wattage Code Red on a road trip. Chumley insisted on listening to a CD by the Arctic Monkeys, and I apparently insisted on percussing him in time to the music with the empty soda bottle. I am grateful he didn't screech to a halt and force me to do a ninja roll out of the vehicle.

Perhaps I was being too broad in my definition of "giddy." I asked rational, emotionaly controlled Chumley if he thought I "suffered from repeated attacks of sudden disabling giddiness." "Only when you come across a roadside fruit stand," he replied. Drat. He had not forgotten the incident shortly after our move to England where I screeched the brakes at the prospect of patronizing a massive pick your own fruit farm. It's not as if I left skid marks on the road, for heaven's sake. It was serious - they had loganberries. His whiplash only lasted a few hours, anyway.

This wasn't looking good. I feared I would be barred from driving, purely on the basis of being suceptible to intense joie de vivre. No wonder the motorways were filled with such grumps.

When in doubt, Chumley consults the atlas about all matters, regardless of their relevance to geography. In moral quandaries, I consult the dictionary. To my delight, Merriam-Webster has come to my rescue once again:

Giddy:

1a. Dizzy 1b. causing dizziness 1c.whirling rapidly.

2a. lightheartedly silly; 2b. joyfully elated.

I confess I am only familiar with two, above. I may have whirled rapidly after the cake incident, but only verbally. If I did dervish even a bit, it was in the living room and I posed no danger to anyone but Chumley.

Emotional motorists, unite! I won't have to pursue my discrimination claim any further. I'm elated, but not joyfully enough to be giddy.

Confessions of a Former Duvet-theist

2010-01-22T10:03:00.000Z

Being overtired and the weather so gray and rainy, I've developed a bit of a fixation on sleep lately. England loves the duvet, as does the rest of Europe. There was a time when I did not believe in duvets. I refer to that time as B.C (Before Chumley). There I was, making my bed in the old fashioned, conventional way: fitted sheet, flat sheet, blanket, comforter. The end. Goodnight.

One day, I saw Chumley with a pile of cloth on the floor and a white, cushy comforter spring into action. He held up one end of the comforter, muttered something about corners, and he reappered 30 seconds later, ready to button the comforter into the duvet and get on with his life. He detests flat sheets and blankets because he claims they catch on his so-called "big" feet. (I have not heard him say, "Do these shoes make my feet look fat?" yet, but the pains he takes to wear "slimming" shoes, you'd think he was Son of Sasquatch. Hardly.)

Duvets looked like trouble. Sure, you could whip off the cover and put it straight into the wash without the worry of dry cleaning or even washing a bulky comforter, but getting the pesky cover on was another matter. I think that to properly case a duvet, training must begin in utero. (The same goes for understanding the rules of cricket.)

In wintertime, Chumley would upgrade to the winter-weight duvet lining. Mmm, cozy. But by far the best part was making the bed. In two shakes of a spring lamb's tail, it was done and over. The anti-bedmaker in me rejoiced. And duvet beds were just so darn fluffy. I was a convert.

Now, if I could only work on my duvet skills. My first attempts made it clear that Chumley and I were had wildly disparate bedding abilities. I quickly was swallowed by the duvet. It felt like pitching a highly decorative tent, and I hate camping.

At long last, I am happy to report I have managed a sub-5 minute duvet change. I consider it a rite of passage. I hope to improve just in time for the 2012 London Olympics.

Chickens on Ice

2010-01-20T08:36:00.000Z

The most consistent theme of our great Christmas odessey was that Chumley and I seemed to be the harbinger of miserable weather wherever we went, and no more painfully so than in Cornwall. As is Chumley, Cornwall is very mild, even milder than the rest of the island, thanks to our friend, the Gulf Stream. Cornish palms abound, and it's extremely rare for the temperature to ever hit or, God forbid, drop below, freezing. Intrepid travelers that we are, Chumley and I left the house around 11 a.m. in snow on the East Coast, and arrived on the West Coast at 6:30 p.m. We covered about 270 miles. Most of this was highway/motorway driving, which still means we averaged only 41 miles per hour. The cause? A little snow on British roads prevents you from going a long way.

My mother-in-law has become a chicken enthusiast in the last year. Besides the fresh eggs, she's done chicken watercolors, there's been chicken photography, a particular chicken-tending wardrobe, and all the chickens have names. Chumley joked that they should be Fricasee, Jalfrezi, Korma, etc., but they are much more civilized names like Bella and Bossy. After days on end of below-freezing weather, the water feature in the back garden/yard had frozen, and the chickens decided to put on an ice show spectacular. We knew they had not been practicing "Bolero" by Torvill and Dean when one began pecking at the ice in an effort to break through, and the rest who stupidly joined the Ice Capades could not manage to leave the ice rink, despite announcements from management.

The locals found the cold appalling, and the roads were surprisingly slick. It's not like the US, where the salt trucks drive all night and the roads are perfectly passable the next morning. Not only were they running short on salt all over, but we heard on the radio that the council had gritted 800 or so miles of A roads (the major ones.) In Cornwall, that doesn't quite cut it, as 80% of the roads are not A roads. I don't think a road in Cornwall exists that doesn't involve a hill. So, more ice skating for the rest of us.

I managed to avert tragedy myself while crossing a street, loaded down with several glass bottles of tasty holiday beverages. One false step on a traffic hump and I felt my shoe move beneath me to the sickening clatter of glass on pavement. Chumley looked horrified and rushed over to help, but I quickly handed him my carrier bag while clearly compos mentis. "Forget me, save the booze!" I whispered. At least my priorities were right. Chumley's sister opened the front door to find me spread eagle on a traffic hump, stunned mostly by the near loss of a bottle of Piper Heidsieck champagne, a Riesling and something French for good measure. "What are you doing?" she yelled helpfully. The correct answer was that I was suffering from a brutally tenderized rump roast, but I replied with what came to mind. "I'm just sitting here in the street." Streets are filthy, by the way. Thankfully, I was wearing my festive black velveteen jeans. I wouldn't have been a very popular party guest had it got out that not only was I dirty and smelled of asphalt, but I was solely responsible for killing all festive beverages like dogs in the street. Talk about American prohibition.

From that point forward, my outdoor walking paranoia started. I am indeed a very large chicken on ice.

Lessons Learned from a Wayfaring Christmas

2010-01-14T13:34:00.000Z

Well, I'm back, possums, and I must say, I am just now getting over probably the worst case of jetlag I've ever experienced. On reflection, this was likely caused by a number of factors:

1) An extended time separated from my Simmons Beautyrest World Class Pillowtop mattress, i.e. Westin Hotel's Heavenly Bed. For those of you who read this blog for its essential tips on living, here's another little gem: never hessitate to spend money on a good mattress. It was the last item we bought in a hurry before the cargo container left our driveway for England. It's turned into one of the things I pine for when not at home. It's just like sleeping in a giant pat of butter, and now that we have fresh sheets thanks to restorative, post-holiday housework, it's even less greasy. Aaaahhh.

2) Copious caloric consumption, mostly in the form of Lindor truffles and Oatmeal Carmelitas. Not familiar with the Oatmeal Carmelita? They only have the power to change your life (nevermind your waist size, it's too depressing.) They're the all-time cookie favorite of the plethora my mother/frustrated caterer makes at Christmas, and I shared the joy by bringing a batch to my husband's family in Cornwall. They call them "those oaty biscuits" but not out of disrespect. How can the Pillsbury bakeoff winner from 1967 be wrong? Should my fair readers find themselves with extra chocolate and caramel/toffee sauce just waiting to be properly applied, prepare to be dazzled. The measurements are in American, but easily enough converted to metric.

OATMEAL CARMELITAS

INGREDIENTS

Crust:

2 cups Pillsbury BEST® All Purpose or Unbleached Flour
2 cups quick-cooking rolled oats
1 1/2 cups firmly packed brown sugar
1 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 teaspoon salt
1 1/4 cups margarine or butter, softened

Filling:
1 (12.5-oz.) jar (1 cup) caramel ice cream topping
3 tablespoons Pillsbury BEST® All Purpose or Unbleached Flour
1 (6-oz.) pkg. (1 cup) semisweet chocolate chips
1/2 cup chopped nuts

DIRECTIONS

1. Heat oven to 350°F. Grease 13x9-inch pan. Lightly spoon flour into measuring cup; level off. In large bowl, combine all crust ingredients; mix at low speed until crumbly. Reserve half of crumb mixture (about 3 cups) for topping. Press remaining crumb mixture in bottom of greased pan. Bake at 350°F. for 10 minutes.

2. Meanwhile, in small bowl, combine caramel topping and 3 tablespoons flour; blend well.

3. Remove partially baked crust from oven; sprinkle with chocolate chips and nuts. Drizzle evenly with caramel mixture; sprinkle with reserved crumb mixture.

4. Return to oven; bake an additional 18 to 22 minutes or until golden brown. Cool 1 hour or until completely cooled. Refrigerate 1 to 2 hours or until filling is set. Cut into bars.

Finally, our flight schedule made me think we weren't circling London Heathrow, but rather Dante's Seventh Circle of Hell. Chumley suggested monkeying around with melatonin for relief, but I just wanted a nap, and a snack at 3 a.m. If you're flying American Airlines, indeed, this feat is possible. We got in at 3:30 a.m. and reported to work the next morning. I am still waiting to be contacted about our super-trooper awards ceremony.

Life lesson learned from this trip: NEVER, ever fly US to UK in the daytime again, even if it is hundreds cheaper. The mind meddling and extended schedule screw-up are worth the difference in cost.

We did have an excellent visit and some adventures, which I shall portion out like Lindor truffles in the days to come. To be fair, Chumley would portion. I'm more of a snarfer/scoffer. To me, leftover chocolate is not possible within the atmosphere of Planet Claire.

Have a Cracking Christmas!

2009-12-17T15:49:00.000Z

If you're headed toward a place setting at an English Christmas do or holiday dinner near you, you should be chuffed (excited) to see one of these at your spot. No, it's not an extra festive toilet paper roll. It's not a holiday recreation of Sputnik, although the sound they make has been known to launch excitable me into orbit. It's a Christmas cracker, a festive, dinnertime mini explosive that contains a joke or motto or riddle, a prize of debatable value, and that pesty paper crown I always get goaded into wearing. Save me now! It's coming directly toward my head! Alas, for some, it's already too late.

Faithful readers will recall my firmly held assertion that hats make my head look fat. Worse yet is when some wiseacre gets out the camera and decides to commemorate my millinery malaise. I cannot deny that I have left many chillers in the greater Cornwall area full of soured milk. The good news is that I have successfully destroyed any photographic evidence within my possession that involves me in a paper crown. The look on my face in one instance was burned into Chumley's mind, he assures me, and was not unlike another poor, kindred spirit I've seen.

For those linguistic lovers out there, a cracker is also British English for all of the following: a dry biscuit, something that is good, an attractive woman, and a firecracker. Chumley caught me off guard some years ago by declaring that one of the Harry Potter movies was "a cracking film." All the American possibilities raced through my mind: poor projection and sound quality, produced by a crackpot, weird enough to be devised by people on crack?

When I go Yankee and think cracker, my friend, the Premium Saltine, comes to mind.

But as my Christmas gift to you, here's a word of caution: should any of my gentle English readers find themselves deep in the American South this holiday season, they should momentarily quit counting the gunracks and be mindful how they use the term "cracker." In my mental thesaurus, ranked according to offensiveness, I think "cracker" is like "trailer trash" on steroids. For example, asking for a Christmas cracker at the information desk of a southern-fried Wal-Mart will assuredly get you a visit with Dirty Santa, or worse, cause a throwdown on aisle 3.

As Chumley and I are about to declare ourselves festive and start exhausting others' holiday hospitality, I will be on blog hiatus until the next decade begins. My best wishes for a crack-tastic holiday!

Back to Reality

2009-12-15T12:50:00.001Z

One gentle reader expressed interest some time ago in my take on UK healthcare. Using the NHS, England's socialized healthcare program, is a major learning curve for Americans living here for any length of time. National healthcare is also a political issue back home at the moment, and I'd choose bog diving over political discussions any day. In general, my impressions are very favorable thus far. There are pitfalls to navigate, just as there are in the land of private insurance, but it is comforting not worrying about the bill or deductibles every time you darken the doctor's doorstep. Pharmacies (or chemists) are much more helpful, I find, and can assist with everyday drugs that you'd have to have a doctor's prescription for in the States. If you're a relatively healthy individual, I think it's excellent.

Should you find yourself in a medical office (surgery), here is my most valuable cultural lesson learned to date: do not pull the red string in the doctor's surgery loo, thinking it is the light switch. Some bathrooms have pullcord light switches here, but following this instinct will lead to profound dissappointment. The red string is actually the "I've fallen and I can't get up" alarm, and a crochety nurse will come stare at you, wondering which nearby village recently lost an idiot. I knew better, as I have fallen victim to this trap while attending a wedding reception at a major UK military installation, but I got off easy with no uniformed guards rushing in to help burn the experience in my psyche. My village has yet to report me missing. But in my defense, how can one see it's red if it's pitch dark and you're afraid of falling into the toilet?

I was most worried about my back while living here, and the experience I'd have if it ever decided to pack up again. An old journalism professor of mine wrote an article that completely sums up how frustrating major back trauma can be. I completed a round of physical therapy (physiotherapy) in the year before we moved, and two epidural shots and much pain later, my extruded disc was finally behaving itself. I've taken up pilates and yoga to keep it from turning against me, and one of my yogis has recommended my new favorite book: Back Sufferer's Bible by Sarah Key. It's a revelation, as no one I've ever seen bothers to explain what's going on in such detail, and I crave detail. She's the physiotherapist to Prince Charles and the Royal Family. I adore his Duchy Originals line of groceries, so I'm sure he has the same tastes in therapists. Just like his biscuits, Sarah Key can be crunchy compared to conventional therapy wisdom, but these wacky exercises of hers really work. I've returned the giant swiss ball I've been using as an office chair, and instead do her stretches. Better results and far easier to store.

With that, it's time to stretch. And speaking of a stretch, national healthcare isn't so bad.

Move Over, Martha!

2009-12-11T13:02:00.000Z

Meet my new favorite celebrity foodie, Delia Smith. She's no revelation to the English, but for Americans, she flies much lower on radar than the potty-mouthed Gordon Ramsay or voluptuous Nigella Lawson. She's without a gimmick: she's into old-fangled and cozy snacks, real butter, and her housecat is quite fluffy. At least he was groomed well in her Christmas special.

I'm sure I'm not alone in losing whatever opinion I had of Martha Stewart post her stint in the pokey. After years of cookbook writing, Delia saved up and bought herself a football team, yet wears clothes that look like they came from places regular people shop. As I watched, she demonstrated how to make oh-so-puzzling English bread sauce. She doused her fruit cakes with enough booze to allow them to flambe for days. I believed Delia's confident assertion that she's never had a dry turkey, and continued viewing while suspending the Weight Watchers points count in my head.

Emboldened by my holiday viewing, I undertook Delia's sausage rolls. Nothing is as easy as it looks, and despite her TV demonstration of making puff pastry by grating frozen butter into a bowl, I took the easy way out and used the frozen sheets. After what seemed like a couple hours farting around, splitting the casings off two pounds of sausage and crying over the onions I chopped, I had these meaty little marvels to show for it. Into the freezer the majority went so they might accompany Chumley and me to our Christmas festivities where I can bake them on demand. Thankfully, there is no button on our remote control for "baked goods on demand" or Chumley and I would have already turned to solids.

Sausage rolls are terribly English, but it's hard not to like them unless you're not into meat or cholesterol. I baked four as a test and offered them to Chumley as an "after-school" snack. I felt a bit bad after chasing him away from that big stack of bacon I'd left out during the green bean segment of Thanksgiving dinner. Hopefully, I've made both peace and meaty baked goods.

Sunrise, Sunset

2009-12-03T11:38:00.001Z

The picture above could be our back garden at 8 a.m.

One of the most striking things when I first lived in England for a while in 2001 was the lovely, long length of day in summer. It was even better than visiting Minnesota, where we marveled that in the summertime, it wasn't uncommon for the neighbors to start mowing the grass at 5:30 in the morning. Lawncare lunatics.

It's not quite the winter of my discontent, but I could use a dose of light therapy. According to the statistics, today's sunrise was at 7:47 a.m., and sunset will be at 3:54 p.m. Add mizzle to the equation, and it's a bit dreary. One of my favorite songs is "Comeback (Light Therapy)" by Josh Rouse, and I finally see what he meant, living in Norway. The bridge lyrics are stuck in my head:

I miss my seratonin
My days are going nowhere fast

I'm counting down until the longest day of the year, the winter solstice on Dec 21. Sunrise will be at 8:04 a.m., and sunset at 3:53 p.m. We have being this far north to thank, but luckily, the jet stream spares us from the drastic temperature swings of our fellow latitudinal dwellers.

If you've ever seen the Emma Thompson version of "Sense and Sensibility," one of my favorite characters is the Dashwood's littlest sister, Margaret. She loved her atlas dearly, as does Chumley. In fact, one of his pure joys in life is consulting the atlas, even though it is circa 1984 and the Balkans are all wonky. It turns out we are almost on the 53rd parallel, roughly the same as Saskatoon, Saskatchewan, the Aleutian Islands, and Upper Mongolia. Today's high is 44F here, but its a puny high of 24F in Saskatoon with snow showers.

I won't grouse too much because we are redeemed by endless summer. On the summer solstice next June, sunrise is at 4:43 a.m., and sunset is at 9:22 p.m., although it is so slow, it will easily be very last light at 10:30 p.m.. Croquet until the cows come home!

My sunglasses are on standby. As we are a transparent people, tanning is not an option.

Thanksgiving, Observed

2009-12-01T14:19:00.003Z

As one of my most ambitious cultural experiments to date, I cooked a facsimile of Thanksgiving dinner for five all-British dining companions over the weekend. As I have never actually dabbled in turkey myself, and now truly appreciate my mother for all the years of work she's amassed while entertaining us, it was somewhat daunting. My mantra was, "It's just a large chicken." Here was the menu:

Crudites with cream cheese chive dip
Fruit and nut mix
Mulled cider
Gingered cranberry pear sauce
Roast turkey breast
Turkey gravy
Stuffing
Honey glazed carrots
Green beans with bacon and shallots
Mashed sweet potatoes with a touch of maple syrup
Crockpot scallopped potatoes
Pillsbury croissants (what I would call crescent rolls)
Pumpkin banana mousse tart
Vanilla ice cream

As I typed that list, I suddenly realized what I had suspected all Friday and Saturday while doing as much ahead of time as I could: damn, that's a lot of food for six people. I sent Evites and called it our "Totally Tremendous Thanksgiving." Best not to disappoint, I thought.

I had no expectations of how the offerings would go down. After a brief show-and-tell segment, the diners willingly queued at the sideboard. Being somewhat of a foodie, I forgot decorum and got in line before some of my guests. Whoops. Overall, there were completely clean plates, both dinner and dessert. I think the experience is best summed up in the words of the diners:

Re the fruit and nut mix:
Chumley: "What are those giant brown things in here? They kind of look like turds. You can have those."
Answer: They were dates, Chumley. Thanks for being so graphic.

Re Mulled cider:
Guest 1: "That's quite quaffable. What's in it?"
Answer: Alcoholic cider, orange juice, clove, cinnamon sticks, oranges, a lemon, golden caster sugar. Ed. note: the range of sugars here is mindboggling.

Re Gingered cranberry pear sauce:
Guest 2: "I quite like the cranberry sauce. It's not weird. We have that, you know."
Guest 3: "Guest 4 (her husband) has just dropped cranberry sauce all over the table. Can't take him anywhere." Ed. note: the spot appeared next to Guest 3's water glass and while Guest 4 was still at the buffet. I suspect a setup.

Re Roast turkey breast
Chumley: "Decent turkey, Claire."
Guests in unison (muffled): "Yes, very good."
Ed. note: documenary evidence supports these comments as none was left on plates and Guest 5 went up for seconds.

Re Turkey gravy
Guest 4 (commenting on my usage): "We just pour it over everything." Ed. note: he was behind me in line. He looked hungry and is not a small man.

Re Stuffing
Me: "I refused to roll it into little balls," commenting on the common English custom of serving balls of stuffing with a roast dinner. Chaka Khan, man. This was Thanksgiving observed.

Re Green beans with bacon and shallots
Upon seeing a large pile of cooked bacon waiting in the kitchen, Chumley: "Mmm. Bacon." Starts reaching for a piece while doing Neanderthal impression until I shoo him away from meaty stack.
Guest five: "You mean shal-LOTTS!" Ed note: the emphasis is on the last syllable in British English.

Re Mashed sweet potatoes with a touch of maple syrup
Guest 1: "I quite like the mash of yams, or sweet potatoes, or whatever." Ed. note - no demerits issued for poor nomenclature. I'm just happy they were adventurous enough to try them.

Re Crockpot scallopped potatoes
Chumley: "Yes, they are ugly. But they taste good." Ed. note: I would not make these again. Mushrooms turned potatoes ugly brown, coupled with too much neurotic prep by me in cutting potatoes the day ahead without benefit of water submersion. I was hoping their color would improve with cooking and soaking, but alas, no. Rookie error.

Re Pillsbury croissants (what I would call crescent rolls)
Guest 5: "The only thing I was really surprised by in this dinner was the croissant." Ed. note: Huh? Scary dinner rolls jumping off the buffet at him? Apparently, rolls with dinner were not customary to this diner. This did not impede consuption, however.

Re Pumpkin banana mousse tart:
Chumley: "Hey. Whoa. I want that broken crust, please." Ed. note: dessert was hard to cut, but crunchy faux graham cracker base is Chumley's favorite. No luck in finding graham crackers, so had to substitute crushed digestive biscuits. Chumley advised me away from hardcore pumpkin pie, so lighter, less squashy choice seemed well received.
Guest 5: "The crust is so crunchy!" Ed. note: Guest 5 appeared to have the same exuberance for cookie crusts as Chumley does. He went up for seconds at dinner; otherwise, I think I might have forced another piece of tart down him.

Re Vanilla ice cream:
Me: "It's low fat... aw shit, who am I kidding? That's like asking for a rum and diet coke. Why bother?"

All in all, I deem it very successful and enjoyed the company of all dining companions. Now Chumley gets to live through more of the authentic Thanksgiving experience: the recycling of the turkey. Turkey noodle soup, anyone?

Nevermind That Flesh Wound. How About a Nice Tea?

2009-11-25T09:55:00.000Z

I've been hitting the book lately. At least, the UK Highway Code. Americans living in the UK have a year to drive on our US driver's license, but after the year, the party is over. To continue the fun in our clown car, we'll need a full UK driving license.

Getting a US license is a cakewalk compared to the rigors of UK licensure. There's a theory test, and an accompanying hazard perception video where one sits at a touch screen and watches a scene, touching all the potential hazards that unfold. If you pass this hurdle, you may proceed to the practical (driving test). Most people take driving lessons, not to learn how to drive per se, but to learn how to pass this test.

That said, I've been borrowing a friend's self-study CD, which includes a bank of actual exam questions. See if you spot the same trend I do:

You arrive at the scene of a crash. Soemone is bleeding badly from an arm wound. There is nothing embedded in it. What should you do?
1. Apply pressure over the wound and raise the arm.
2. Apply pressure over the wound and keep the arm down.
3. Dab the wound.
4. Get them a drink.

Now, consider this question:

You arrive at the scene of an accident. It just happened and someone is injured. Which three of the following should be given urgent priority?
1. Check their breathing is OK.
2. Clear their airway and keep it open.
3. Stop any severe bleeding.
4. Get them a warm drink.
5. Look for witnesses.
6. Take numbers of vehicles involved.

I suppose the first question's drink option could be interpreted as alcoholic and therefore appropriate for a Brit in distress, but I first inferred that this mystery drink of choice would be tea. The examiners have dreamed up plausible and appealing English options for the multiple choice section, I see. An American version might include "Call their personal injury attorney right away," so I am not at all offended by this more genteel option. In fact, I can easily see an older injured person ignoring the blood and asking for an Earl Grey. So much the better if there was a piece of cake involved. And can I blame them?

I mentioned my amusement at the recurrent "tea option" to Chumley, who expressed no surprise whatsoever. His exact comment was, "Claire! Tea fixes everything!" You'd think I'd have gotten it by now.

I shall keep my faithful readers advised on my progress toward licensure. And just in case, I'll keep a travel mug of tea at the ready when out motoring.

Getting Down With OAPs

2009-11-20T11:51:00.000Z

In my relentless quest for beneficial daytime experiences, I decided to take a day off swimming my mile but wanted some form of exercise. I have noted that a group of women I generally refer to as the gray-haired mafia completely book up a large number of the daytime exercise classes at our gym, but there was one opening left in this morning's aqua aerobics. I know it is almost always booked full, so I hopped on the last slot. An "OAP" is island lingo for Old Age Pensioner. If you see them having tea and cake en masse in a particular venue, it generally bodes well for quality. I applied the same analogy to aqua aerobics.

Former readers will know I am no stranger to aqua aerobics, having made the horrifying pink elephant discovery at a previous gym's version. Apart from the urge to look away, that class itself was very good. Just because aqua aerobics as an exercise genre is largely populated by older women does not mean the classes are feeble. .

The instructor was a white-haired woman in reasonable shape. Upon arrival, average age looked to be 60, but far worse was the sight of every one wearing a headband with little yellow ears attached. I had forgotten that today is a nationwide fundraiser called Children in Need, which benefits the Great Ormond Street Children's Hospital in London. Their mascot is called Pudsey, and this group had taken the philanthropic spirit to a new and cheezy level. I'm not much of a joiner when it comes to wearing hokey things - I used to struggle to put on my ID badge at work. I also loathe hats, or anything on my head, for that matter. But as I was the only one without ears, I succumbed to the groupthink and put a pair on.

The musical selection was a combination of remixed ABBA and every Beatles song ever written. I didn't know it was possible to work "Eleanor Rigby" into a exercise mix, but I do now. I very reluctantly participated, in half-gestures, when the entire class broke into "YMCA." All in all, the class was pretty lame. It was hard to justify going to the bother to change into a swimsuit and require a shower when I could have stayed home and learned to knit for the same calorie expenditure. Regardless, I tried to make it as hard as possible for myself without getting too carried away and being branded "that young hooligan." When the kegel exercises started, I knew this was pretty much a waterborne waste of time.

After class, I approached to gladly return my stupid sponge bear ears when the teacher approached me individually. "Is this your first aqua aerobics class?" she inquired. I immediately expected her to compliment my apparent aqua savant-ness, my perfect form, or suggest a higher intensity class.
"Oh, no," I replied.
"Well, the first rule of aqua aerobics is the gum. Lose it!"
I was appalled, and mentally transported back to my elementary school library, where Mrs. Howsell transformed sussing out the presence of chewing gum into a black art and issued ugly two-cent fines. I stupidly stammered the truth - that I had forgotten it was in - but her bluntness was appalling. I seethed and chomped even harder. To think I had put on those stupid ears for this. I was not thinking clearly enough to spit it out and offer it to her.

In hindsight, I don't regret my gum chewing. I'm sure it produced my highest calorie burn of the hour.

Death by Rhubarb

2009-11-16T12:02:00.001Z

Some people have irrational fears. Some of these fears are stranger than others. I am mostly paranoid of dogs. Ages ago, a fellow co-worker of mine had Crock-Pot-O-Phobia, which is the fear of slow cookers. This person would not only steer far away from Crock Pots at work potlucks, but shiver at the prospect of eating food that could have possibly been prepared in a Crock Pot. She didn't seem to have the same phobia of electric skillets, however. I did not probe her psyche further by taunting her with an electric wok or a fondue pot, but I assume the latter would set her off by its mere resemblance to a Crock Pot. I called off deeper analysis for lack of interest and made a mental note not to provoke emotional Chernobyl by bringing in my hot chilli-cheese dip in my Crockette, a Crock Pot's miniature cousin.

I was having a snack in the kitchen some time back, when I offered Chumley a choice of yogurts. To be fair, he won't touch my low-calorie ones, but instead prefers the Muller Fruit Corner, strawberry cheesecake variety if available. In what I thought was an act of humanity, I felt like offering him all the choices available. Our fridge contained several flavors, including rhubarb. I did not expect what happened next. Based on the gagging sounds, I wondered if administering the Heimlich was appropriate. It turns out he was so perturbed at the mere thought of rhubarb, he sent himself into some sort of psychogenic epiglottal spasm. All this for a vegetable. Based on that reaction and the glimmer of others at the mere mention of the word, we were not to speak of it again.

Rhubarb is a common flavor on the island, and lucky for me, I enjoy it. But Chumley's extreme reaction would have been similar to what I would have done when presented with a puppy. Had he been bitten by rhubarb as a child? Forced to pick rhubarb in inhumane conditions? Worked off college debt in a poorhouse that doubled as a rhubarb processing plant? Try as I might to delve deeper, Chumley was clearly stalked by rhubarb for no apparent reason. It was too bad, also. I was planning on test driving a recipe for rhubarb fool. Not only would I need epinephrine for him, but it would also give him a catchy little nickname to call me for a period no less than one week, if he could even say the word. I would have to break up with rhubarb, or at least hide any food products it had "tainted" behind diet items in the refrigerator. In case I ever needed Chumley repellant, I need only bind two rhubarb stalks together in a cross. Could that be a new plot twist for the "Twilight" saga?

Just when I thought I had to stop seeing rhubarb, my birthday rolled around. Chumley was a teenage gardener, and likes to dabble, so my presents were two peach trees and two rhubarb plants. He even planted them for me, muttering something about how our estate (neighborhood) used to be gravel pits and he could see why. What a guy. I expected him to wear a clean suit, but garden gloves were adequate. It's midway through November, and they plants are already leafing out. I shall have to take my future rhubarb offerings to work, but for safety's sake, I'll leave my Crockette at home.

The English Excel at Remembrance

2009-11-11T12:01:00.000Z

The Queen is on TV at Westminster Abbey at the moment to commemorate Armistice Day, which honors the end of World War I. Today is also Veteran's Day in the States. It doesn't quite have the pomp, but it is a national holiday, as my dad has the day off work. England observes two minutes of silence at 11 a.m.... which I did. Now I can tell you about the poppies, which came to symbolize the dead of World War I thanks to the poem, "In Flanders Fields."

People have been wearing little red, paper poppies since the middle of October, and most public places have a veteran selling them for the Royal British Legion, which is a charity that supports service personnel. Chumley has purchased a number that I've found lying around the house. Quite a few people out and about have been wearing them. In fact, it would be a high crime to be seen without one if you happen to be a TV presenter.

Remembrance in general gets a bit more attention in Britain than in the U.S., which I find surprisingly refreshing. It's made news that the last three WWI veterans living in the UK have passed away, at the ages of 108, 111, and 113. The only British veteran left is 108 and living in Australia. BBC is full of documentaries and programs that have a war theme. An especially interesting one on at the moment is "Coal House at War", which takes three Welsh families and imposes the living conditions of 1944 England. The children were carrying around little wooden boxes that I naively thought were lunch boxes, but instead they were gas masks. A lady got fined 15 shillings for not adhering to the blackout laws. Ouch.

I enjoy these reality shows instead of the brain rot-inducing likes of "Big Brother" and its progeny. One of my all-time favorites was "Regency House Party," a Channel 4 series that aired on U.S. PBS in 2004. It took eligible and prosperous young men, young women of means and without means, and assigned them a chaperone. They also cast the roles of servants and head butler with modern people. The goal was for the chaperones to make a suitable match before a summer-long house party was over, but while adhering to the Regency rules of dating. Call me nerdy, but I was riveted. I even went home early from a date so I wouldn't miss an episode. How can you go wrong with epidose synopses like these? As the end of the party approaches old quarrels rise to surface and the chaperones fall out in spectacular style by throwing the fine china at each other. My favorite part was when the estate hired a professional hermit to live in a hut on the property and scare people. Genius.

In any event, I will be a bit sad to see the poppies put away, especially because they are lovely to see growing wild in the fields. It's also nice to see such a universal respect for a worthy cause.

What Happened to This Guy?

2009-11-09T11:13:00.000Z

This past week, I've been hearing the pop of the occasional backyard fireworks display in honor of Guy Fawkes Day (or Bonfire Night), which was Nov. 5. It's an interesting holiday in that it celebrates the discovery of the Gunpowder Plot of 1605, when a mercenary from York named Guy Fawkes (also known as Guido from his days fighting in Spain) was found on a tip in the cellars below Parliament with a smidge of gunpowder. Maybe 36 barrels is more than a smidge. It seems the Catholic Guy and a dozen of his closest friends were tired of being put down by the Protestand Elizabeth I, and when her successor James I didn't really treat them any better, the thirteen decided that the best way of dealing with their disgruntledness was to torch Parliament altogether. He was found thanks to a tip, and was ultimately hung, drawn, and quartered. He managed to avoid maximum torture by taking a dive off the scaffold and breaking his neck early in the process, so he wouldn't survive the short hanging and being disemboweled alive. How sensible. Every year at the opening of Parliament, there's a ceremonial check of the cellars just to rule out any explosives enthusiasts.

To those intrigued by turns of phrase, "guy" is an eponym - a word based on a real person. Guy Fawkes was the original "guy." The term "guy" used to carry more baggage than it does today. In memory of the big boom that wasn't, children began to make and display grotesque effigies of Guy to burn on a bonfire. In Britain, "guy" used to mean a man displaying odd dress or behavior, but the weirdo connotation was eventually lost. Now they're burning effigies of Katie Price on their bonfires. That's progress.

On Saturday evening, we drove by one of the largest bonfires I've seen in years, visible for at least a mile at night. After getting worn out by thinking of the sheer number of hot dogs that fire would roast, I was trying to think of comparable celebrations. It's odd to declare a country-wide celebration dedicated to something that didn't happen. The only failed plot in my recent memory was the attempt to blackmail David Letterman about sleeping with a number of his staff. I'm sure to him, the mere foiling deserves a holiday. Maybe he could bring a chiminea onstage and burn his little black book. He shouldn't get too enthused, though, or his wife could hang, draw, and quarter him for high treason. It would get ratings, I think.

Too bad for traditionalists - American Haloween seems to be edging out Guy. I think I would prefer a gobstopper to a firecracker myself, but that's a matter between me and Weight Watchers.

A Teeny Halloweeny

2009-11-02T09:55:00.000Z

If today is All Soul's day, I'm going to boldly declare that we are still within the "Halloween Trifecta" and answer an inquiry from one gentle reader:

So Claire, what do they do for our American pumpkin holiday over there across the pond?

Tread lightly, oh gentle reader, before stepping into a colonial quagmire! I spied a provocative couple of words in your query, specifically our American. I'm afraid it is not ours to claim, but we have merely borrowed it, made it bigger, and loaded it with artificial flavors and preservatives.

If you trust Wikipedia on the subject, then "[it is] more typically linked to the Celtic festival of Samhain or Samuin (pronounced sow-an or sow-in)".[2] The name is derived from Old Irish and means roughly "summer's end".[2] A similar festival may have been held by the ancient Britons, corresponding to the Welsh festival of Calan Gaeaf (pronounced kalan-geyf). It is arguable that similar festivals may have been held at this time by all those people for whom Druids were the priesthood." Those wacky Druids. First Stonehenge, now this!

I, too, didn't know quite what to expect, as this is my first Halloween here. A park adjacent to our house was hosting fireworks, but that was to celebrate the upcoming Bonfire Night, which deserves a separate post once the true date rolls around. I was able to confirm that in some parts, troops of kids in fancy dress (costumes) would be going door to door thanks to my new font of cultural enrichment, my weekly Weight Watchers meeting.

"So Claire, what will you be handing out to the trick or treaters?" the meeting leader suddenly asked me. Since I had readily confessed to copious Cheetos consumption and still lost 5 pounds the previous week, I was an easy target. My mind went blank. Doh! What was the correct answer? Was this a trick question? I hated being wrong in class. Must deflect with joke, I thought. Quickly...

I spouted the first thing that came to mind. "Six-packs and fried eggs?"

The cricket chirping silence was miserable. I guess the Coneheads Halloween special on Saturday Night Live doesn't translate. Ugh.

It was a safe bet that we wouldn't have many trick or treaters in our estate (neighborhood), as Chumley and I bring the average age down by about thirty years. The most likely candidate would be our next door neighbor, who is 91. Judging by the wafts of air coming from the house if I'm standing on her porch, her favorite treat would be a pack of smokes. Being the childless killjoys that we are, Chumley suggested we go to dinner and a movie instead of cowering with the lights off, candy and cigarette-free.

For the record, I did bother to decorate this year with my pumpkin candy bowl (empty, thanks to WW), witch candle, realistic yet useless light-up plastic jack-o-lantern (it's got a US plug) and my miniature Halloween tree. "It's festive!" I heard my decor-happy mother chant in my head. I'm afraid Chumley has dragged me down a bit in festivity tolerance levels when it comes to trick or treaters. I'm recalling the incident of Halloween 2006, when I held girlfriend status and happened to be on the phone with him during trick or treat prime time. In the middle of the conversation, the usually mild Chumley bellowed into my ear:

"Piss off, you little scamps!"

I gasped with disgust. "Look, you just can't treat the neighbor kids that way!" This was a good time to take stock of our relationship.

"I gotta go, Claire." Dead air.

He rang me back shortly, while I was already working on my "this just isn't working out" speech. As loyal readers know, Chumley is tidy, and his comment was apparently provoked by the two giant racoons he spied dashing across his lawn, his garbage bag in their mouths. Thank god. It was too much to think such a young man could really be that crotchety.

As we drove to the restaurant, we spied a handful of lit jack-o-lanterns, and a few mobs of kids in costume going door-to-door. We also saw an older group of girls, one in particular dressed as a tarty barmaid and drinking an unknown substance enthusiastically from a glass. It was barely 50F and she was mostly bare.

"Look at that! She's got a drink in her hand!" I mused aloud. I'm still fascinated by the fact that public possession of alcohol is perfectly legal, for the most part.

"She would have needed a few drinks to wear that outfit," Chumley quipped.

True to their polite form, there was no aftermath to speak of around our parts. No smashed pumpkins or egged houses. In fact, Chumley reported that signs in the local shops said they would not be selling eggs or flour to children below a certain age in the leadup to Halloween. It looks like the worst aftermath was the massive inconvenience for those pint-sized bakers out there.

Confidential to mom from the sugar junkie: Would you be so kind as to send candy corn in the next shipment? I crave it, and it doesn't translate. Another dissapointing discovery: candy apples are covered in hard, boiled sugar like giant, organic lollipops. I miss the caramel ones. Speaking of caramel, I also wonder how many Weight Watchers points are in the king size 100 Grand bar? Too many to bother counting...

The Quest for Coziness

2009-10-30T12:55:00.000Z

People here are burying their nuts for winter, though it hasn't come close to freezing yet. I'm not really seeing the source of their anxiety, given that it's almost November and today's high will be 61F. But rest assured, they think doom looms from under the drafty door. How can I tell? I was walking though a shopping center yesterday and happened upon the most impressive display of decorative and functional hot water bottles I've ever seen. By my recollection, I last saw a hot water bottle sometime in the early '80s. There must have been at least 40 different varieties for the chronically chilly to choose from. My favorite are the faux fur sorts.

In case you think the Paris Hilton range is a bit too woofty (translated candy ass) and you need a manlier model, consider this edgy specimen, just in time for Halloween:

I'm not quite sure how most people use these. Do they snuggle up to their skull and crossbones at night? Are they especially handy to take the edge off that chilly car ride? Or are they just an excuse to carry a personal hot water supply for tea at all times? I've been assured that the level of complaints about the cold will steadily rise as the temperature drops.

Come on now, people. What ever happened to stiff upper lip and an extra jumper (sweater)? Or how about a nice lap cat? To give an example of how comparatively lovely the climate is, Chumley has just purchased a peach tree for my birthday, and the lady at the garden center assured me it would be absolutely fine in a clay pot over the winter. Seriously! It's practically Italy! Back in the American midwest, the only thing we could grow over winter in pots was an icicle.

I don't think I'll be able to convince the English of how good they have it. Even their hot water bottles get a bit chilly sometimes.

Pump it Up, But Don't Drink the Water

2009-10-27T15:49:00.000Z

This past weekend, Chumley and I were fortunate enough to be invited to a splendid wedding and reception in the town Cheltenham, which is a few hours east of us in the Cotswolds. It's a spa town with the last and best pump room of the Regency era. Think Jane Austen. But before I selected my empire gown, the first order of business was for me to learn how to pronounce our destination in a way that did not resemble an order at the butcher's counter. Chumley deftly filled the role of my elocution coach.

"CHHHHHHHHHHelt - num!" I would spout after several seconds of deep thought.

"No, no, you're attacking it," he would reply, trying to stifle the giggles inevitably elicited when those folksy Americans try pronouncing localities with no less than five silent letters. I just laugh at Welsh, by the way. "Try again."

Soon, I began saying CHELT-num as an impromptu curse word around the house. I couldn't seem to edit out the rage. After months of random CHELT-nums in the car, during dinner, and whispered at the movies, I got a "very good!" from Chumley and the feeling that I just might have it down.

I have now been to five English weddings, including my own. By no means am I expert, but I would consider myself a well-practiced observer. I associate English weddings with hats. I myself avoid hats as I just know they make my head look fat. On others, however, they can be quite slimming - especially when the size of the hat virtually dwarfs its wearer. I also enjoy donning a clean suit and going on fascinator watch. A fascinator is basically a small spaceship that has run into a bird of some sort on its way to earth, eventually touching down on a woman's head. They are appropriate for weddings and horse races. They do serve their intended purpose - I do find them fascinating, especially when several women are wearing them in close orbit. I would not be surprised to find crop circles at the salad bar. To be honest, as with a close alien encounter, they freak me out.

The reception was held at the Pittville Pump Rooms, a depressing sounding but truly magnificent venue built in 1825. For your reference, Jane Austen died in 1817, so the style of the architecture would have been similar to where they've filmed movie versions of many of her novels. Cheltenham was a spa town that grew fashionable after the locals noticed a flock of pidgeons that hung out at a particular spring-fed puddle seemed to live long and prosper. This was in the eighteenth century, so it couldn't have been the stray chip that sustains them today. People began to "take the waters," and ultimately, Mr. Pitt of Pittville fame built his Pump Room after George III visited in 1888 and really got the place hopping. Thanks to the building code equivalent of Botox, the Pump Room and the entire town are in a remarkable state of preservation.

Despite the opportunity to be authentic, I eschewed the empire waist gown concept but still remained on Mr. Darcy-watch. No lambchop sideburns, but a lovely roast beef dinner instead. English wedding cake is traditionally a fruit cake surrounded by a layer of marzipan and fondant icing, and I managed to breathe deeply and wedge a piece down. I was not so keen, however, to partake of the spa water, the Pump Room's raison d'etre, but a hideous surprise for those in the know.

Back in the days I was young and enthusiastic, I visited the Pump Room at Bath. I was bowled over by the Roman Spa, and my joy continued into the Pump Room dining area, where a dandy dressed in Regency garb taunted me with a glass of water drawn from the hot springs, full of "43 vitamins and minerals." At the bargain tourist rate of two pounds per glass (insert sardonic wit here) I was swept up by the fancy fish fountain dispenser and sudden thirst. I coughed up the money, but then choked on the water that tasted like a warm, rotten egg. I avoided a public spit take and, in fact, drained my glass out of spite. It was probably a good thing that I sat alone on the bus ride home. The fury and fumes would have been overwhelming.

The Pittville Pump Room still has its operational and recently refurbished pump house, or more simply hot water tap in an ornate marble closet. I was much too occupied with the delicious mulled wine being served instead, which was clearly kept well away from the spa water.

My lessons learned are that some wedding truths are universal. A drunk person will attempt to engage you in conversation. You may be trapped by a close talker. In fact, these people may be one in the same. Bad kids may run amuck, albeit breifly. Most importantly, there will be cake, Darcy or no Darcy.

Chew on This

2009-10-20T12:09:00.000+01:00

I was reading a local interest magazine when I learned that our city has been chosen as one of 15 local areas to take part in the Keep Britain Tidy Chewing Gum Action campaign. (For my non-UK readers, the word "tidy" gets used a lot in England. It is certainly a very desirable state of being, especially for Chumley.) To be clear, no one like sitting or stepping in gum. But one man's defacement is another man's art - the picture at right is considered a piece of "folk art" in Charleston, South Carolina. Yes, I can see a lot of tenderness and TMJ went into this work. The value of the Dubble Bubble used alone has to be $10 or so.

Someone must have alerted the local authorities I have arrived. It is not a rumor - I am indeed the 1981 Illinois State Fair Bubble Yum Bubble Gum bubble blowing champion. I was not yet six years of age at the time -- use the term "prodigy" if you must. I later expanded my oeuvre/carnie skills to blowing a bubble within a bubble within a bubble. Like the Olympics, once that feat was achieved, where else was there to go?

Thanks to training by my tidy mother, I have always thrown my gum away in bins (the trash), or swallowed it if desperate. I only once used it to deface property. I'm specifically recalling the ordeal around age 6 where I fell asleep with gum in my mouth. My mother woke me in the morning and discovered, much to her horror, a massive gob firmly embedded in my long, flowing hair that had also won the 1981 Illinois State Fair prize for longest ponytail in age group. Let my readers glean that gum chewing and hair growing are not necessarily good hobbies to pursue in tandem. After what I recall as a major flap involving moaning, hand-wringing, and the desperate but ineffectual use of peanut butter and ice cubes, she schlepped me over to my grandma's to see if the kid oracle might have the solution. Nope. I had a major hunk of hair missing for a few months, but I don't seem to recall minding. It didn't interfere with my gum chewing schedule.

Our local city is concerned with a number of "gum hot spots." The amount of gum in these areas will be measured and cleaned over the next three months. I pity the poor soul who gets that job assignment. Is his official title "Council Gobstopper?" Do they measure by ruler, or merely by volume of waddage? Lest you think I am joking, the official website is http://www.chewinggumactiongroup.org.uk/.

I believe I have a solution. My mother combined her love of cute arts and crafts and tidiness by buying me what is known as a gum parker. My first one had a little baseball mitt in glazed ceramic, dutifully displayed on my dresser. When full, the gob of gum saved looked like a colorful baseball in the mitt, or in my case a basketball. I tended to chew as much as my mouth could hold. I upgraded years later to the model below, which our moving man recently unearthed in our kitchenware. Isn't that where you would keep your gum parker? The man seemed stumped, but that could have been his expression for grossed out.

In sum, I think personal gum parkers are the answer. It would save quite a few man hours currently devoted to all this unauthorized parking.

To be fair, Chumley abhors my gum parker and everything it stands for. Nevermind him. And I thought he was all for recycling?

Instant Korma's Going to Get You

2009-10-19T09:40:00.000+01:00

Hello again, fair readers. After a regretable week's absence from the blog, I join you once more with a shiny, new Packard Bell and a renewed sense of computing reliability. Our new PC is black, which is appropriate considering we mourn our old Compaq. We have held the funeral, but have yet to dispose of the body. This whole situation has the trappings of Jacko's demise. We're not sure when the results of the post-mortem will be released. We remember the Compaq with both nostalgia for its brilliant moments (creating UK-sized passport photos out of our own flattering pictures) and bewilderment with its strange behavior in its last days. All it wanted to do was sleep. I don't believe any charges will be pressed against its incompetent medical staff, however.

As promised, I thought I would give my impressions of recently joined English Weight Watchers. I have no experience with American Weight Watchers, but of another "fat club" instead, so perhaps there are culturally significant differences to discuss.

My meeting is held in an old stately manor house converted to a Best Western Hotel. I had to mind my head on an original stone, gothic arch as I trekked to the meeting room. They had less to eat in those days, so perhaps the atmosphere is supportive from a historical point of view. I doubt there was a concept such as "low-fat" in the 17th century. Maybe they got activity points from lively games of croquet on the grounds, which are a sprawling 20 acres.

My entire reason for joining is to pound the brakes on steady weight gain accelleration (as aggravated by the foods discussed in prior postings). I haven't mentioned my unsettling hobby of finding very tasty ready meals (mostly Indian) in the marked-down bins at Tesco and hording them in the freezer for future Chumley-friendly dinners. Indeed, instant korma has gotten me up a few pounds. Enter gothic dieting.

My first meeting was a good experience, especially after I pinpointed the source a soft but steady crunching noise. I had heard the place had a ghost or two, but the meeting was not advertised as "scare your way thin." Everyone in the meeting was crunching bags of crisps and chips after they had weighed in. Our astute leader was selling them at a little kiosk in the back of the room, which could be viewed both as entrapment for the perennially hungry and a brilliant stroke of business acumen. I did wonder if this activity was a bit counterproductive. They were eating with gusto.

I am happy to report success so far, despite snarfing an entire box of diet chocolate covered toffee bars procured from the "crack shack" at last week's meeting. The entire box was 7 1/2 points, and I was trying to blend with the natives by partaking of their weight loss rituals. I have valid sociological reasons for such snarfing.

Post script confidential to J and ST: I lost 5 pounds despite eating the entire bag of Cheetos you sent. They were my lunch one day, and I have never been so happy to be covered in fake neon cheese powder. Wotsits here just aren't the same. I am forever in your debt.

I've Got a Nut on a String

2009-10-13T09:24:00.000+01:00

I should have known something was brewing. The usually mild Chumley had made a habit out of scouring the grounds under horse chestnut trees lately, looking for conkers (buckeyes in American.) Like a large child, he would silently sidle up to me and hand me a conker, smile wryly, and then carry on his business. "But we have nuts at home," I protested. "No, you're here with me at the moment," he would reply. I was thoroughly confused. Did he want me to put it in my purse? Was it mine, or was I merely the custodian? Were we to keep these as offerings to the mystical killer squirrels that might cross our path later?

All was made clear when we attended the World Conker Championships in a miniscule village called Ashton last weekend. It was held in a large field, and the first thing we saw upon arrival was a massive conker on a string, suspended from a crane. Conkers is actually a game, where the participants select nuts that have been drilled and strung through out of a nutbag. The object of the game is to take turns wailing on your opponent's stationary nut on a string. The first person to crack the other person's nut wins.

Conkers fans are not a subdued bunch, by any means. It's common to coalesce conker talent into teams, and to dress your team members in the most unusual costumes possible. One team came as the many looks of Michael Jackson. I watched Michael from the "Bad" album go to town on some poor kid in neon yellow leggings. Despite the chilly autumn weather, I spied one team of men in thin capes and stripey Speedo underwear. As the competition wore on, their nuts were devastated.

In this safety-first country, I am sometimes surprised at what passes for a good idea. They had a miniature mechanical bull meant for children to be flung from. A succession of children lined up for the privilege, only to be tossed off and reduced to tears afterwards. Had they not just seen the precedent set by their fellow youth? Luckily, they were located very nearby the hot chocolate booth. One sugary drink and a trip to the bouncy castle later, they were back in the saddle.

We have a small collection of conkers on our dining room table, thanks to Chumley's trolling efforts. We might have enough to launch our own miniature tournament. If you ask Chumley, there's no need to adjudicate who is the nuttiest.

English Culinary Haiku

2009-10-07T16:23:00.000+01:00

Just to ensure my fair readers don't tire of nonstop narrative, I've decided to branch out with a few little creative works I can use during the performance art segment of my first Weight Watcher's meeting on Thursday. (Don't they have a performance art segment? I can see the downsides: most artists in this school would pick baking as their chosen medium.) I digress.

Diet shot to hell
Granary bread is toasting
Toffee's just like crack

or

Custard on the hob
Feeling like a giant blob
Gym clothes way too tight

That's it. I'm afraid the gravy train of good living has crashed, and I've got to climb back on the first wagon I find, to mix transportation metaphors. I've been to a weight loss group (I called it "Fat Club") back in the States, so I'm interested to see how the vibe is different. My last experience was high in entertainment value: stories of slip-ups on sliders at Burger King, confessions of emotional baking, and laments about how lardy one felt after consuming an entire pound of grapes. (OK, that last one was me, and grapes were on the program.)

I'll keep you posted. Until then, I'm looking for a word that rhymes with "shortcrust pastry."

When One Door Closes, a Flesh Wound Opens

2009-10-06T16:38:00.000+01:00

It was late at night and all I wanted was to go to sleep as quickly as possible. I didn't bother to turn on another set of lights after flicking the kitchen light off. After a sufficient amount of time, I knew how to navigate in the dark down a hallway to get to the bedroom. Or so I thought. The sound my lethargic body made colliding with an unexpected closed door was a cringe-inducing thud, followed by some expletive I couldn't catch on its way out.

Chumley was at it again.

For those of you who might ever live in an English house, let me substitute my pain for yours by filling you in on a quirky yet important factoid. English houses have many doors, and their inhabitants aren't afraid to use them.

I'll explain. This little domestic issue between us started back in the States, when we got married and I moved to his 1920's era house, complete with a few more doors than most American homes had. There, the doors were nice and hollow, so they made a cheery ball-cracking-a-baseball-bat sound when my forehead hit them in the middle of the night. He explained that English homes have radiators, and it's helpful to close doors to keep the heat in. I reminded him that his American house had a furnace and forced-air heat, so no door closures were necessary. I inspected the toes on my right foot for broken bones and forgot the matter...

Until last night. English homes have doors that separate every major room, as well as hallways. Yes, I think closing them makes a difference when the radiators are on, but not enough to risk being body-checked at 1:30 am when I get up and forget Chumley has been on rounds. I'm sure he would appreciate an advent calendar with all the doors permanently closed. I reported my injuries to his complaint desk, but it was closed, too.

Tatoo, Too Much

2009-10-05T12:31:00.000+01:00

There I was, fiddling with my floatie belt in a somewhat geriatric-populated water aerobics class when I spied a large, dark pink splotch on the shoulder blade of a woman who had acquired a certain patina, shall we say. She looked 70 if she was a day, so I pitied the poor soul, who had probably undergone an unpleasant laser treatment or skin biopsy for an affliction ending in "oma." The instructor called out to paddle into a circle formation during the last minute of "Disco Inferno," and I found myself bobbing behind the "oma." Imagine my surprise to find that upon closer scrutiny, her affliction was a recently inked pink elephant that took up far too much real estate on her left shoulder blade. I looked away, but not in time. She sloshed on and splashed me in the face with her floaty water dumbell. At least I was blinded and spared from further visual assault.

I cannot help but notice the prevalence and social acceptance of tatoos in the UK. They don't carry nearly the stigma of the docks as they do in the U.S. My gentle readers by now can figure out by now that of the two schools of thought on tatoos, I am firmly enrolled in Anti Tramp Stamp U. Not only are they permanent signs of a temporary fancy, but what sounds like a fine idea in youth after a few drinks in time turns into a shapeless blob. I mean the tatoo, not its wearer. I met a gentleman just yesterday who looked perilously close to retirement, but the tatoos all up and down his forearms should have retired years ago. One blob looked like a ladies handbag. Could he have foreseen or wanted that effect? There is probably a course in psychological training where one can interpret deep issues by staring into amoebic tatoos on pensioners.

I knew a girl in college who was particularly proud of a small Kermit the Frog she had gotten tatooed just above her hip bone. Aside from the subject matter, it was at least in a place not visible, and small. Women with tatoos that I've personally observed seem obsessed with showing the world their poor judgement. A girl pouring drinks at a pub turned to get a bottle as I noticed she had prominently displayed bat wings tatooed on her back. Aren't there easier and cheaper ways to look like Satan's minions?

In sum, down with tramp stamps, regardless of your nationality. If this is the land of the tea cozy, why can't some gran knit a tatoo cozy? I know it won't be the lady sporting the pink elephant.

Lizzie, Get Your Gun

2009-10-01T15:17:00.001+01:00

As the days turn a bit colder, or "fresher" as the BBC weatherpeople like to say, so begins my first experience with radiators and Cox's Orange Pippin. I'm afraid the former came with our house, but we purchased a small Mercedes full of these fine apples at Sandringham, the royal family's Christmas hangout and modest hunting lodge.

Perhaps I should just come clean with all of my dear readers right away: I am a fruit fiend with no desire to seek therapy. While others may have ventured to Sandringham for the lovely gardens or opportunity to tour yet another royal residence, my main purpose in making the trek was to load my vehicle with as many pippins from the Royal Orchards as it could hold. If my aunt once filled a Buick with shoes when moving house, surely a few hundred apples through the back hatch would be a Victoria sponge cakewalk. It would not do to confess this mission to Chumley right away, as he would have perceived it as a terrorist plot and labeled me as crazier than I already am, if that's even possible.

Under the guise of me as a mild-mannered foreign tourist, we embarked. First things first, though. I was at the wheel when I saw the signs for royal pick your own. (Do the royals pick their own?) After leaving a small dust cloud as I aggressively turned off the main road, I ambled down the sandy lane surrounded by woods, following the "PYO" signs like a fox, and feeling the adrenaline rush at the prospect of so much fruit in one place. To my utter devastation, the orchards were closed until 1 p.m., and it was only 11:30. I felt like Clark W. Griswald marooned at Wallyworld. After throttling the steering wheel in disappointed rage, I suppose we had to take the house tour until the loading dock opened. Based on his alarmed reaction, I think Chumley was starting to catch on.

Sandringham the house is not an overly large royal home -- a mere drop in the fountain compared to Buckingham Palace. A large array of Asian armor and various pointy metal objects were artfully splayed across many walls, and Chumley noticed that he did not find the deadly objects to be particularly well secured. Motivated once more by our fear of Interpol, we decided this theory was best left untested.

We arrived in a room devoted to the display of many guns under glass, as well as artistic renderings of the Queen holding up a pheasant she'd recently shot. Her expression was particularly happy, much happier than the group shots of her and the house's staff from 1979. Granted, if I were wearing that much polyester, I'd find it hard to smile, too.

The culumnation of the house's sporty theme was in a separate museum, which devoted a wing to the exotic game trophies of kings past. I couldn't help but look into the glass eyes of various mounted stuffed heads and wonder if they were on remote controls for use around Haloween. Some of the lions were stuffed in particularly rageful poses, which I recognized from my experience earlier that day at the empty orchard car park.

We found an obliging garden shop with pre-bagged orchard apples, and I whimpered enough to get Chumley to buy me the economy bag plus one for good measure. Of course, I was expected to keep up my end of the bargain, and in thanksgiving, promptly baked a blackberry and apple crumble, with a smattering of custard. As I've decided to be truthful, I might as well confess that I'm not making crumble at all, but the more American apple crisp topping with oatmeal instead of breadcrumbs. An American friend commented to me, and rightly so, that all the pub crumbles she's tried have been rather dry. I can't help but agree, as I got the urge to dig through one memorable specimen with a garden spade instead of my dessert spoon. When concealed with the magical condiment of Ambrosia low-fat Devon custard, my ruse is complete.

So far, this conspiracy has remained undetected.

More Turns of Phrase? My Wheels Are Grinding.

2009-09-30T12:31:00.000+01:00

Part of living in a country that developed the language you speak is discovering the origins of words you only thought you knew. Take, for instance, windfall. I always knew the term to mean an unexpected bout of good luck. I happened to be watching a show on Victorian farming (yes, I was that bored) when the lads remarked that cider making that year would be productive thanks to a great windfall. I consulted my friend Merriam-Webster, the controversial American dictionary that is not Oxford, and was surprised at what I found:

wind·fall

Pronunciation: \ˈwin(d)-ˌfȯl\
Function: noun
Date: 15th century
1 : something (as a tree or fruit) blown down by the wind
2 : an unexpected, unearned, or sudden gain or advantage

Just when I thought I did speak English, I am constantly stumbling upon more unknown words. I remember having this feeling in first year Spanish when Senorita Sponsler got after a dullard who kept calling his hand (mano) his monkey (mono). As most amateur linguists are want to do, I am on a quest for meaning. I can occasionaly connect the dots, but I found a few terms that don't play well, despite their similarities.

Exhibit 1:

This is a scrum. It is a formation in rugby, so Chumley tells me, although I cannot claim I have ever watched a match for more than thirty seconds intentionally. I remember it this way: scrums display bums.

Exhibit 2:

This is scrumpy. It is a type of hard cider, perhaps made from a windfall, that has a particularly high alcohol content. Scaled down versions are available in pubs, but the real thing will leave you legless (so I am told.) If we're trying to connect the mental dots here so far, perhaps people willing to get in the scrum must have ingested a large amount of scrumpy. So far, so good, except the following problem.

Exhibit 3:

The above cupcakes could be described as "scrummy." Do you hear the linguistic needle scratch the record in your head? My first guess at the meaning of "scrummy" would have been "of or like the rugby scrum; displaying a predisposition to mob action in a rugby-like manner." But no. Scrummy apparently is a truncated form of "scrumptious" and "yummy," and is commonly used to describe food and men. My research for this paragraph led to a quick Google of "scrummy", which linked to a "UK's Scrummiest Torso" contest. I swatted the pop-up windows that link provoked. See how I suffer for my readers?

And this leads me to the end result of my mental wheels grinding:

The Palacette of Westminster

2009-09-29T10:24:00.000+01:00

Please excuse the absence of my usual Monday through Friday posting schedule, dear readers, as Chumley and I have been experiencing considerable computer issues. My time has been spent resolving them, airing out the study from the profanity cloud I have created overhead, and taking a good dose of yoga to zen-ify my technology rage. As our friendly Compaq has decided to cooperate today, I rejoin my regular posting schedule.

Our stalwart tour group had tickets to tour the Houses of Parliament, alternately refered to as the Palace of Westminster. Or Palacette, as I deemed it. We got into the chambers of Lords and Commons, only to find them surprisingly small. Parliament the building is quite large, but if making law is like making sausage, I expected the butcher shop to be bigger. The shop is only open until October when the butchers come back.

Westminster was indeed a palace until it was converted to use by Parliament, partially burned, rebuilt, and finally took the form we see it in today. Our tour guide was a Blue Badge professional guide (very chatty and informative), and warned us that straying off the path might not only result in a profound loss of direction and his dismissal, but a stint in the pokey as we were swarmed by many formerly friendly Metropolitan Police.

Parliament offers one of the worst taunts of any tourist attraction I have encountered thus far, worse than the cold beverages for princely sums in the Sahara. Most tourists have trekked many miles in their sensible (or in my case, somewhat unsensible) shoes, especially in large cities. We were escorted into the House of Lords and filed into the rows of seats, but told in no uncertain terms that we were not to sit in the red leather-covered, overstuffed benches as they were strictly the domain of the Lords. And, by the way, they were made by the same company who does the car interiors for Bentley. They might as well have been giant chocolate brownies attached to fishooks, so overwhelming was the urge to risk arrest and permanent bolshie-branding by diving onto the buttery leather and letting them pry me out with the speaker's gilded staff. I knew for a fact that Chumley did not carry sufficient cash to bond me out, so I grumbled to myself and convinced myself that the MPs (Members of Parliament) had probably booby trapped the place with giant tacks, one for each Lord. The House of Commons wasn't much better - same moratorium, different colored leather. The oldsters who carried a cane that doubled as a stool were looking pretty intelligent, after all.

So far as historical interest, the tour was very informative. Our guide explained the system of voting, which is strangely bizzare, but presumably effective. Instead of having a desk with a button to push, all the "nays" congregate in one hall, while the "yeas" congregate in another. They each single-file past a person taking tally, and in the meantime, have a chance to mingle and catch up on old times or new laws. It's the cocktail party approach, I suppose. Besides, god knows the cost of wiring such an old building with even more electronics. There isn't room for any desks at all. It's so small, in fact, one might get stuck sitting next to one's arch enemy if running a bit behind for debates that day, as there are no assigned seats. Knowing what little I do of English politics, the icy glances would set the thermostat back a few degrees. Yowzaa.

Parliament is an excellent tour, but I could have done without the frisking as I went through security. I suppose they're still a bit uptight about Guy Fawkes and the Gunpowder Plot. Residents of Great Britain can apply to their MP for tickets to tour Big Ben, which also sounds like a hoot, although it may be a throwback to the cardio workout on my tour of the Peterborough Cathedral Tower. My mistake this time was wearing potato shoes with limited support. Note to self: I must acquire a purse-sized, fold-up pintglass and a weary tourist stool, preferably purse-sized as well. Should any reader know how to procure the later, please get in touch.

Enchilada Envy

2009-09-23T19:43:00.001+01:00

What does Mexican food have to do with our visit to London?, you may ask, and rightly so. Were the above enchiladas just edible speed bumps on our way to the Houses of Parliament? Exactly. We had a very good meal at the Embassy of Texas Cantina, just off Trafalgar Square. I mention it because once in a while, one of the questions I get from the locals is, "What do you miss about the U.S. the most?" (Only one person has asked me if I own a gun.) That's a hard one to prioritize, but the decent Mexican food is right up there. I'd been craving it since our departure, so until I break down and refry my own beans in desperation, a fix of Tex-Mex here will last me a right long while. Darn tootin'.

Americans who love Mexican are in the precise category of English who love Indian. An introduced cuisine caught on among the masses. Just as there are some really excellent Indian restaurants in England, it's not hard to find good Mexican in America. In fact, some of the spices are the same. Corriander leaves that factor into a number of Indian entrees are the same as cilantro, which is a prime ingredient in any salsa worth its salt.

Chumley went through Indian cravings in the States, and often, what we found just didn't measure up. We were at a restaurant in York that claimed to specialize in Mexican, and my dinner was loaded with "salsa" that was so spicy it was inedible, and frankly tasted like bolonese sauce. It was just wrong. I finally understand the complaint desk mentality our English friends assumed when criticizing Indian food in America. Some was good, some wasn't. We won't mention that little episode where we read in the newspaper that one particular restaurant couldn't pass repeated health inspections due to, among other alarming infractions, both dead and live cockroaches in the kitchen. At least the bugs were fresh.

I couldn't leave without washing dinner down with a lovely margarita. For those unfamiliar with the recipe, it's lime juice, tequila, and sometimes triple sec, which can be supplemented with further fruit flavors any number of ways. "Make mine a peach," I told our waitress, while Chumley nodded with understanding. He has finally come to terms with the fact that I never miss an opportunity to make a beverage even fruitier. Chumley's house margarita wasn't bad either, based on the slurping sounds.

The restaurant's refried beans were passable, just like pond water tastes good to the deathly thirsty, but the purist in me would have preferred them without the flavor of liquid smoke. Liquid smoke is a most vile American condiment that should only be used by the likes of Homer Simpson. In case you're wondering, refried beans are either oil or lard (insert fear and fat loathing here), with pinto beans gradually added in and mashed while being cooked. Add copious salt, and you have your choice of a delightful side dish or some emergency wall repair. I have a feeling that the pictured beans were made with lard. When I see them, I feel my vena cava tremble in fear.

Perhaps it is a good thing that my access to lard-based side dishes has been curtailed. However, I seem to have replaced one drug with another: custard. My new mantra: it's been three days since my last low-fat Ambrosia Devon custard...

Buck House and Surrounds

2009-09-22T17:50:00.000+01:00

Time was slipping away for Chumley and me to see the State Rooms of Buckingham Palace this season, as the Queen will return after it closes to visitors at the end of September. Or, more correctly, once the rif raf can't show up on the doorstep anymore. We ordered tickets and took the train to London for the day, which turned out to be unusually warm for September here. We had an interesting conversation while waiting to get in. If someone visited your house, would it be tacky to charge them 16 pounds a head for the privilege? Would your guests feel remiss that the only thing they had to offer you was their cash? But most of all, would you miss not being the one to open the door?

The answer to all these questions is a resounding no. We didn't even spy a corgie, but Buckingham Palace is filled with some really nice stuff, as one might imagine. George III, of American Revolution fame, bought a much smaller version of the house in 1761, just so his family would have a comfortable place to pitch their tent's near the center of London. Today, there are 775 rooms, 78 of which are bathrooms. Oddly enough, there is no public toilet on the tour. They've built a temporary one out on the back gardens for the great unwashed to use. In fact, the gift shop and cafe are all mobile, and come down promptly at the beginning of October.

The tour came with a "free" audio component, which worked quite well to make the hordes of people relatively quiet and cooperative. At the moment, there is a special exhibition on the Queen's 50-year reign, with many of her special occasion wear on display. She is a diminuitive sort, but in her day, was fairly stylish. Her waist was tiny. She clearly wasn't eating the jam scones she now peddles in the cafe, which Chumley said were delicious, incidentally. The art wasn't bad either, nor the jewelry. So, there's a little something for everyone.

Most amazingly, we were in the palace for at least 2 1/2 hours and only saw such a small fraction. The swimming pool and the cinema were not on the tour, unfortunately. For all sorts of fun facts, follow this link.

I'll continue our adventures in tomorrow's post. Right now, it looks like I have to go break up a wood pidgeon fight at our birdbath. Only in England...

Technical Difficulty.... Please Stand By

2009-09-21T17:14:00.000+01:00

Although it won't scoot today's post to the top, click on "Flag Fen: They Dug It" in the listing at left for today's installment.

The Case for Potato Shoes

2009-09-18T12:14:00.007+01:00

Are English soles really tottering on the brink of destruction? The state of British women's footwear is making the news here lately: http://timesonline.typepad.com/alphamummy/2009/09/banning-high-heels-is-laughable.html

In essence, a trade organization suggested women's high heels as part of mandated corporate uniforms be banned due to the fiascos they cause among feet. I could have predicted this sentiment would have gone over like a pair of velcro-fastened Soft Spots.

Fashionable footwear is a must among some sets in England, while "comfortable shoes" carry the day amongst older pedestrians. Lucky for me, I am firmly in the camp of potato shoes due to an old foot injury, incurred while wearing Dr. Scholl's heels, no less! A friend of mine criticized my shoe wardrobe as resembling a group of root vegetables, and still occasionally reminds me of the pitfalls of potato shoes. Her worries are in vain, though. I've gone to Clarks, Ecco, and New Balance, and I won't be turning back. My feet stick out as well as my accent, but my bunions aren't burning. And my permanently bipartite sesamoid bone thanks me daily.

Chumly, by my count, owns almost as many pairs of shoes as I do. I attribute this to his youthful vocation as a shoe shop clerk, working as a shoe dog for a man named Mr. Cheeseman. Not only has his love of cheese followed him into adulthood, but he does seem to amass footwear. He's quite handy to take shoe shopping, in fact - he's fully capable of suggesting sizing and fit, just like back in his salad days. As prior readers may have gathered, Chumly is terribly helpful, if not sarcastic. I suppose I shouldn't chuck stones in the little glass house I live in, however.

I get the impression that dealing with British women in search of fashionable footwear wasn't among his favorite passtimes. A window shop in the women't fashion section reveals many, many va-voom offerings in purple patent, and an abundance of ankle boots with spikey heels. England is a very pedestrianized country, and I've marveled at the young women out for a drink on city streets lined with cobbles, precariously teetering on 3 plus inch heels and in skirts that look more like extremely abbreviated sausage casings. In fact, we were out one evening, switching watering venues in a medieval town, when a Brit male suddenly checked that all the ladies had on footwear that would make the journey. How considerate. But, no worries. There I was in my Born mary janes. Hello, tater tots. I thought this country liked potatoes. Just not in their footwear.

Chocolate Wars: Hershey's v. Cadbury's

2009-09-17T16:59:00.008+01:00

When it comes to chocolate, Chumley has never minced words. His years in the States were a chocolate famine, full of inferior, lecithin-laden excuses for the real thing. Not to say this would stop him from consuming the occasional Twix. But it just wasn't the same.

This cultural chocolate divide became clear when he'd get an occasional Hershey's miniature in a goodie bag from some road race. Untrue to form, he'd turn up his nose. "What's wrong with Hershey's?" I asked naively, wondering how anyone could impune the one and only chocolate I had much experience with. "It tastes like earwax," he replied matter-of-factly. "Earwax!" I was horrified. I had accidentally licked the end of a used Q-tip (cotton bud) once, and I knew first hand Hershey's and earwax did not share a common chemical structure. I chalked up his contrariness to his love of being contrary, but he didn't cave one bit in future chocolate conversations. "Earwax!" he proclaimed, shoving any pure Hershey's chocolate product toward me. I was not altogether upset by this arrangement. The only acceptable source of affordable chocolate was Cadbury. Cadbury or bust.

Bearing this in mind, I raided a sale bin at the local grocery that happened to have Cadbury on sale and proudly presented him with a Dairy Milk. He didn't gush like I expected him to. He didn't throw his arms around me and pronounce me his chocolate savior. Instead, he flipped over the Dairy Milk label and pointed to the fine print. "It's made by Hershey's, you know." Or, did he mean Satan? "It still has earwax overtones." I was crushed. I got a paltry pat on the head, but he did manage to consume half the bar himself.

Was it possible that my chocolate-tasting palate was just that remarkably unrefined?

In the days when a Costco World Market lurked near our U.S. base, Chumley would light up with excitement. They carried an array of imported Cadbury favorites. "Curly-Wurly!" he'd exclaim. "Double Decker! Mmmmm..." he'd chant softly, tossing a few into our basket.

It was a sad day when our World Market packed it in, but I thought I had an answer. A small Indian grocery had set up shop down the street. They sold Cadbury's Dairy Milk and its relatives. We were in business. I bought him a sample and yet again, presented it with pride. When I revealed where it had been purchased, his heart sunk. I got nervous. He flipped over the wrapper and tut-tutted knowingly. "What?" I asked. "This was made in New Delhi," he said as he pointed to the wrapper. "It tastes a bit like..." "Earwax?" I guessed.

Now that we live in England, happiness in the chocolate department is restored. There is a mind boggling array of chocolate bars that I've never tried or heard of before, which can be great fun getting to know. There is a difference in the amount of emulsifier in Hershey's chocolate versus British-made Cadbury's. Hershey's is the brand Americans grow up on. To turn a blind tastebud feels traitor-esque. It's why people from Scotland cling to their haggis, I suppose, but I won't be eating anything out of a sheep's stomach unless there's a handgun firmly lodged against my temple. How American.

Lifetime Learning in Cambridge

2009-09-15T15:46:00.006+01:00

Chumley and I took a jaunt to Cambridge, not terribly far from us given that we live in Cambridgeshire. Unlike the universities I'm used to, Cambridge is an association of 31 different colleges, of which King's College is pictured at left. It took its name from a bridge over the River Cam, which existed in 875. By 1200, there was an established scholar's hangout made up of brainy sorts who found the townsfolk in Oxford to be a little too hostile for their tastes.

Some things never change. Right from the start, Cambridge had problems with young students making a ruckus and disturbing the locals. There were also landlords who extorted unfair prices for food and housing from students that were at their mercy. This seems like the medieval equivalent of pledging a fraternity mixed with some slumlord action.

Flags posted all over the city celebrate the 800th anniversary of Cambridge this year. I wonder who would come to party down with the class of 1209? I didn't see a class picture chiseled into any of the buildings' walls. Maybe they'd be lured back with the promise that the Troubadours were getting back together for a one-night-only concert with some funky circle dancing.

Cambridge is full of tourists, but not to the point of overflowing. A good number of the young people we saw were certainly students, doing some shopping in the high-end stores within the city center. One thinks that only the children of the wealthy can afford to attend, but tuition and fees appear to be around $16,000 per year if they can get in. That is a large if. Getting in appears to be a bit of a longshot, and there's always been debate about whether it's helpful to admission to come from a prosperous background.

Aside from who is populating the streets, Cambridge is full of lovely, ancient buildings. It's possible to pop into a college, most of which are built around a central courtyard. Dining and living quarters exist within, as well as each college's porter. I wish I had someone to help me with my luggage when I moved into college. The city surfaces are typically university - full of notices on plays, concerts, protests, etc.

You are much loathed in the center of Cambridge if you happen to bring your car. It's a very bicycle-y city, and with medieval, winding streets, cars are a nightmare. We were wise, I think, and ditched ours at a car park that also served the YMCA (and as an outdoor urinal for the village people, by the smell of things.) Some of the colleges have signs posted that bike parking is for fellows only. It must be one of the perks of tenure.

The way Cambridge teaches includes small sessions of three to four people studying under the supervision of their director, in addition to attending lectures. I'm finally starting to grasp the concept of having a "college tutor." This is especially helpful to me, as Sting has multiple references to college tutors in his lyrics.

I wonder if one can do postgraduate work on the lyrical interpretations of Sting? I suspect the postgraduation job prospects are somewhat subpar.

Registration Plate Cryptology

2009-09-14T16:37:00.006+01:00

As I write this entry, the car registration plate you see is being auctioned. There are 18 hours left, and currently, the bid sits at 7,996 pounds. Yes, you read that correctly. That would be close to $13,000 U.S. Has the world spun off its axis?

When it comes to what Americans would call "vanity plates," yes. I'll share with you, dear readers, a little of the vehicular education I've gained since becoming a car owner in England. All cars are assigned plates. They belong to the car, not to the owner, so when you sell the car, you sell the plate with it. It is possible to transfer registrations between cars, and here's where a huge industry has crept in and set up shop.

There are multiple conventions for understanding the information printed on English registration plates, which are far too similar to the Enigma to explain here. Besides, I lack the codebreaking equipment (testosterone.) The government assigns a plate a car. If you are the lucky owner of a "valuable" registration, you may want to resell it in a very established auction marketplace. There are government auctions of good vanity plate combinations, and private dealers. This little gem is currently on offer for 500 pounds:

What rich nerd is interested in "logbook"? I have one thing to say - what about the starving kids in China? They are big business, despite how frivolous I find them.

I can live with all the vanity plates in the US, at least in my home state, as they cost the same no matter what they say. There's a push for more fundraising charitable plates, which don't bother me one bit.I didn't get terribly worked up over this phenomena until driving home today, when I saw this plate, blinked hard, and read it again. I have noticed that England is generally unafraid of overt sexuality, but I feel like I have the right to click together my little Puritan shoes on this one. I can't get a picture of it because some wealthy but perverse little so and so actually bought it, but it said the following:

MA57 UBT

Really. How precious. My dad used to laugh that he tried to register a hearse he owned as a teenager under the plate "STIFF", but the powers that be turned him down once they took note of what kind of car it would belong to. (I've never asked my dad why he was a teenage used-hearse driver. Perhaps I ought to.) In essence, Driver and Vehicle Licensing Agency, might it be a good idea to check the switch here? Back home, prisoners used to make our license plates. I think making and selling this little combo is criminal, too.

Chumley in Translation

2009-09-11T14:19:00.004+01:00

A major source of entertainment between my husband and I is English vocabulary. To be more specific, I mean British English vocabulary. As one quickly learns upon arrival, the local Brits don't think you know how to speak English. In sharp contrast, you speak American. The difference between the two can be extreme, if not extremely funny.

One of my favorites was a few years ago, when I asked Chumley how his day had gone. "It's all gone pear-shaped, Claire!" was the reply. My imagination took over as usual, and I pictured all the people at his work suddenly leaving their desks and rushing to one side of the building, so more people were in one portion compared to the other. After expressing my inability to understand with my usual "Huh??", Chumley sighed and explained that if something goes pear-shaped, that means it's gone horribly wrong. That discounted my second imagined meaning, where all his co-workers were suddenly very hippy.

Delving deeper into British vocabulary, we come to the interesting but fairly derogatory term "chav." I've met some chavs walking in the city center (saying "downtown" will get you laughed at and labeled as that charmingly stupid American). A chav is shorthand for a young, ill-regarded member of the underclass, generally wearing designer knock-offs and sporting car hood ornaments as jewelry. Add some bling and presto. I've read the term is derrived from Council House And Vauxhall, which is a reference to where they live (public housing) and the cars they're likely to drive (Vauxhall Nova, the same as the Chevy Nova).

Now that you may rest easy this evening, knowing you've expanded your vocabulary, let me add a word chavs are likely to use, "innit." Innit is a slang shortened form of "isn't it", but has grown into use far beyond its original meaning. With thanks to Urban Dictionary, here's how you would typically hear it used:

So me was out with me boys, innit, and we was going to get some beers, innit,
when this guy, yeah, like comes up to us, yeah, innit, and he was like Gimme
some change, we was like, innit.

The best backfire of innit I've read lately was of the teenage girl who used Cockney rhyming slang to order a taxi for a trip to the airport the next morning. She dialed directory assistance, but when the operator didn't understand that "Joe Baxi" meant "taxi," the girl said, "It's a cab, innit?" The operator transfered her to the number she needed, and the girl told the person who answered, "All I want is your cheapest cab, innit." She paid 180 pounds by credit card, and discovered a lovely office cabinet arrived at her South London home before 10 the next morning.

I've heard Chumley use the term only to get me to laugh. I returned the favor with this joke I read:

What do you call a chav in a coffin?
Innit.

What do you call an eskimo chav in a coffin?
Inuitinnit.

I've been under Chumley's British English tutelage since we've met, but being in-country brings out an entirely new level of vocabulary. Chumley announced yesterday that he expected a fair amount of "bun tossing" at an event he was due to attend. "Bun tossing?" I asked, wondering if it was related to some sort of lewd Sumo wrestling event. It's a term meaning a weenie fight, common to public (private in American) schoolboys. It's probably conducted by the same people who are prone to "toss the rattle from the pram."

Oh, my head spins. Waah!

Craving Junk Mail

2009-09-10T13:04:00.005+01:00

I never thought I'd say this, but I would kill for a credit card application. Or a magazine offer. Perhaps even a come-on for new windows? In the last two weeks, I think we've had mail delivered twice. Why, one asks? It's a stupid postal strike in action.

Our news has reported that more than a half million pieces of undelivered mail are sitting in our town, with 20 million waiting in London, a million in Bristol, and 250,000 in Leeds. I hate to get on my high American horse, but how is this allowed to happen? They were privatized years ago, that's how. Royal Mail is apparently cutting jobs, hours, and overtime, and the Communication Workers Union isn't going to take it anymore. Or take any more deliveries, for that matter.

Meanwhile, there have been stories on the news about people whose birthdays have been absolutely ruined for lack of a single, stinking birthday card. Our neighbor has a new grandchild whose been left out in the cold with not one congratulations card received. Granted, these are lightweight worries, but imagine the number of people waiting to hear on jobs or benefits. Worse yet, people might be expecting checks and out money. I've been waiting on my Tesco Club Card for more than a month now. My patience is puny and my temporary paper card is pulverized. Oh, the humanity.

I think the sniping is ill-timed considering the number of people who've plain lost their job. A friend of ours works for Royal Mail on a wonderful scheme where she merely has to work a couple weeks a year in order to retain all her seniority and benefits while she and her husband moved to the States. Don't forget that England is the land of at least a month's paid holiday, as well. My sympathy stores are on empty, I'm afraid. Maybe the bolshie American colonials have this one right:

Neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night stays these couriers from the swift completion of their appointed rounds.

Nor industrial dustups, I might add.

Messages From Nun

2009-09-09T17:32:00.004+01:00

I am constantly amazed at the speed of mobile phone texters in this country. Granted, the technology seemed to catch on much quicker here, and people were texting like mad back in 2001, the date of my last extended visit. I'm sure casualty ward visits are populated by the occasional repetitive stress injury or swollen thumb from the chatty person who hasn't said a word. I imitated the locals using two thumbs to Chumley, who quickly corrected me. "We only use one thumb. Anything more is amateur." When I go into a coffee shop or in any public area, the definitive "beep-beep" of a recently received text message is as common as hearing a sneeze. Less infectious perhaps. Or is it?

I was most surprised that my mother-in-law has a firm grip on her mobile phone, and is not afraid to use it. I contrast this to my mother, who is afraid of the spooky, glowing box called a computer that my father insisted on having. Asking her to send a text message would be like asking a pigeon to operate a telegraph. There would be some serious hunting and pecking, and more than a few feathers would get ruffled.

Text messages from my mother-in-law to her children have become almost legendary for their profound misuse of predictive text, that time-saving little system that guesses what you mean via a process of linguistic elimination. Now that I own a European phone, my Nokia asks what language I would like to predictive text in. I imagine that should I chose Finnish for variety, it will assume all my friends are named Bjorn and we're going out for elk frequently.

The example of Chumley's mum as a mobile menace that made me laugh hardest was an episode where Chumley and I were arriving in the UK from the States for a 10-day stay, complete with a stint as wedding guests. I had packed all foreseeable necessities in my luggage, and put it in the oh-so-capable hands of Air India. (This flight could be the subject of another post, just to do it justice.) As the cases wheeled by at Heathrow, and each one circulating on the claim bore no resemblance to mine, my spirits dipped lower and lower until I accepted the truth: I would have to leave Heathrow with only the underwear I had on my person. I held it together until we set off in our rental car. As the airport faded in the distance, I was unconsolable in a quiet funk. Chumley's phone beeped, and I mustered to strength to look at the screen.

"We'll be back soon. Pain arriving from the west. Love, Nun"

Too true, Nun. Chumley was used to receiving messages through the ether from someone called Nun, but it broke my melancholy for a while, at least. The good news was that I had my suitcase back the next day, and my shoes have visited Mumbai.

Flag Fen... They Dug It

2009-09-09T17:25:00.006+01:00

My in-laws and I were in search of a "culture segment" during their recent visit, so we decided to descend upon a place called Flag Fen. The Fens are flat stretches of formerly boggy land that extend through multiple counties in the East, including Cambridgeshire. Flag refers to the flag iris, which is a wetland plant native to the area. The good news is that the fens have been drained and converted to extremely fertile farmland. Good thing, too, as I wasn't up for donning rental hip waders.

Flag Fen is an archeological site that's been dated to the Bronze Age, which makes it 3500 years old, give or take a few. Our tour guide was a pleasant older gentleman, who conveyed the underlying message that while there were Celtic people there that long ago, there are a lot of unknowns because no one was taking notes, unlike those wordy Egyptians. Flag Fen was stumbled upon after World War II, when the city began excavations for a power plant. Put simply, they literally unearthed a giant wooden platform the size of Wembley Stadium, supported by 60,000 upright timbers that had been sunk into the peaty, watery fen for thousands of years, and as a result, perfectly preserved from evil oxygen that causes rot. A part of what they found is exposed but sprinkled on the minute with water to keep it from turning to dust. At first, I thought this was Norm Abram's worst nightmare:

Not only did they find this giant promenade deck, they found all manner of crap tossed into the water surrounding it and preserved in the peat. Some, in fact, wasn't crap at all. Unlike Jorvik - readers may remember my olfactory assault - there was no picked poo. Instead, there were pieces of clothing, rare gold jewelry, pots, bones from joints of meat, dog skeletons, human skeletons, metal shears, glass beads, rare wooden handles from axes, and the oldest wheel in England. Funny, I thought I saw that already being bowled at some country skittles (see The Festival of Beer).

The best explanation they have for what went on was that the big deck was some sort of ceremonial platform that people would chuck stuff off of in sacrifice to their gods. Either that, or a giant cow causeway. As our tour guide liked to cluck, "There's no evidence!" when a member of our group came up with an alternate theory. Giant shuffleboard stadium, anyone?

Chumley happened to call me on my mobile to check parent status while they were in my sole custody. My jazzy Nokia tune disrupted the ambience of burlap clothing and hanging animal carcasses. These turfy homes would never work nowdays. All that growing on the roof leads to terrible mobile reception. And who wants to get up there and weed it?

"Where are you now?" he wanted to know.

"I've just stepped out of a model roundhouse," I said, choking from the smoke of the roasted jerky demonstration inside. "I'm staring at the turf roof."

"Good," he continued, unfazed. Perhaps many people he chatted with carried on conversations from Bronze Age roundhouses. He was on an information-seeking mission. "When's the last time they had tea?"

I checked my watch. "About three hours ago."

"Oh dear," he replied. "Best to find a tea shop straight away."

Sure enough, more tea was in order. We managed to avoid being headbutted by the rare-breed sheep on they way out. In a moment of deja vu, I realized that PG Tips tea, without milk, is just the color of the peaty water preserving the wooden spikes at Flag Fen. Spooky.

Reader Mail, Part Deux

2009-09-08T17:07:00.008+01:00

Thank you, kind readers, for your questions. As my first round elicited a second, I shall not disappoint the gentle writer, even though we clearly cannot agree on fruit tea.

Jamie said...
If I may enter into the fruit tea conversation, I agree with Chumley. My
Southern parents would contend that "fruit tea" (said through clenched teeth) is not REAL tea. Tea should taste like tea, and not fruit or syrup or anything of the like.

Yes, so others side with Chumley. He's probably contacted you and crossed your palms with some real tea in exchange for a sound fruit tea bashing. I digress...

My questions, based on my time in Europe:
1. Do you have screens on the windows?

Alas, no. From all formal and informal research I have done (impromptu window inspections at the houses of UK friends and relatives, squinting at the local windows while whizzing past in the car), no one does. When people ask me what I miss about the States, my thoughts tend to turn to hardware. Window screens are right up there. It isn't as though England is magically bug-free, although the bug population seems fewer. Fresh air at the cost of chasing flying insects all over the house is almost not worth it to me. Chumley feels free to open all windows and doors with abandon, but if you've never lived with screens, you are used to this depraved existence. I have chased three bees out of the house in one day, not to mention the countless moths that taunt me out the bathroom window at night. I really think a magpie might decide to have an adventure and fly into the kitchen one day. Now I know why this is the country of "Little Miss Muffet" - I've never killed so many spiders. Egads. This situation really is a sleeping humanitarian crisis.

2. What is reason for the incredible European Screen Shortage? Is the E.U. helping to distribute necessary screens?

That's just it, dear reader. I don't think anyone on the island senses the necessity. Why, I have no idea. The E.U. has mandated that anyone coloring their hair go for a patch test, and that only flourescent lightbulbs may be sold from now on, but I am unaware of any Screen Directive. I will have to contact my local MEP (Member of European Parliament). I may be less than persuasive in that I can't vote. In the meantime, I could drape our bed in mosquito netting and tell Chumley I'm trying out an East India Trading Company decorating theme, but I don't think he'd get it. He might drink a gin and tonic if I offered it, though. I'm quite sure a pith helmet would be too much to ask. Lamb Rogan Josh for dinner would suit him fine.

3. What is a visit to the doctor like? I have heard that it is necessary to
bring several days' rations with you. (Although that is not much different
from here.)

I will have to save this question for the future, as I have not needed one yet. I can't say that I'm looking forward to it, but does anyone in any country?

4. Is it refreshing to live in a country that does not enjoy Nickelback?

Indeed, it is. I have yet to hear this band hit the UK airwaves, although I'm sure they're out there somewhere. I'm glad to know it wasn't just Chumley that thought some FM radio stations back home had thrown out their format and become "The Nickelback Channel." Just when you think I'm cheese free (which never occurs -- it's England), Bananarama has reunited and is making the rounds of the morning chat shows. Get out the hair gel!

Hedgerow Cuisine

2009-09-07T16:44:00.007+01:00

We are surrounded by blackberries. They're closing in on us at this part of the season, found in nearly every hedgerow from here to Hertfordshire. As I have been driven to snacking on one to many walks, Chumley and I spent three hours or so gathering several pounds of blackberries for our freezer. Ah, nature. How many a faithful gatherer can stand to pick really depends on one's tolerance for pain. The bushes are thorny themselves, nevermind the wild roses and nettles they like to keep company with. After all our efforts, I thought an apple and blackberry crumble (crisp in American) was in order. Almost as popular as sticky toffee pudding, it could well be the national dessert of England. It was a product of rationing in World War II, when piecrusts took up too much coveted flour and sugar. Chumley made custard (like warm vanilla pudding) to finish it properly. Although I'm not a native chef, edibility did not appear to be an issue.

The hedgerows here are remarkably fruity, full of things I've only just heard of. In the first few weeks here on a walk, Chumley was intrigued by a nearby damson tree. Damsons are a type of plum, popular for making jam. I'm not much into jam making - is that where the term "jammie dodger" comes from? There's a golden version of damsons around these parts, called mirabelles.

Similar to damsons in color, but much smaller, are sloes. The hedges around our house are literally dripping with them, but after several failed taste tests, neither of us can figure out how they could turn into anything remotely edible. The best and highest use of those tarty sloes is sloe gin, where either gin and vodka and sloes infuse over the long haul. I have been known to enjoy a sloe gin fizz. Making my own sloe gin would definitely be a Martha moment. But they just taste so horribly bad! They're like trying to chew up a used tea bag! I cannot bring myself to risk good booze.

Apparently the term "sloe eyed" refers to someone with eyes as dark and deep as sloes. Amazing what hanging out in the hedgerows will teach you! I should take up a community college degree in hedgerow history and call myself, "The Hedgerow Whisperer."

Rumor had it that a particularly domesticated friend of Chumley's found what sounded like a Queen Anne cherry tree and helped himself to enough for a pie. This is an unconfirmed sighting, however. I'll continue to watch the hedges for future developments. It would be a fruity coup if it were true, but for now, I'll be happy with the six containers of Gladware full of blackberries in the freezer.

The High Holy Festival of Beer

2009-09-04T15:27:00.008+01:00

You may have heard that the English like a drink or two. Or three or four. You've heard correctly, my friends. Since I've known Chumley, he has occasionally mentioned with nostalgia a weeklong event here in Peterborough, the infamous Peterborough Beer Festival. Most often, his voice goes quiet, and in very reverential tones, he refers to it as "The Festival of Beer." He even looks a bit misty. Some among his set have been known to book the entire week off work to fully enjoy worship of the sacred beverage.

Last week was festival time again, and for cultural edification purposes, I decided to see what the fuss was about. I expected to be a bit of a wet blanket in that I detest beer, but so-called fruit beer is a different story. Belgian lambic can be completely un-beery, and the cherry beer is immensely quaffable. I picture a horde of Belgian monks scurrying around the cherry orchard, steadfastly pitting cherries in between penance. With more than 250 beers and ciders to choose from, those in the know assured me I wouldn't have a problem finding a refreshment to my liking.

I have experience with one American beer festival, which was typical of what happens when bored people drink en masse. You were handed a beer glass roughly the size of two shot glasses, and you could sample by purchasing a mini-mug full time and again. It was a remote venue, so most people drove. As the night wore on, it got louder, more mini mugs got dropped, and more people started bumping into you. When it was chucking out time, the local police waited in line outside the front stoop to nab all the DUI drivers, like shooting fish in a barrel.

The English beer festival experience was considerably different. For starters, you bought either a full pint glass or a half pint upon arrival. After that, sample whatever you liked and pay as you go. There were thousands of people, but no real drunk and disorderly moments. I didn't see one person get into their own car and drive away afterwards -- every cab in town was booked. I saw an organized minibus pick up customers. People were jolly, but not shabby. I was impressed that such a liquid affair had good security and no real problems.

I think the difference between English and American drinking culture is that Americans tend to use the fire-hose approach to drinking, whereas the Brits have the faucet on a steady stream. Both approaches have their downsides. Drunk driving is far more taboo here, mercifully. That said, the Brits are drinking more overall, which can be an expensive and liver-destroying habit. Tolerance levels appear much higher due to the steady stream effect. In fact, Chumley hangs his head and says he can't drink at all anymore since he lived in the tea-totaling States for years. I get the occasional odd look when we're out and I order a non-alcoholic beverage. Some hear my accent and ask if I drink at all! (I've also been asked whether I own a gun!)

I also became acquainted with a pub game called "Country Skittles." The first time I heard that term, I pictured people rolling enormous Skittles candies as big as bowling balls at some unknown, pastoral target. I think my brainwaves made the connection that country equaled Texas, so that a country Skittle was like a piece of Texas toast. Wrong again. It's bowling, alright, but with tiny little wooden pins and a ball that looks like it was shot out of a cannon sometime during the Napoleonic wars. No large fruit candy involved at all. One variant of Country Skittles uses a wooden replica of a small wheel of cheese to bowl at the pins. Why? I have not cracked the code on this phenomena as yet. Now that I think about it, I wish they did make country Skittles. They would be the excellent accompaniment to a Texas-sized cherry beer.

The Stinkiest Tourist Attraction of All Time

2009-09-03T15:19:00.005+01:00

Chumley has a thing for Vikings. It took me the longest time to remember the difference between a longboat (Viking ship) and a narrowboat (houseboats that leisurely troll the English rivers and aquaducts, at a pontoon's pace.) Whenever I'd slip and say, "Look, a longboat!" he'd reply, "Really? AARRRGH!"

So, it came as no surprise that he was interested in visiting the Jorvik Viking Centre in York. York used to be called Jorvik when the Vikings arrived, pillaged, plundered, and made themselves at home between 800 and 900. William the Conqueror finally gave the Vikings the boot when he took over in 1066.

When York was excavating the center of the city in the 70's, they started finding a treasure trove of Vikings and their stuff, so much so that it warranted a museum to display it all. Someone took a cue from Walt Disney and designed Jorvik as a ride, where you get in a car that transports you through a recreated Viking settlement with animatronic people and all the relics laid out as they would have been used. For all the pictures of Vikings with unruly hair, there were some very ornate and perfectly preserved hair combs on display.

The first thing one notices after hopping in the car is a certain funk. After Chumley and I confirmed that both of us had remembered deodorant that morning, we figured out that the manky, somewhat smokey smell was piped in for our olfactory enjoyment. It was a nice touch until the ride took a turn for the worse. The kind designers of Jorvik the museum had seen fit to show a man squatting behind a small wicker fence, as he rocked, grimaced, and grunted. It took a moment to sink in, but much to our horror, he was animatronically reinacting taking a giant poo. As our car too slowly went past, an unmistakable sewer smell wafted our way.

Two things occured to me. I have no doubt that poo is historically accurate. However, is it that enlightening to demonstrate it to the masses? Secondly, where on earth does one procure a synthetic sewer smell? At least, I hope it was synthetic.

Just when I thought Jorvik had gone way too far, we disembarked our cars and took in some of the relics displayed in glass cases. A young woman dressed in Viking regalia dared the children in our group to guess what a large, oblong stone was on display in the case next to her. Compounding our horror, it turns out to be the largest mineralized human turd ever discovered, and quite rare at that. Archaeologists everywhere rejoice! And I thought the recent news story of a drunk girl falling in and needing rescued from a porta-potty after accidentally flushing her purse was the height of weirdness. We have a new winner.

So, the giant fossilized turd continues to haunt me, much like the pack of rabid Yorkshire terriers did. Chumley does not miss an opportunity to remind me of the experience, which promptly comes wafting back.

York Uncorked

2009-09-02T09:37:00.009+01:00

We visited the York Castle Museum, which is really a series of buildings that include the former jail. It's among the best museums I've been in. The ticket counter guide told us to expect our trip to take 1 1/2 hours, but Chumley and I were easily there for 3 1/2. I think the lesson to be learned from this fine establishment is sometimes it pays to hang on to your crap. Are you listening, Chumley?

The current exhibits include an expansive one about the Victorian fascination with cleaning. If you've read my post on Althorp, you'll know my feelings on this topic. One of the highlights is a complete Victorian street, including cobbles, that they've recreated indoors. All the shops are fully stocked with haberdashery, pawn items, jewelry, glass -- the sheer quantity of what's on display in the shop windows is mindboggling. You can visit the sweet shop and buy a sugar mouse for 50 pence. I wonder if the Victorians ever splashed out and upgraded to sugar rats or sugar pigeons? Those would be for special occasions, of course.

One area contains time-warpy rooms depicting kitchens through the years. Chumley and I were horrified and amused at once to find that the 80's kitchen is a dead ringer for our own. If I only still owned a microwave as big as Sputnik, we'd be completely authentic. Even our linoleum isn't far off -- it's a vision in mushroom. After a bit of wincing at the stabbing familiarity, we moved on to the prison.

York is officially the most haunted city in England, but I'm not quite sure of the officials on the creep committee. Suffice it to say, there's plenty of gloomy spots and tales of woe that might have won it the prize. The prison wasn't terribly accommodating, and I'm sure no one got a fresh towel in the mornings. At one point, there were 220 separate offenses that incurred the death penalty, and York Prison certainly wasn't afraid of dishing out death on a plate. You can even check the prison's database of prisoners and their fates.I came up spotless, but Chumley has some possible rogue relatives! (We would know for sure that the executed were his relation if the crime had been chronic carriage cleanliness, but it was just highway robbery.)

http://www.yorkcastleprison.org.uk/family-history.html

Swapping the Toffee for Yorkshire Pudding

2009-09-01T12:04:00.018+01:00

This past weekend was Bank Holiday weekend, with Bank Holiday being a Monday roughly the equivalent of U.S. Labor Day. Presented with a long weekend, Chumley and I went into touring mode and headed north York, a city on his sightseeing wishlist. First and foremost, York (and the rest of Yorkshire for that matter) is the home of Yorkshire pudding, a bread-like pancake usually filled with meat, gravy and vegetables and polished off swiftly by carnivores like Chumley.

I happened to mention we were going to York to my father back in the U.S. "Is that where the little dogs come from?" he asked straight off the bat. "What little dogs?" I replied. "You know, Yorkies. The little yappy ones." Hm. I was stumped. "Probably," I answered, although I had seen no mention of Yorkies whatsoever in any of the York tourist board materials. No Yorkie Museums or towers of bones laid in tribute. I didn't know how subliminally the question had roosted in my brain until the next morning. I dreamt I was being chased by a dirty, nomadic, ferile pack of wild Yorkies, all snipping at me in unison as they gnashed at my ankles. I woke up in a cold sweat. I have been known to have prophetic dreams before, so I kept an eye out for little dogs as we started to walk the streets. One daschund in particular looked a bit menacing, but he was the wrong breed and on a leash. He didn't quite fit the profile.

York is home to Nestle Rowntree, a massive chocolate factory not open for public tours. Believe me, I checked. More specifically, it's home of the infamous Yorkie chocolate bar, with a slogan that has led to many testy exchanges between Chumley and me. I thought "It's not for girls!" was just another of Chumley's attempts to stop me from death by chocolate, hoping a sexist put down would at least divert my attention for a few seconds, until he pointed to a wrapper and there it was in print. I find the anti-girl sign even more injurious. I'm here to tell you it is for girls - how can a whopping, chunky chocolate bar expect to keep estrogen-mongers away? How insane. It is really delicious, despite being an affront to women. Don't sell crazy here, Chumley. And hand over that chocolate bar! I digress...

Just when I thought I knew what old was, York was established in 71 A.D. as a Roman outpost. Chumley picked up a silver Roman denarius (plural form denarii) he seemed chuffed (pleased) with. One denarius was about what a common day laborer or soldier would get paid each day. Beats a glittery "York is for Dorks" ruler that I was considering as a souvenir. The old Roman fort was built on the current site of York Minster, the city's cathedral.

York has a magnificent city wall still standing, mostly intact, which is a rarity. Some parts are Roman, some are Norman, but the newest additions are medieval. Those newfangled renovations! Boiling oil, long bows, crossbows - they all got fired off the top of the wall at the unpopular invaders below. I got nervous walking under the portcullis -- the massive, waffle-y gate with sharp, spikey ends that lowers to close various gates to the city. Think of it as a piece of sinister iron Chex mix ready to drop at any moment. It's not like they installed it last year so far as maintenance goes.

After a busy first day of sightseeing, we met some friends at a pub, by pure chance. Where did we find them, you ask? A little place called "The Yorkshire Terrier." Not a live dog to be found, but scary just the same. As they say, just call me "Claire-voyant." I found that a pint of cider took the edge off my self-inflicted heebie jeebies.

Much more on York to come...

They call it Althorp House, but you decide

2009-08-28T09:45:00.004+01:00

Yesterday, a friend and I paid a visit to Althorp House, a 14,000-acre estate about seven miles from a town called Northampton. Perhaps it's just the modesty of the aristocracy, calling it a house. My house doesn't have 15 bedrooms. If it rings a bell, it's the ancestral home of the Spencer family, as in Lady Diana Spencer, later Princess Diana. She's buried behind the home, on an island in a small lake called "The Round Oval."

I wasn't quite sure what to expect, as she was such a public figure with an almost cult-like following. My worst fear would be that there would be bags of Princess Diana fudge in the gift shop, or something of equally less tact. Not to say that I am a stranger to fudge procured from stately home gift shops, but there's a line to be drawn.

No worries about decorum, as it turned out. The gift shop was remarkably restrained, with very few items featuring Diana. I don't recall seeing her depicted on any merchandise, in fact. The most touristy item on offer was an Althorp tea towel, which I resisted adding to my collection.

The stables have been converted to a small museum about Diana's life and times. There's a lovely drawing on display by John Singer Sargent of Diana's grandmother, and the striking resemblance is chilling. There's lots of family snapshots, personal letters, and most interestingly, Charles Spencer's draft of the speech he delivered at Diana's funeral. The line where he thanks Dodi Fayed for making the last weeks of Diana's life happy is noticeably struck out with black pen. Interesting...

The house itself is a marvel, even more so now that I know it rents out for private parties, events, and weddings. I pity the staff who have to dust their entire collection, and vacuuming must be an unmitigated nightmare. That could be my eternal punishment, in fact: being handed a mop and a bucket and being locked in a stately home for all eternity. Sarte got hell all wrong -- hell is other people's housework. Or my own, for that matter.

It's mizzle, that's for-shizzle

2009-08-26T16:14:00.014+01:00

My English father-in-law calls today's weather "mizzle" - a hybrid of mist and drizzle. We're apparently receiving the last of Hurricane Bill. It's very true that the English do love to discuss the weather. In them, it produces joy, loathing, regret... the whole range of human emotion.

I haven't been too depressed by rain here, yet. I've only had my wellie boots on twice, and been to a washout outdoor concert once. We went to hear the New England Orchestra play during what began as overcast skies, evolving to mizzle, sprinkles, drops, and finally downpour. Amazingly, all the stalwart Brit picnickers around us formed umbrella tents and carried on drinking their Pimms and champagne in what any American would consider a monsoon. One particular reveler, who we spied eat an entire cake during the mizzle segment, got up in the rain and danced the Blue Danube waltz solo while on his sugar high. Even Chumley started to crack up at the craziness of his fellow countrymen. By the time we gave up and scooted to the car, careful not to wipe out on wet grass or goose turds along the way, we were completely soaked through. Strange, but fun. As Chumley says, "If the English planned their lives around the weather, they'd never leave the house." Too right, Chumley. I attribute this damp-tolerance to soggy DNA. When Chumley runs his occasional road races, he doesn't mind the rain, and even hopes for it, as it speeds him up among the competitors who prefer to remain dry. I married a mudder.

The climate produces some other interesting outdoor phenomena. For instance, I'd never seen a real-life snail until I'd lived here. At first I thought the shiny paths on the concrete were unexplainable, much like crop circles, until Chumley enlightened me that they were really snail squeezin's. Eew.

When we moved into our house, the magpies insisted on leaving round balls of moss they had plucked from our tile roof right in front of our door every morning. Once I figured out what these furry, dark, spongey things were, I wished they would keep their moss to themselves. My only explanation is that they were housewarming gifts. If I were a magpie, I think I'd like a nice wad of moss for my new nest, too. Eureka! I finally get that line of Your Song: "Sat on the roof... kicked off the moss." No wonder Bernie Taupin's verses were getting him quite cross - how could he concentrate with all that damp crud all over? (If you ask me, I'm turning into a savant at this whole "cultural translation" business. )

Greetings from Sunny Hunny

2009-08-24T12:40:00.006+01:00

On Saturday, after requesting an outing to the coast, Chumley suggested a day trip to Hunstanton, or "Sunny Hunny," as it's called. It was an hour's drive on a lovely day, but Chumley listened to cricket on longwave radio the entire cartrip there. I managed to avoid the temptation of a hearty nap by playing, "Name That Vegetable" with the passing fields. So, as we arrived, the call of seagulls was like music to my ears.

Hunstanton is the only west-facing sea resort in its county of Norfolk. It's a bit faded from its heydey in Victorian times, when it was apparently therapeutic for those with anemia and rheumatism. We arrived at low tide, which meant the sea had recessed more than a mile out, leaving almost a desert of damp sand lined with channels where the water had gone back to sea, or tiny dunes. The shore is just that flat. There were a good number of tide pools left, occasionally full of little fish, among other organic deposits. Chumley and I had a healthy round of "Is it Dead Yet" as we meandered through the rusty or sea-grass covered rocks to get to flat sand. The stripey cliffs were red and white chalk on top of what looked like sandstone, and were very popular with the local pigeons.

Of course, lunch during a day at the beach should be a healthy dose of fresh fish and chips. I have yet to have bad fish and chips in the UK. In fact, I saw an employee throw a 10-gallon bucket of cut chips into the cooker as we waited, so I know lunch was not loitering under heat lamps. I am an aficionado of mushy peas, so Chumley obliged and bought me a vegetable to stave off some my deep-fried dietetic guilt.

The weather was breezy and warm, which led us to a park bench with the Saturday Times. A young man asked me the time. I told him, and he replied, "Nice one! Cheers!" I haven't been told "nice one" since the days where my kid brother was paying me a sarcastic comment after I had deftly fallen down on no apparent hazard or some other mystical pratfall. If my deed was extra dopey, he might upgrade his commentary to, "Nice one, shortstop." Based on my prior life's experience, I had no choice but to interpret this young man's comment as sarcastic congratulations for being able to read my watch. Perhaps he was especially impressed because it's analog. "Cheers" I knew as the all-purpose form of "thanks," but I cracked myself up just after he left.

Chumley looked at me as if I had sprouted another head, but came to the rescue as usual as my cultural guide. "It's as if he's saying, 'Thanks for taking the time to help me,'" Chumley helpfully explained. "You got all that out of, 'Nice one?'" I wondered. "Maybe I looked lobotomized." Maybe I sported the same look that prompted a random jogger my dad stopped for driving directions years ago to peer into our car and assume out loud that we needed to know how to get to the Special Olympics. But, lobotomized people don't read the Times, do they?

On the agenda: got more milk, bought stamps, saw Catherine of Aragon

2009-08-21T12:27:00.005+01:00

Despite my freindly criticism, I can't say enough about what it's like to live somewhere with such a long and interesting history. I thought our Revolutionary War era was positively ancient, but living in the UK redefines old. Here, one of the pivotal timestamps is pre-Norman conquest. That's 1066, for those who napped through high school history, like me. I was sitting on the sofa, eating my Cheerios this morning, wondering if some Stone-Age shaman might have sharpened his flints in the place where our family room now stands. Deep thoughts over whole wheat.

I recently went on a tour of the tower of Peterborough Cathedral. What a hoot! The guides issue thoughtful warnings about no fears of heights or problems with small spaces. They didn't advertise, however, that the tour also goes by the title, "Cathedral Cardio." No problems feeling the burn on the mini-monk-sized stone spiral stairwells that have been worn smooth by the hoofprints of the last millenia. Not that I got the jitters or anything because my size 9 US feet didn't quite fit a middle-aged monk print:

Peterborough Cathedral, a treasure trove for all you goth fans out there, was only completed 800 years ago. Bennedictine monks ran the joint, but their only remnant nowdays are the little teddy bears dressed in monk's outfits in the giftshop. Catherine of Aragon, Henry VIII's first wife and one of the lucky ones who kept her head, is buried here. For you history buffs who must remember which of Henry's better halves lost their heads, the rhyme is, "divorced, beheaded, died, divorced, beheaded, survived." Another local celebrity, Mary, Queen of Scots, was here for a bit after she lost her head in a town about 15 minutes away called Fotheringhay, but she was upgraded to a better plot in Westminster Abbey in 1611. Catherine would be on the lower left below:

After our cross-training segment, we arrived at the top, which will forever be the highest point in Peterborough due to that snazzy real estate concept of zoning. I managed to forget my miniature flag to stake my arrival at the top, but the sherpa-docent ladies are sure to remember me by the various, "Oh, nooo..." comments I spontaneously errupted with the news we needed to wedge ourselves through yet another 3' x 2' door. It reminded me of the cheese maze I crawled through in my youth at Chuck E. Cheese, without the skee-ball.

All in all, an excellent day out. I reluctantly paid the "camera license" of two pounds to have snaps of the occasion. There's just still something offputting about being taxed by the British. Perhaps I'll throw some of our PG Tips teabags into the bathtub for when Chuttles comes home from work, and we can call it a tea party. (Something tells me he would not be amused. Wasting proper tea could cost me my head around here.)

Look kids, Big Ben...

2009-08-18T16:38:00.008+01:00

Is it just me, or does this picture have the trappings of the occult? Clearly, whoever conceived roundabouts was a practitioner of the dark arts.

It was my biggest worry upon moving to the UK - how the heck to figure out driving in the "bizzaro" universe. My US license is good for a year, but I'll have to buck up and pass the full UK test before the clock runs out. I've resisted driving school so far, but maybe it wouldn't be a bad idea.

Let's discuss the thorny topic of navigation. It's a shock to the system, this small island with mini-cars, all driving at once. The US was the land of wide open spaces, which gave birth to my father's favorite motoring exclamations, such as, "Could have backed up and done it again," and "Could have fit a Mack truck through there." I could navigate by gas station, restaurant, or heaven forbid, street name.

The days of drivin' easy are over, my friends. All the square pegs have been replaced with round holes. Intersections approach quickly with a myriad of driving options. Chumley's "helpful" suggestion to "turn right at the next roundabout" resulted in a bit of a fuse ignition. I replied, "But how can I? It's all a series of lefts!" Right. Or, should I say, correct.

Lane use is its own dark art. Car parks (parking lots) are the lawless Wild West. And, of course, all this is happening on the left. The Ministry of Transport has also seen fit to write helpful little messages on the pavement, usually about which lane to use for which of the four roads convene on a single point. Unlucky if you aren't reading the road, or are too busy trying to remember at which mulberry bush to turn left.

I have prior experiences with these messages from the traffic gods. While travelling a country road, I accidentally didn't let the mind/mouth filter catch the question, "What does mois mean? And why are the words in French?" All in the car were stumped. After all, here's what the road said...

After some follow-up questioning about where exactly I had read this French note, the car burst out in laughter. I was hit by the comedy grenade about five seconds later, when I realized that any messages the Ministry of Transport had for us would be printed on the left, and they certainly wouldn't ever be in French.

Hey, I'll have you know I've recovered from the early days of driving dunce-o-rama. Chumley no longer looks like he needs a carsick bag if I'm in charge of transportation, and I've only caught myself drifting right once. And that was at church, so God wouldn't have allowed any sort of incident on His property. No harm, no foul.

If God is watching, I suppose I ought to fess up that I had a little incident in my early days involving a massive Volvo and a farm outbuiding. Yes, dear readers, apparently I can hit the broad side of a barn with a large Swedish car that could hold its own smorgasboard. No one in this country drives a car that big, so I maintain I was framed. What's life without a little paint transfer?

Reader Mail!!

2009-08-17T10:56:00.018+01:00

Without further delay, the responses to questions one fair reader has been burning to ask. My thanks for your submissions, dear groupie. She is of a particularly inquisitive sort, as am I, and I appreciate the insightfulness of this line of questioning. Right, then:

Q: I know the Brits aren’t known for their food, but I think you could do worse there.

Indeed, I could do worse, as I found out at our subpar hotel breakfast buffet in Italy recently. We had to eat out daily in the first six weeks of being here, as we were living in a hotel. Thus, I became intimately familiar with "pub grub." It's a very meaty culture. Bacon is supremely important, and not the "streaky bacon" we Americans are used to, but "proper rashers" -- like canadian bacon in consistency. Perhaps I can chalk this heightened carion emphasis up to Chumley's meat obsession, but I find it endemic. Also, fish is big.

Ahoy! Life saving safety tip: avoid the "Stargazer Pie" at all costs.

There are lots of vegetarians in the UK, so it's easier to find less meaty options anywhere you eat out. Portion sizes are normal... what is normal? No such thing as the "free refill" on drinks. I find the beverage selection enchanting. Yes, enchanting. All my long-time followers will recall my beverage obsession, and I can't seem to get enough of the various fruity cordials that one dilutes with water. They really aren't terribly calorific, either. Chumley showed up with some elderflower cordial the other evening, and despite its herbaceous origins, I found it refreshing.

Ice exists in small quantities. Larger quantities are available on demand. But be too demanding and you stick out as an American. I try to limit my requests for ice to once a week. Now that I can practice the art of home ice-making, I'm much happier.

Vegetables are in ready supply. In fact, Chumley gets bummed if dinner doesn't include the "three veg" part of "meat and three veg." We live in "the Fens" - a term for a swath of formerly swampy, perfectly flat farmland that grows a good deal of the produce for the country. In fact, when on a country road in the Fens, close your eyes, reopen them, ignore you're hopefully driving on the left, and you might as well be in Illinois. I get a kick out of "name that vegetable" - figuring out what's growing in the fields. So far, I've spotted lots and lots of potatoes, leeks, barley, wheat, puny corn, and vast quantities of rapeseed. They use rapeseed to make vegetable oil, and it glows a lovely flourescent yellow en masse. Ah, day-glo agriculture.

The desserts are so much better than America. Really. There is little regard for silly things like calorie counts and fat grams, and you can taste it. Tarts, cakes, ice creams, most likely doused stiffly with cream. In fact, you can use some of the excess cream for your coffee, which leads us to...

Q: And, I know you can get a great cup of tea, but can you say the same for a great cup of coffee?

Coffee is a rarer bird, not nearly as available as the revered "cuppa." I've had it readily offered with dessert (see above, and "ass as big as the Lake District" comment of previous post), and it isn't half bad. They've got the dark empire of Starbucks on the occasional street corner, so all is not lost if you simply must have a frappucino or face imminent system shutdown. I saw french press coffee being served at a tea room, which I find to be a bit earthy.

And for the record, contrary to Chumley's violently held opinion, fruit tea abounds and appears completely legitimate as a form of tea. Chumley is so convinced that fruit tea is tea blasphemy, in fact, that he refers to it as "so-called fruit tea." This is the only country one could have this conversation in, by they way.

Q: I know there are McDonald’s in London … is there a Krispy Kreme?

A Krispy Kreme? By my count, there are 40+. http://www.krispykreme.co.uk/ A large store chain called Tesco (think Costo, Meijer, SuperWalMart) carries them at selected pastry counters. I have not done further research (see "Lake District" concerns, ante.)

Q: Do people now ask you to say things just to hear an American accent or is that truly just a British thing?

To a lesser extent, I'm afraid it works in reverse. A little clerk at Boots (a big pharmacy chain) asked me to say "awesome." Apprently, Chumley says that's a word they'd just never use, especially not with the lovely, drawn-out American "AaaaHH" at the beginning. They seem as bemused as we are to hear the little twists of phrase for the same meaning, like "trolley" for "cart", "pot" for "container" (as in yogurt pots), and the U.S. phrase that seems to produce comedy, "stick shift." Shift means move, as in "We've just shifted house, and now we've got to get everything sorted (figured out.)"

Coincidentally, the word "orton" has entered my recent vocabulary. It's a place name. People rarely understand me say it on the first try. In fact, Chumley thinks I ought to audition for cartoon sound effects by saying it over and over: "Orton, orton, orton, orton." In an American accent, it sounds like a blob on the move.

Q: ...about the weather. I know it does lend to beautiful gardens and moist complexions, but do you get tired of the dreariness?

The first thing that struck me from this perspective isn't the rain, it's the coolness. In the middle of July and August, I had formerly been prepared to be baked in a brick over within a few steps of leaving air conditioning. For my own mental stability, I've had to learn how to convert Celsius to Fahrenheit in my mind. (Is that a James Taylor hit, "Gone to Fahrenheit-a in My Mind?") It probably reaches 72F on any given summer afternoon here. They had a "heat wave" reaching the mid and high eighties upon our arrival, which was downright comical. Ladies passing out at the Royal Orchid Society exhibitions... disaster!

Q: Have you seen the Queen or any of the Royal Family?

Only on television. Or when Chumley puts on his best falsetto, twists a jam jar, and declares, "I declare this jar.... open." I may have seen some very backwater royal, like the Seventeenth Earl of Cheddar, but not known enough to kiss the ring. My brother and sister-in-law were invited to dinner with the Queen, however. Hat selection for the occasion was a pivotal issue. We're thinking of getting tickets for Buckingham Palace this season, but I doubt very much we'll have a sighting. Maybe we'll see a corgie or two. I hear they are foul little dogs...

Q: Do you get a fair amount of US news?

Some, especially with the demise of Jacko and the big national healthcare debate. But not much, so I resort to reading my formerly local papers online. I read People online also, but don't admit to that. I don't read TMZ either. Nope.

Q: And TV? Is it all British stuff or can you watch “American Idol” and “Saturday Night Live”?

I really do enjoy BBC TV, despite how irked I was that we had to initially buy a TV license. That's the cost of no commercials, I'm afraid. They have some wonderful shows on current events, comedians, not terribly old movies, and as I was such a BBC America fan, I get all those series first run. There is rarely crap on TV. We can get by with just aerial - five or six channels? Channel 4 is a bit weird, but how can we fault them. They created "Father Ted." Genius.

I don't know that I've seen "American Idol" or "Saturday Night Live" broadcast here at all. This would explain the completely blank looks Chumley shoots me when I suggest something "needs more cowbell," or wondered aloud whether John Lewis (department store) carried the "Bass-O-Matic." The American show they do carry in the daytime, everyday, is "Murder, She Wrote." I've seen some quality frosty lipgloss on some of those episodes, let me tell you.

Q: What about the radio stations … do you hear what tunes you know and love?

Unlike the BBC, I find BBC radio full of American music. It's divided into Radio 1, Radio 2, Radio 3 and Radio 4, descending from most hip to hip replacement. Some of the rarely played American songs hit farther up the charts here, back in their day, so I'm learning some new old songs also.

The younger stations can be a bit techo-heavy. It was getting me down one day, until I walked into a British Red Cross charity shop and found Madonna's Immaculate Collection used for two pounds. I popped it in my car CD player and serenity was restored.

Thanks again to our gentle interviewer, and please submit your burning cultural questions for future editions of Reader Mail!

Welcome to the Toffee Pudding!

2009-08-17T10:12:00.006+01:00

After a fair amount of internal musing, a sluggish UK job market, and the behest of an old friend, I finally have the motivation in critical mass to start... a blog! (Insert screams of dread here.)

Should any among my fair readers not know the full story, I supply a pithy synopsis: my husband (who I shall henceforth refer to as Chumley in a veiled attempt to conceal any remaining shred of his privacy) is a Brit, and I am American. This could be the subject of an entirely separate blog, such as "Chumley in Translation" or "Not Another Blinking Cup of Tea! Aren't You Seriously Overcaffienated by Now?" He took a job transfer to the U.S. in 2004, met me in 2005, and after years spent in my patented, "Where Did My Good Mood Go? Relocating Your Personal Cheeriness" course, we got married in August 2008. In May 2008, we moved from the US to the UK as an adventure, and I now find myself in the land of the ubiquitous sticky toffee pudding. (I should clarify that I adore sticky toffee pudding, especially when they don't skimp on the toffee sauce. I proceed with caution - overindulgence can easily result in an ass the size of the Lake District.)

I enrolled in Facebook, but it's just not quite cutting it. For starters, I can't seem to figure out how to post more than 80 words at a time, so it's certainly sub-optimal for those F. Scott Fitzgerald moments we all have now and then. And while I am an avid practitioner of the stream of conciousness school of conversation, and living, for that matter, I just can't seem to get jazzed about confessions on fleeting gastrointestinal issues and declaring one's self a fan of a particular goth-ska band passing for meaningful communication.

Thus, for your amusement, I shall get on with it and segue to my reader mail segment.