Lawyers for breakfast

Kismet and I went berry picking tonight. There is a school behind my apartment complex--their athletic fields are bordered by forest, so every morning Kizzy and I go walking there. I make sure he poos in the woods, away from any playable area, although last week we were accosted by a janitorial looking lady, accusing me of covering the field in dogpoopy. Uh. No. That would be the deer...have you ever been here at seven in the morning? Deer EVERYWHERE. Tonight the deer looked a little nervous as we approached, but they simply moved closer to the forest's edge and kept munching and pooping. I tied Kismet to an old rusty desk that sort of acted like a sheet anchor--he could move around as much as he wanted, but he couldn't move very fast--to make sure he wouldn't chase the deer from here to the Atlantic.

I must have looked like a crazy person: eighty-five degrees out, and here I am wearing jeans and a heavy fall jacket, pulling my socks up over my cuffs. I was afraid of two things: chiggers and brambles. In the eighteenth century, blackberries were known as "lawyers" because the briars dig into your skin and DO NOT LET GO. Blackberries grew in both Europe and the Americas, so they would have been familiar berries to the colonists...Native Americans cultivated them by burning off woodland undergrowth and letting the thorny brambles grow back. I had been enjoying a handful every morning as I walked Kismet, but I finally decided to take advantage of free blackberries and fill up...talk about organic.

The brambles, however, were worse than I had figured on. They would grab ahold of my limbs and wrap themselves right around, then the thorns would break off, lodged into denim. Nothing on the bushes were thorn free. The smallest branches had the sharpest, pin-like thorns, and even the leaves were deadly edged. The only thing I could touch without hurting myself were the berries, and they were often coyly hidden behind brambly canes. I'm talking Sleeping Beauty's castle here, people, surrounded by a moat of thorns.

Soon after I started picking, I noticed that wherever a thorn scored my hand, it puffed up and itched like scratches one might receive from a cat. I tried to be more careful, but I soon started to feel like Harry Potter in the the Lestrange's Gringotts vault...the more I tried not to touch any thorns, the more scratched me. I had little itchy puffy pocks all over my hands, and I could feel more developing on my legs where the thorns poked right through the denim. When I could stand it no longer, I grabbed Kismet and hurried home, where I washed off my arms thoroughly...most of the swelling has gone down, but the back of my right hand is still puffy and hot. It was stuck several times, so I'm hoping nothing is still caught under my skin.

But! It was worth it. An hour of prickings was more than worth the two pounds of blackberries I managed to score. Organic, sun-ripened blackberries, I might add. They'd be all of twenty dollars and more at the store. I'm planning on taking some re-enacting this weekend (Jeff and I are invading Williamsburg with Lord Cornwallis' army, again), and if anyone asks, they're lawyers. And if anyone asks WHY, I'll just show them my battle scarred wrists.

Huzzah for free fruit!

This is the day we stop and remember this thing

I always feel vaguely guilty about having national holidays off, when the historic area is open three hundred and sixty five days a year, so my interpreter friends are out there regardless. I was determined to make the most of my time off.

This morning I participated in a Memorial Day parade, honoring the fallen war dead who are buried throughout Williamsburg. As we lined up near the Palace, the temperature was hovering around ninety...I can't complain though, I wasn't wearing a woolen Continental uniform, nor carrying a musket with a fixed bayonet. (the muskets we carry are about twelve pounds unbayonetted, about fourteen with) After laying a wreath at the Palace, to honor the Continental soldiers buried in the garden--Washington used the empty building as a hospital--we marched down the Palace Green to Bruton Parish Church, where more soldiers are buried. Three volleys there, and then the long march to the French cemetery, a tiny, out of the way, peaceful plot of land where some of Rochambeau's men were laid to rest. Far, far from home, probably not understanding exactly why the King of France would take the side of some upstart colonial rebels, but loyally here doing their duty. We had a good turnout--a large amount of guests who were attentively solemn, some who were more interested in getting a picture with the militia, a few locals who skirted the crowd with their dogs, and one idiot jogger who ran straight through the rope barricade, missing the yells of "you can't go there, there's live firing!" due to an iPod firmly screwed into his ears.

I sweated straight through my linen shirt and hunt frock. When I got home, I looked like I had jumped into a pool fully clothed. I had lunch, started some laundry and began packing. You see, loyal readers, I am going to be moving in with Jeff, so once again I find myself putting my life into boxes in preparation for another jump. Most of the books I have with me were lovingly packed before I went to London. The boxes still have "Books!" written on them with little hearts around the word--I have kept them, flattened and tucked behind my dresser for two years. They won't all fit into the three boxes I brought now. "Nelson and Napoleon" was bought as a present to myself for getting an apartment, and it sits weighty on the bottom of one box that contains all my maritime and English history books. A bag of winter clothes and a serious debate about whether or not to get rid of some of these sweaters. I love these sweaters. But I don't wear them, winter being so short in Virginia. A small pile of things to be got rid of or given back to their rightful owners. I think to myself that I must be in America for good...I would never have let my possessions get so out of control, so permeated throughout this apartment otherwise.

Then the grocery store. A friend has told me her husband went to the emergency room, and they are waiting on test results. Her family, his family, a sister, all are coming to help out with the kids, with the emergency, there's nothing I can do to help but pray, but Midwestern genes dictate I must make a casserole. I have never done this sort of thing before, so I fall back weakly on a Betty Crocker recipe for macaroni and cheese. I add a lot of cheese.

Folding clothes, walking the dog. I am hurrying to get everything finished by four so I can take a nap before working the evening program. The march through the historical area has taken it out of me, and I am fighting off a weird headache. I succumb to the joys of high thread count sheets and the AC blowing directly on me. A fan wafts beagle farts into my face as Kismet joins me in a nap.

Then, getting dressed again, this time in girl clothes. I must wear stays to fit into my gown, but it's not the stays that are hot tonight, it's the linen petticoat and gown skirt. They absorb the humidity in the air and stick to my legs, I feel like I'm wearing wool. Not much I can do, except pin my kerchief loosely, slightly immodestly, around my neck. I carry the mac n' cheese to work with me, cleverly hidden in an extra piece of fabric as a disguise. My friend and her family live next door to the Randolph House, where I work. At the break, an older man is sitting on their porch...I go up and introduce myself--he is the father in law of the sick husband, and he tells me that it's cancer. What the next step will be they're not sure yet. I lamely push my mac 'n cheese on him, answer a guest's question about the gardens behind the Randolph and then walk over to the office where the ghost tour leaders meet, to tell another employee what's going on. She hopes he's not at a certain hospital. I tell her he is. She starts telling me horror stories about her husband's experience there. I let her run on, then make sure she's okay and pat her hand before I leave.

As I'm walking back to the house, a little boy comes up behind me, crying. Sometimes they do this, the kids, they are having hissy fits or they are overtired. But he is overwhelmed with tears and looking frightened. I stop him and ask if he's okay. "Nnno," he says, hiccoughing, "I'm lost." So I take his hand and we go back to the office where I hand him over to one of the counter people. Luckily the little boy knows his mom's cell phone number. And, at the end of the night when I call my manager to let him know I'm leaving, he tells me the boy found his parents.

On the way home I stop for ice cream. I want a peanut buster parfait from Dairy Queen, but I will settle for a hot fudge sundae with peanuts. Rita's--the frozen custard stand on the way home--does not have peanuts. But I do not learn this until after the nice man behind the counter has triumphantly presented me with a scoop of vanilla custard slathered with hot fudge. I am disappointed. But I eat it anyway. It tastes cool.

My roommate has turned the AC off. I suspect she's had her window open all day--she is constantly cold--but by now it's cooled down enough that the fan will be enough for tonight. Tomorrow is a Tuesday--traditionally the slowest day of the week--but I feel rested knowing how much I have accomplished today. A hot day, a long day, a day for remembering and a day for doing.

Fish Cakes of Perfection

Mom sent me a card noting that Peter said I should update my blog more often. I say I'll update my blog more often if SOMEONE SENDS ME BABY PICTURES....

I know you're all probably wondering how I feel about the healthcare reform bill. (Let's note, by the way, that THAT is what this bill is--not some socialist plot to ram a public-option single-payer healthcare plan down our throats, thankyouverymuchglenbeckyoutwerp. ) Basically I feel like it doesn't do enough. Yes,thirty million people may suddenly become eligible for some kind of health insurance, but that is not everyone in the United States. A woman I work with morosely noted last night: "I don't know how we can afford to have universal health insurance." I don't know how we can afford not to. Forget the cost for a second, okay, and remember that we live in the best, A-1 country in the world, and yet we are...well, pick your statistic, that isn't this kind of blog. Not only do we NEED some kind of universal coverage, we DESERVE IT. Having conquered those pesky wants that we take for granted like running water and literate girls, we should extend our awesomeness to ALL citizens of this nation. And I am writing this as someone who will be paying taxes on her Cadillac plan in eight years. Sure, when I realised that, I sort of swallowed and went "but but, I'm poor..." But but I'm working and if my appendix explodes tomorrow as I'm being gnawed on by a polar bear and when I arrive at the hospital they diagnose me with gout, I will be covered. We, as Americans, owe it to ourselves by setting the bar high and reaching for it. Some generations did it naturally, existing without as war and depressions ran rampant...we need to work a little harder. So I'm gonna keep fighting for universal heath care. And when it arrives, I'm going off the Cadillac plan and buying American.

USA! USA! USA!

Hee, that felt good.

But, in the meantime, I'm poor. I'm trying to eat cheaply. (To save my money for Japanese steak houses and nachos at eleven pm. What? It was Saturday!) I also try to keep nonperishables on hand, since I tend to forget about fresh veggies, unless I eat them right away, and then I end up throwing them out. A few weeks ago I tossed a Betty Crocker "Helper" meal in my grocery trolley...I was seduced by the picture on the front for Cheesy Beef Taco and the fact that this box was All Inclusive, so I wouldn't have to buy meat. I think it was on sale for $2.

Well, I made it the other night. The "beef" was actually a can with a few beef crumbles, but mostly water and fat. (I have to be honest, it had the consistency of vomit) The "seasoning packet" was mostly a thickener. Last and least, a cup of rice. Less than a cup. When I pulled the packet out I couldn't believe how little rice there was, so I measured it before adding it to the vomit and thickener mess. I put it in the oven and re-read the box. First I noted how the slogan above the directions said "For an easy and great-tasting meal!" with nothing about health content. There was nothing to brag about however: According to the box, a cup of rice and a can of beef-vomit should be enough for four people. Each serving had a 45% sodium content. Now, if I had pulled my usual trick and eaten half, saving half for lunch the next day, I would have eaten nearly my entire daily recommended allowance of sodium in one sitting.

I couldn't do it. I might not be the healthiest person in the world, but the idea of subjecting my heart and my body to a sodium content roughly equivalent to that of the Pacific ocean made my vascular system twitch. Luckily Jeff called and took me out on a date to the Tokyo Steakhouse...while this may not have been the most sodium-friendly place, at least it featured some actual vegetables and fresh chicken. The Cheesy Beef Taco went into the garbage.

I started doing some research about eating cheaply. Along the way I found this article about foodie hipsters using food stamps to buy salmon and lemongrass at Whole Foods. And then I found Clara. She's a ninety-four year old woman who shares Depression-Era cooking via YouTube. Some of the meals she talks about, like the Poorman's meal, sound eerily familiar. Potatoes, onions and hotdogs...sounds like me with my potatoes and eggs. I want to try this recipe for fresh bread. I'm still enjoying learning the finer points of baking bread. Now I can see how women in the eighteenth century would brag about their baking skills if they could.



Tonight I made fish cakes and had them with a spinach salad, tossed with a homemade vinaigrette. Except for the spinach, everything was stuff I had on hand. It never fails to amaze me how one night dinner will be a colossal cock up (last nights biscuits 'n ham) and the next night it will be Food Network-worthy (fish cakes of perfection.) I'm working for the next three evenings, so I took advantage of a night off to cook properly. Here's the recipes...I didn't put measurements because I know all you cooks out there can finagle things to perfection.

FISH CAKES:
Can of tuna, mixed with bread crumbs, little dried parsley, Old Bay seasoning (present from foodie boyfriend), and egg. Mix together. Fry in veggie oil, flipping once or twice until both sides are nicely browned.

DRESSING: I frickin' love this dressing. I got it from a friend in Chicago and this recipe is the sole reason I keep balsamic vinaigrette in the house. Olive oil plus balsamic vinaigrette, a little mustard powder (use Colman's, it's British and it comes in an awesome little tin!) and dill. Fresh dill is best, of course. Toss over everything and enjoy the hell out of it.

I know I talk about food a lot, but it was either that tonight or a discussion about how I suddenly realised, as I was doing his laundry, that I have upheld gender-stereotypes with my dog. Both his blankets are blue, and the new leash and collar set I bought last week are blue. Granted, it's a lovely powder blue, but I wasn't thinking, as my coworker was, how feminine it looked..I was thinking how the little bees on it reminded me of Napoleon's imperial symbol. Yeah. I'm a geek. Now, if only I could get a collar that says "ENGLAND EXPECTS."

The next baking project I want to attempt is a green tea cake...I just need to figure out where to get matcha powder.

Blogging from DC

Hello loyal readers. Well, I've made it to Washington DC successfully, even after the Snowmageddon. The streets and sidewalks are mostly clear, but there are huge piles of snow on every street corner. To cross the street, one must stick to the little rat runs--packed down paths of snow a pedestrian wide that cut through these snow piles. This makes it easier and harder to walk around--there is no jaywalking, but on the other hand, the cars are strictly restricted to the open lanes, so you know exactly where they're coming from.

I met my friend Alison here, she came down from New York. We're staying at a Radisson near the airport...it is a business oriented hotel, but very nice. Yesterday we spent all day indoors at the Smithsonian--first at the Natural History Museum, then at the American History Museum.

The Natural History Museum was for Alison, who likes dinosaurs. So we waded through all of the children (no doubt made even more crazy by a week's prison sentence) and admired the all the skeletons, sniggered at the dioramas dating from the sixties, and I learned that a brontosaurus was actually a made up animal. The Natural History Museum also had a traveling exhibit called "Written in Bones" which featured forensic science applied to skeletons dug up around the Chesapeake Bay area including--surprize!--Jamestowne. I'm sure Alison appreciated all my whispered asides during the introductory film on how accurate or not all the costumes were.

Then we went out to lunch at the Elephant and the Castle, a British-themed restaurant that wants to be a pub. It succeeds...sort of. Does it have British beer and fish 'n' chips? Sure. But the basketball on the television and the lack of brown sauce on the tables was sort of a downer. Cider was good though.

In the afternoon we visited the American History Museum, which re-opened in 2009 after some extensive remodeling. I'm not entirely sure it's done being remodeled actually, some of the exhibits were incredibly small for the amount of attention they got. Putting Kermit AND the ruby slippers in the same room for example--is that really how it's going to end up? I'm sure not. I was fortunate enough to see one of Martha Washington's day gowns, where I helpfully corrected another visitor's erroneous assumption upon seeing Abigail Adam's dancing shoes: "No, American women never bound their feet...she actually did have feet that small, she was probably only five foot two to five foot five." arg. I also got to see George Washington's uniform. Stepping close to examine the buttonholes, I came to within a foot of his breeches flap, steaming up the glass that separated us. *history geek shiver*

Afterward, still full from our British lunch, we stopped for tea, then headed over to Ford's Theater, where we took in "The Rivals," a show written in 1958, using the transcripts from the Lincoln/Douglas debates, which had happened a hundred years before. It was a fantastic show--if Abraham Lincoln was really as friendly as the man onstage last night, I think I would have liked him. It was also a little eerie. We got the $12 restricted view seats, which happened to be in the balcony, right across from the box where President Lincoln was shot. At the end of the show, as a recording of Lincoln's plea for unity and common sense played, they brought the lights up in the box. It was just about 10:30, right when Booth had shot Lincoln, leapt the twelve feet down to stage (no wonder he broke his leg) and made his escape. Almost saw the elephant then, only the cluster of source-fours prevented total immersion.

Then home. We stopped for Chinese food and took it up to our room...and now Alison isn't feeling well. Too much walking, not enough humidity in the air, Chinese food at eleven pm, she is happy to stay in bed and sip on ginger ale. I'm heading back out, possibly back to the Written in the Bones exhibit. Although I don't begrudge a day in. At least we have HBO--and I don't have to head out into the wind to take Kizzy for a walk every fifteen minutes. And isn't that was vacation is really all about? Really?

Winter Wonderland

It was very weird--very weird--to walkabout the historic area today. When the snow hadn't arrived by eleven pm Friday night, I went to bed convinced it would never come. I woke up to five inches, with more to come. All day Saturday it snowed, petering out around ten with a dusting of snow fine as mica flakes.

The snow put a pretty effective stop to traffic, indeed to civilisation as Virginia knows it. Poor Kismet was up to his chest in snow, which it made it rather difficult to potty, especially since the person at the other end of the leash was shivering so badly she could barely clutch the loop. Jeff and I spent all day tucked inside cooking. First crepes for lunch, then a hearty potato soup. We only went outside once, when my roommate talked us into seeing "Young Victoria." That required a slog through unplowed roads, wearing makeshift Wellies to keep my feet dry.



I remember, vaguely, weeks of this, snow and cold, with only more snow to follow. Here it's a marvel, a wonder, something to talk about in years to come. And it will probably be gone in a day or two. Already today the sun was out, heating up roofs and cars until snow slid off, drying plowed roads. Jeff and I, and Kismet (who was suffering from mega-cabin fever), took a long walk around the historical area. It was amazingly beautiful, even though the snow had been pretty trampled already, but still lovely. The historical area looked nothing like itself with a thick coat of white all over and a shield of pure blue sky above.







Best Potato Soup Recipe EVAR:
6 white potatoes as big as your fist, peeled and cut up to bite-sized pieces
Fresh fried bacon, cut into bits
Spring onions, chopped fine
A quarter of a red onion, chopped fine
2 cans Campbell's cream of chicken soup
1 quart chicken broth
Pepper to taste
Rosemary (which we did not actually put into the soup, because we did not have any, but I would have liked to try it...the chicken broth seemed to want a savoury herb)

Put everything into a crockpot and let it simmer while you and your sherpa slog through knee deep snow to see a historical drama. (approx. 3 hours) Mash up the potatoes with a hand-masher and let cook for another hour. Serve hot. Eats hearty enough for a meal, but try it with some Jiffy buttermilk biscuits for a real treat.

Snap to It

Allright, politics first, cookies second.

While I was jaunting over to blogspot to update, I happened to catch a headline on Yahoo! news that read "Obama Grade From Historians Will Drop Without Healthcare Bill." *sigh*

I'm sure most of my loyal readers have been wondering what I, liberal, Obama-supporting, healthcare-for-all-with-women's-rights-advocating Nicki, has thought of the recent developments that have occurred on Capitol Hill. Well, I'll give you all two cent's worth of opinion, which is I am thoroughly disappointed. I have to admit I thought that Obama would take his majority and get something slammed through Congress. I know he said--and we all want--he would work with Republicans, throw away all the partisan bullpatties, but the fact of the matter is: The Republicans are not playing ball right now, even though Obama is trying. So instead it's politics as usual and nothing is getting accomplished. The thing I am most disappointed in is universal healthcare being thrown away (I know, I know the problems with it, but still). There are many people (like myself) who would love an opportunity not to be tied to a job just for the benefits...but we will not see that opportunity in this lifetime apparently.

But this article is a little upsetting. The bloody Nobel peace prize committee did the same thing: can we please let him finish one term in office before we start looking at his tenure through history's lenses, please? I'm less enthusiastic about Obama, even though I still support him. Right now I just want people to stop analyzing his every move so he can actually get some work done. I still trust him--hell, I put him in office because I knew I could let him do his work without me needing to prod him every step of the way--and I still believe he can do great things.

I just wish he would stop acting like such a bipartisan nonentity, go a little Red and draw some blood. Just sayin'.

Okay! Who wants cookies!

On New Year's Eve, Jeff and I rented Julie and Julia, the movie about a woman (Julie) cooking her way through Julia (Julia) Child's book Mastering the Art of French Cooking. In a fit of romanticism I went into Barnes and Noble a few days later with the vague idea of purchasing said book and working through some of the easier recipes. (Although I did want to attempt the stuffed duck at the end of the movie...mmm, pound of beef wrapped in boned duck wrapped in pastry with butter...mmm...) When I got to Barnes and Noble I discovered two things: One, Mastering the Art of French Cooking is bloody expensive--at least eighty dollars for at two book set with the "vintage" original cover. Two, I really have no interest in learning French cooking. I am a jolly jack tar after all, consumed with cooking the perfect roast beef over an open hearth, using the drippings to create the perfect Yorkshire pudding and following it all up with the perfect Boiled Baby.

So instead I bought Betty Crocker's Cookbook. I thought it was the Better Homes and Gardens cookbook, but it's very similar, red binder, lots of "how-to-melt-butter" kind of advice and pictures of the different cuts of meat. It's a lot more practical, and the recipes are a lot easier to follow. I have enjoyed several meals already, and I've got the ingredients for Tuna Salad for this weekend.

Each week at work someone is assigned to make and clean up coffee, and this is my week. Generally, people bring in a treat one or two days as well. It's a chance to show off baking skillz and try out new recipes. I was going to bake up a pan of box brownies, but instead I was brave and tried out the Gingersnap recipe. They turned out pretty good...I watched them like a hawk, mindful of the Great Cookie Carnages of time past, but this time...I don't think I have anything to be ashamed of.






PS: If you are following the events in Haiti and want to contribute, please consider donating to the United Methodist Committee on Relief. Their overhead is not as high as some groups, like Red Cross, and they already have long-term missions and groups established in Haiti. Cheers!

UNGH the soliloquy....

Mom and Dad bought me a new MacBook Pro with a seventeen inch monitor for Christmas. I was not expecting this: I had asked for a robe. And when mom prompted me with a "that's it?" I thought for a moment and went "oh, and slippers. Slippers would be nice." When I got home from the funeral, a box of Christmas presents was waiting for me...I unpacked it and set them all under the tree to await Christmas morning. I thought the funny thin heavy box with a handle on the top was maybe a toolkit...possibly for my car? And ironically that was the last box I opened. Jeff had moved on to discussing how we were going to handle food for our party that evening when the look of shock on my face cut him off...I couldn't believe it. Sitting here now, wearing my new robe and slippers, typing on keys as smooth as butter, I still can't believe this beautiful machine is mine. THANK YOU MOM AND DAD. So much potential opens up before me. I can actually take this laptop places, since it actually holds a charge. There's plenty of room for music, movies and writing. So far all I've done with it is surf the internet...next weekend I'm going to take it down to the Apple Store in Norfolk and have them give me some tutorials. It's like having a Mustang in your garage...you need someone to show you how to shift properly. LOVE IT SO MUCH.

I feel like I owe everyone a big ol' blog post to get you all up to date. Recently, a blog I follow didn't update for nearly a month and I panicked, thinking the writer had died in a horrible fiery car crash...turns out she was busy. I know the feeling. So where to begin? Let's not go back to the funeral, even though now that I'm here in Williamsburg I keep forgetting Grandma is gone. Keep thinking "oh, I have to tell her about this" or write her name down on my Christmas card list...then I catch myself. I guess this will continue to happen for a little while. But that's okay.

Christmas Day was spent with Jeff and his family. We went over to his godparent's house for Christmas dinner, Virginia-style, with turkey AND ham, collard greens, cornbread stuffing, cranberry relish, sweet potato casserole, mashed potatoes, dozens of other dishes I can't remember and three kinds of pie to finish. I was stuffed. We couldn't linger too long, however, because we were planning on hosting a little party of our own. Only seven adults here, but I had instructed my guests to come hungry and we had made enough food for a regiment. Jeff made his rum balls and salmon dip, I made mom's meatballs and whiskey weiners, and our guests brought over their Christmas specialties, padded out by chips, veggies, and a big ol' crockpot full of wassail. We finally had to kick them out around midnight. I had a bridesmaid dress to finish.

Boxing Day was a laaaazy day. Jeff and I worked our way through the six-disk set of Monty Python I had bought him for Christmas while I frantically tried to finish my 1930's bridesmaid dress and attach buttons to my coat. I also had to pack. It was luxurious, being able to throw as much stuff as I wanted into the car, including most of our Christmas leftovers. But alas!! Apparently Gladware isn't waterproof!!! Oh, how sad was I to get down to Florida and discover my whiskey weiners and meatballs were completely saturated with ice!!! The saddest day ever...

But I'm getting ahead of my story. December 27th, four-thirty AM, I jump in Chi-Chi and begin the drive down to Florida. I stop and pick up Erin and her husband Mike, who are also in the wedding, and we begin the trek. Virginia, North Carolina, South Carolina, all pass by in a blur as the sun comes up and begins to slide down. We are in holiday traffic, occasionally slowing and stopping. Then we hit our biggest slowdown yet--for two hours we are creeping until we finally pass by a horrific traffic accident. We are thankful for our safe journey and take it easy, arriving two hours late, but in one piece.

Nicole and Evan's wedding took place at the Beach Club Resort, which is one of the Disney hotel properties. It sits on a little lagoon with the Yacht Club on one side and the Boardwalk on the other. It is huge. Airy, blue with white trim, it really looks like a giant version of a nineteenth century seaside resort. We check in and are promptly whisked off to Disney Downtown (what used to be Paradise Island) and have a late, late supper. The next day I am awoken at seven-thirty and by nine-thirty I am on Big Thunder Railroad at the Magic Kingdom. I seem to recall Big Thunder Railroad being a lot more intense when I was ten years old, but I scream and throw up my hands anyway. Magic Kingdom is brilliant when you're an adult. We make fun of the animatronic animals on Splash Mountain, squeal like girls when the water from Pirates of the Caribbean splashes us and run to the Adventure River to catch Princess Tiana's Showboat Spectacular, knocking over several small children on the way. Magic Kingdom is hellaciously busy. After the eleven o'clock parade the park is suddenly overrun with parents pushing strollers and little kids wandering hither and yon. Little kids meaning kids under two years old who are never going to remember this, and are only going to exhaust their parents with their nap-deprived demands for toys and food. Disney has a new thing called Fastpass, which allows you to scan your ticket at certain rides and receive a time when you can skip the line and get straight on the ride. A one-thirty scan for Space Mountain spits out a Fastpass time of eleven-fifteen at night. We opt for dinner.

Dinner is at O'hana's, at the Polynesian, another Disney resort. It is a set menu: BBQ chicken and potstickers, salad, steamed broccoli and noodles, then skewers of steak, turkey, pork and shrimp, with pineapple bread pudding to finish. We all overeat and stagger back to the hotel at nine-thirty.

The next day the only one up and perky at seven is the bride. I manage to stay in bed until nine. Then we pop over to the gazebo to scout out where the ceremony will be held before Erin and I head over to the salon and get our hair done up for the wedding. A nineteen-thirties hairstyle that leaves me looking like Eva Peron's mom from the movie Evita takes two and a half hours. I hurry back and get into my dress and shoes. I have been worried about these heels for weeks, but anything less than two inches is not an option. Somehow I manage to stay upright for the walk over to the gazebo, the brief but beautiful ceremony (I cried), and the pictures afterward. Nicole arrived at the pavilion in a 1958 white Rolls Royce...Erin and I enjoy a brief ride down the boardwalk to the spot where we're taking more pictures, earning more than one double take as people notice the "Just Married" sticker in the window. We take a boat back to the Yacht Club and the shoes come off. Dinner is a small, intimate affair...with less than thirty people at the wedding, including the wedding party, it is easy to get to know everyone. Not much dancing (not that my legs would be in any sort of shape for dancing), and by nine-thirty we've sent the couple off to start their honeymoon. The wedding party changes and takes one last walk around the lagoon. A brief walk...never seen Florida so frosty.

Then home again. This time it's the traffic what cooperates and the road-trippers who are dallying. We turn off the main path and have lunch in Saint Augustine, which is a tiny little town, the oldest one in a America, full of cute little stores, cobblestone streets and farby pirates. And good pizza. The rest of the drive home is uneventful. I am in bed by two-forty five, so I get nearly four hours of sleep before I have to go to work.

But it's only one day and I have a three day weekend. Jeff comes up to Williamsburg, bearing a freshly-washed Kismet, and we watch movies until it's time for the ball to drop. I finally have someone to smooch on New Year's Eve, and it's wonderful. The next day I meet up with him down in Norfolk and we go see The Real Pirates exhibit at Nauticus in Norfolk. It is wonderful. There are chests overflowing with silver, guns, tools, pieces of clothing and even smells floating around. You can tell it was put on by National Geographic--it's done incredibly well. Some of Jeff's friends are there, guys who rent themselves out as pirates occasionally, and they add to the atmosphere by doing demonstrations and letting kids handle their reproduction guns. I have to correct a small child who attempts to cock a flintlock by making a modern "chk-chk" sound.

We go see Sherlock Holmes, which was pretty good. Not quite sure how I felt about the story, but the acting was good and London was pretty underneath all its dirt...the same could be said for Jude Law and Robert Downey Jr. of course.

Now it is noon. January 3rd, 2010. It is freezing: the temperature is probably in the teens with the windchill and the wind is howling. Kismet is bugging to go out, so we'll probably head to the dogpark this afternoon. (His chomping of a pork bone seems to have affected him not at all, little stinker) Life is good. I will put up some pictures of the wedding as soon as I get any...and I promise to post more liberally in the new year.

with mirth and good liquor we'll lead merry lives

In the end I made a flying trip home to Green Bay for the funeral...which happened to be on my birthday. After cancelled flights, diverting into Chicago and renting a car I finally made it home about eleven fifteen on Sunday. No one was surprised to see me home. It felt right to be there, to be able to say goodbye and grieve with my family and the people who knew Grandma best. The funeral was simple...afterward we went over to Bethany United Methodist and had sandwiches...then we went back to my parents for more reminiscing and I worked like a fiend trying to get Lily's stocking done in time for Christmas. I only hope Santa was able to fill it since I wasn't. Tuesday I flew back to Virginia, which was much less of a headache.

A day and a half of work later and it was Christmas. My Christmas present to my friends was a party Christmas Day evening, so Jeff and I spent Christmas Eve cooking and getting ready. Today we are relaxing. I have a bridesmaid dress to finish, laundry to do and a car to clean out for my drive down to Florida tomorrow, but I'm not stressing.

It has been an interesting holiday season. I don't know if I care to repeat it, but never before has so much joy and sadness been mingled together. Thanks everyone for your prayers and thoughts...I'm doing okay, looking forward to some quiet time in 2010.

Happy Turkey Day

Well, turkey day is over here. I spent it with Jeff and his parents, at a local restaurant...this is the first time I've ever eaten out on Thanksgiving Day. The food was great, but I felt a little guilty about making people work on a holiday. And work really hard--although we went to a buffet, so the chefs were mostly concerned with making sure the tables were full--it was obvious that the waitstaff were running ragged, trying to keep up with drink orders and clearing plates.

The food was incredible though. Along with trying to learn more about eighteenth century cooking, I'm trying to learn more Southern-style cooking. This is mostly different foods (like collard greens and oyster stuffing), but there are a couple techniques involved we didn't learn in Wisconsin. Like frying. I fried up some chicken the other night, and it turned out beautifully. Fried with egg and flour in vegetable oil, mind you. But, I'm afraid it might not count, since it was chicken breast strips. Not a whole chicken, or even bones-in pieces. Baby steps though, I'm on my way. I even contemplated buying lard the other day so I could do biscuits properly. (yeah, yeah, I know--Sam's over there talking about making healthy Indian food from scratch, and I'm frying chicken and cooking with lard)

I also have to work tonight, which is another reason we went out. It's weird not cooking on turkey day, but it's also nice not having to deal with the dishes. Kizzy got left out though, he had to settle for some leftover spoonbread (another Southern delicacy) mixed in with his kibble. I am thankful for a good year--a new boyfriend, a beautifully behaved beagle--good friends, a steady job and now new opportunities. It's been a good year. Next year, though I'm cooking. And I'll definitely be incorporating all my new receipes.

Friday Night

Last week we had a nor'easter, which was pretty hellacious. Worse than Hurricane Hanna, with flood levels near Hurricane Isabel, although most places managed to hang on to their power. It hasn't stopped raining in three almost four days...I'm starting to feel like a character in a Don Bluth film.

Gosh, there's so much to write about. A few weeks ago we at the Costume Design Center had an open house, for the 75th anniversary of costume design at CW, and one of our VP's was so impressed he suggested we should do some kind of evening program based around costumes. Our manager asked me to write it since I am A) intimately acquainted with all of CW's clothes and the historical time periods B) It is a slow time and they could let me go read eighteenth-century Virginia Gazettes without work piling up C) I have a wicked sense of humor and --oh yeah, D) I am a trained playwright. Hyaaaah! Trained like a NINJA. It was so frickin' GREAT to write--and to do it while I was ON THE CLOCK--and barge into Linda Baumgarten's office like I was a professional and question her about stomachers--and let me tell you, the high I got last Friday as I finished that first draft and mailed it in was fantastic. I'd forgotten what that feels like. THIS is what I needed: a clearly defined goal, a deadline and someone who believes in me. The next step is seeing if we can do it..do we have the space, actors, budget, etc, but I will surely keep you posted.

That's the most exciting news...the reason I haven't been posting much is because I've been an overworked, stressed, cranky Nicki lately, and that doesn't make for exciting blogging. The evening programs are slowing down though--I'm getting cancelled more--which is both a blessing and a curse. It's bad, obviously, because it means less money, but it's a good thing because it means I can spend more time working on Christmas projects, walking Kismet and sleeping. Last night I actually got to bed by ten, and I can already feel the difference an extra hour of sleep makes. And I have time to make dinner tonight, so I'm making hotdish. Does anyone out there listen to Prairie Home Companion? I usually catch it Sundays after church...it makes me homesick, listening to all those Midwestern accents. Last time they were talking about hot dish, which got me hungry, even though mom never made it when I was growing up. I had to explain to my roommate that hot dish is a casserole made by a Midwesterner.

I'll try to post some pictures of some projects soon...but some of them are Christmas presents, so they may have to wait until after December 25th...

which it will be READY when its READY

Friends, I am in the throes--the throes, I tell you--of a serious Patrick O'Brian infatuation. The last month or so I have been doing nothing but reading, sleeping, thinking and dreaming Aubrey/Maturin. And now, thanks to the book "Lobscouse & Spotted Dog" I will soon be eating and drinking it as well. I am so obsessed with these books I've even picked up steward Killick's habit of inserting the word "which" at the beginning of sentences. One of my favourite things about these books are the loving descriptions of the food. But there are no receipts, a glaring omission that "Lobscouse" rectifies.

I checked the book out from the library today just to get a flavor of it (flavor, you twig? har!)--far easier to follow than my Wmsbrg Cookery, with its oven settings and measurements in modern cups and tablespoons--but with a lot of the original nineteenth century sources cited. Wistful thinking about cooking on a spit over an open hearth became wistful no more when I looked up and saw our brick fireplace--with a lovely large hearth just begging to be roasted upon. And I can think of no better delicacy to bring home to this year's Christmas feast than a Christmas pudding...although if I was to do it absolutely correctly, I should start it now and let it hang unmolested in the corner for the next three months. And then light it on fire. Wheee.

I don't know why all of a sudden I'm so obsessed with historical cooking (why I'm obsessed with Aubrey/Maturin is perfectly obvious) except I think it's something to do with the hearty, historical way receipts are put together. Lard, flour, eggs, suet, all combining to create something glorious. The tastes aren't as rich or as subtle, but they're easier to appreciate. You put rosewater in custard and by God, it tastes as rosy as a spring morning. I'm looking forward to mastering pudding...not only because as an Anglophile it's a duty, but because apparently it's Patrick O'Brian's favourite dessert.

distinctly uncomfortable

The pie...was not a success. (the Yorkshire pudding, pt 2, was however. Unrivalled in its glory) I think the problem was I didn't cook down the blueberries enough and then added frozen before I let them thaw. The water from the frozen threw off the water/flour ratio, and the result was pie-soup in a graham cracker crust. Disgusting! Except when you scoop it over delicious vanilla ice-cream. Mmm...

My roommate, Jordon, is a W&M student, she's going to be a physical therapist some day. She is a dedicated academic, cleans the kitchen without prompting, runs marathons for fun and she babysits Kismet when I have to work. And she's watching "The Biggest Loser" right now. I got into the show last year, mostly because Jordon watched it, but I came into the season when people were losing dozens of pounds left and right, spouting feel-good maxims and it was mostly equal, harmless fun. Tonight's the series premiere, when America is introduced to the freak show that is this year's crop of losers, pre-losing. And suddenly I don't quite have the stomach for ice cream and pie soup.

It's not that the contestants are anything new--some of them are scarily big, and they've already had to take one person to the hospital after running a mile. But some of them are not much bigger than I am. And I am sitting here, squinting, confused, watching while women wail into their hands and swear--swear--that they will lose the weight and never, EVER allow themselves to get that big again. Okay. So how is that supposed to make me feel?

Apparently pretty crappy, according to the trainers, who are gushing about how "oh, this is the biggest show we've had so far, but this is how America looks now." So even though I'm at the small end of my size spectrum, I'm supposed to feel ashamed of my body because I'm still not small enough for mainstream America. And now we have a doctor who's point blank telling these people they're sick. Overweight, yes, but that's a "disease" you can take care of. Arg. I'm already feeling bad because the weight is slooowly piling on (I blame Jeff, who likes to take me out and feed me well) and with two weddings coming up, I've been eating salads for lunch and trying to walk Kizzy for an hour each night. Like yer supposed ta. But I'm not trying to become obsessed about my weight. I will lose ten pounds, get back to the post-London weight, and then I'm done. And I won't feel ashamed because someone on The Biggest Loser is starting out at my target weight.

At least, that's the hope...

the universe does not want me to bake

Remember last November when the great cookie carnage of '08 occurred? Little did I realise that this signaled the beginning of a trend. I have been trying to up my game a little, since my roommate can turn out the most amazing treats with little more than butter, sugar, caramel and showtunes. But whenever I attempt anything more challenging than a Krust-Eaze box mix, the results usually go horribly awry.

It doesn't help that Jeff is trying to get me interested in period cooking. As a colonial woman, of course cooking would be my responsibility, and it's one that I genuinely AM interested in, especially since I get to play with fires. But it hasn't been going so well. I'm trying to master a Sally Lunn receipe, which is flour, water, eggs, sugar, uh, salt, and yeast. And I have yet to not kill the first batch of yeast, so I always end up using twice as many packets. Then of course there was my unintentional over-spraying of the pan, resulting in a lovely puddle of...whatever it is they put in non-stick cooking spray. (not historically accurate, I know, but then again, neither are electric ovens) Jeff even bought me the a copy of the Gentlewoman's Companion, a CW publication that has over five-hundred receipes, all printed in the original eighteenth century dialect. Which is nice, except for the baking times: "Bake in a moderate oven." Ooookay. Thank heavens for margins where I can scribble modern interpretations and notes. (1 pint=2 cups. Bake at 350 for approx. 20 minutes...)

Jeff was off at a workshop today, so I decided to try to find something I could make for dinner. Most of the receipes called for ingredients that I didn't have ("take a piece of lard the size of a goodly egg...") but I finally settled on breaded lamb chops and Yorkshire pudding. I love Yorkshire pudding, but I haven't had it since England, so I was excited. And the receipe was easy: three eggs, well beaten, a cup and a half of sweet milk, three tablespoons of butter, melted, a cup and a half of flour, sifted. Mix together well, pour into a shallow pan, bake in a hot oven. ("400 degrees for 30 min/425, 25 min?") The pudding, baked in a Pyrex pie pan, turned out glorious. It bubbled up in the middle, butter pooling around the edges, and then sank back down when I took it out of the oven, just like I remembered. Finally, I thought--something right.

Then Jeff and Nicole came over. Nicole is learning how to build men's waistcoats from scratch and Jeff is her guinea pig. I directed him to the bangers I had bought for dinner and started the process of reducing potatoes to mash...until Nicole asked if the pudding was supposed to be smoking. Jeff had turned the burner on under the pudding, not the burner under the pan o' bangers, and the pudding was burning. I grabbed up a towel, moved the pudding to another burner to cool off and turned off the offending burner. I stood there, towel in hand, intently studying the pudding to see if it had been burned when--

BANG

The Pyrex exploded. Shards flew everywhere, hiding themselves in corners and liberally dusting the scones I had made earlier. My heart, moments before preoccupied with beating normally while I saved the pudding, moved instantly into overdrive. Kismet came over to investigate, until Nicole grabbed his collar. I was so shocked I couldn't speak.

We cleaned the kitchen up. Pyrex may be indestructible, but once it destructs, it is some nasty edges and sharp pointy bits. HOT sharp pointy bits. But we got it cleaned up. I threw away the pudding, and a couple of scones, not wishing to inflict a horrible lingering death on my dinner guests, but oh, how my heart ached for that lovely, golden brown pudding.

Now, I was angry. I knew, logically, that it was an accident--that our stove does not make it easy for you to know which knob to turn--had made the same mistake myself once or twice--roommate had shattered a Pyrex lid only last year--but all the same, I was angry. I stomped around and held back tears, and in the end, just hugged Jeff and apologised.

"I'm not angry at you," I said, he looking earnestly and apologetically at me, "I'm mad at the universe. Apparently the universe does not want me to bake. Just when I thought I was going to succeed, the universe notices and says "oh no you don't!" and snatches victory out of my grasp."

Little does the the universe know I'm going to attempt blueberry pie tomorrow...

More food

I guess I shouldn't complain about money and then turn around and spend a hundred dollars at the grocery store. But I am sick of eating foods out of boxes. And my boss brought in a dozen old "Cooking Light" magazines, which inspired me to actually make something to take to work instead of a can of soup and a peanut butter sandwich. I made tabouli, which involved a fun new substance called bulger, parsley, peppers, tomatoes, lemon juice, and olive oil. Then tonight I sauteed some frozen shrimp in a little lime juice and cilantro. Cooking is easy, but it's just making the time commitment to do it. It's worth it though...shrimp is so tasty on a chilly Wednesday.

Cookie Carnage: Pt 2

So, not only am I hopeless with the baking, I apparently can't even follow a simple box mix anymore. I'm having friends over for dinner tomorrow night, and I thought I'd bake up a box of Duncan Hines chocolate-chip cookies for dessert. So I dumped the mix into a bowl, added an egg and a tablespoon of butter, and then popped it into the microwave to melt the butter.

Totally forgetting that not only would a microwave melt butter, but also cook an egg.

So yeah. When I took the bowl out, there was a nice broiled egg sitting on top of the mix. And the chocolate chips were melty. By the time I got most of the egg out of the bowl, I had mixed the chocolate into the batter so it was a lovely even shade of brown. ARG. My roommate was generous enough to give me some more chocolate chips, but the final effect was pretty dismal. Chocolate-chocolate chip cookies sound good, until you hit a piece of cooked egg that I missed.

So, I'll probably skip dessert tomorrow...these are so gross I don't even want to eat them myself.

The good news about today is that I got switched back to the men's team. After trying out both teams, everyone was asked which one they'd like to be on, and it seems like everyone pretty much got their first pick. I'm looking forward to be back in breeches land...I only altered one silk gown, but one was enough. During the months of January and February many of the interpreters are laid off temporarily, so the shop is full of laundry pieces. Once we get through those, however, it is a very, very slow time for us. The men's team will be working on replacing the military uniforms currently out in the historical area...giving them a more uniform look that's also more period appropriate. I, of course, am very excited. Give me a good hank of wool yardage any day...something I can stitch into a uniform so crisp it'll stand on its own.

cookie carnage

The costume design center is closed on Thanksgiving, even though the historical area is open, meaning that once again I get a day off while others have to work. Because I'm a generous soul (either that or I'm feeling guilty) I decided to bake some cookies and walk around handing them out on Thursday.

I used to bake a lot more, and clearly I'm out of practise. Why is it I never bake a simple dozen at a time but instead I must do four different kinds of cookies, doubling and quadrupling recipies with wild abandon? The result of three hours arduous labor resulted in some very unsavory treats.

My roommate, bless her, really belongs in 1820s England. We have an agreement, actually, should we ever conquer the island she gets the rest of England while I'll "settle" for the capital. When I asked her what kind of cookies she wanted she got a misty, far away look in her eye and said "British shortbread." Okay. They turned out--sort of--except for the part where they broke apart when I tried to scrape them off the pan. Oh, and the part where they soaked through the paper onto her placemats. Oops. Shortly after this I put some tinfoil underneath...



My roommate, I should mention, bakes like a fiend. Only this past weekend she made period gingerbread with period icing, cut into pretty little hearts. She apologised for burning some, and suggested we could use them for Christmas decorating, but her idea of "burned" means it takes a few extra seconds to melt in your mouth. sigh.

After the shortbread I attempted some oatmeal cookies. I copied a receipe off the internet, but I might have missed a vital ingredient, because they came out looking like, well, like dog barf. Happily I had tinfoil'd the pan, so I could pick it all up and throw it out, but I was sad to see so much delicious oatmeal go to waste.



The peanut butter cookies came out okay...well, except the ones that I left in the oven too long and they burned...but after having to toss out half my efforts, I don't really have enough to hand out. Oh well. Maybe I'll supplement with some store bought ones.

Here's the finished pile. Kizzy was being very helpful, mostly picking up crumbs around my feet. After I scraped the peanut butter jar clean I let him lick it out, which makes me either the best mom or the worst mom in the world.


"Nice. Thanks for putting my pillow right under your cookies. And you wonder why I jump up."

I think we both have tummy aches...dinner for me was whatever I could lick off my fingers and burned cookies...so it's time for bed. I sure hope that my contributions for Thanksgiving turn out better.

The Macy's Parade starts at nine am here on the east coast...watch for the Kermit balloon, the Fife & Drum Corps will be right behind him!

Fat & Happy Puppy

It's great having people visit, because I get to be a tourist at CW without feeling like an interloper. Tonight Peter G. and I ate at the King's Arms, which is a high-class joint specialising in dishes that are inspired by the eighteenth century. We could have sat inside and listened to the violin player, but instead we chose to sit out under the grapevines. It was a cool mid-eighties today, perfect for dining al fresco. I had veggie ravioli, not very period but so good I nearly expired from the deliciousness.

Afterward we went to the Governor's Palace for another concert, this time a quartet. A German flute (wooden, forerunner of the modern orchestral flute), an English flute (basically a big fat recorder), a viol de gamba (sixteenth century instrument that was slowly going out of style due to the fact it was very quiet), and a harpsichord. From 1758. Yup--an actual period instrument, what was around when Geo. Washington was dancing the minuet.

It's okay. Have a moment. I did.

The concert was lit by candlelight and it was lovely, apart from the small child who couldn't seem to stay on her chair and spent most of it rolling around on the carpet. Afterward we caught the bus home, where Nicki found her "congratulations you got promoted" present she gave to herself waiting for her. Huzzah. I've been lusting after this book for three years, ever since I saw the Nelson & Napoleon exhibit at the NMM. And now it's mine.

Happily, my carpooling friend is back today, so I can sleep later since I don't have to catch the bus to work. It takes a lot out of you, eating and concerting your way through CW.

Early Night

The reason I'm blogging at six-thirty instead of sitting on a bus, coming home from militia, is because I forgot a key component of my wardrobe. I was halfway into my stockings, hunched over in the small bathroom in the Roscoe Cole House, when I suddenly realised I'd left my shoes at the costume center. Bugger. There was no possible way I could get over there, retrieve my shoes, and still have time to dress and be at the military headquarters in time for the review. So, no marching for me today.

Ironically, I had all the time in the world this afternoon. We had our departmental picnic, so the CDC shut down at noon (no fresh costumes for the interpreters, haha), and we ate our way through the next two hours. Salads and burgers and chips and dips and enough brownies to go sledding down. Oh, it was bliss. Afterward, we were free to go wandering through the historical area, so that's just what I did. Another coworker and I wandered over the magazine and practised our grenadoe throwing before going into the magazine and listening to my searjeant give his speech on the weaponry stored therein. I was even cheeky and said "so...what time is the military review today?" while he sort of glowered at me. Me in my shorts and lightweight tee, he in his shirt, weskit and gaiter trowsers, me not realising the tragedy that was about to befall.

Stupid shoes. I dearly love marching.

But it's a hundred degrees out today, and, between you, me and the binnacle, maybe I'm not so sorry to have missed the review. A hundred degrees of temperature on a full stomach...maybe not such a good idea.

Safe Territory

Remind me to relay the conversation about Nicki dating a Navy man some other time.

I just read a blog post over at The Radical Write, who's a friend of a friend, where she talks about associating certain items with friends and loved ones. I do that too--stupid little things, like the Mach 3 razor that's accompanied me for the past six years, purchased when my brother got sick of me stealing his, or the pen from the hotel in Salem where my parents stayed when they took me to Massachusetts for my internship. Things that have been with me for so long I take them for granted unless I stop and think about it.

Then there's the stuff that stops you dead in your tracks and conjures up a memory so vivid that it hurts, right about where your solar plexus is. This happened the other day when a well-meaning friend sent me a link to a website (www.britishdelights.com) that sells British food here in the US--not just McVitties or Cadbury's, but proper British food, like bangers and Bistro gravy. Which is on my list of things to buy when I get a kitchen, so I can have "real" bangers and mash.

But the thing that got me the most was the Robinson's squash. I blogged about squash, oh, years ago now, as one of the things I liked most about Britain. (also: note the reference to breeches and periwigs. sigh.) Basically it's condensed fruit juice: one liter of squash will make ten liters of juice. A splash in a glass will liven up any quick drink of water. There's no squash here in the US, of course, so instead I make Crystal Light instead. And it tastes good. But I'm not thinking about the taste--I'm thinking about walking through a Sainsbury's, giggling at the Aisle of Tea, trying to figure out what some of the products are by their description or the pictures on the packet, getting eggs off the unrefrigerated shelves and buying milk by the half-pint. I'm back in London, back in the most mundane, ordinary, boring parts of living in London, and those are the moments that drive me crazy. That make me have to stop, mentally turn myself away and refocus on the task at hand.

It's okay. London is still there. It's okay.

And when I move to my new place, I'm gonna shell out for the squash.

Outclassed

Talk about bringing a knife to a gunfight.

Last Thursday my church choir had a picnic, generously hosted at the home of one of the altos. The house was the picture of elegance, sitting on a little dip into the James River, with rooms full of antique maps, furniture, marble flooring, and a bronzze bust of Thomas Jefferson in the foyer.

Not the neck-up bust of Jefferson. The full-torso bust of Jefferson.

Needless to say, I was on my best behaviour.

I decided not to make anything, even though I could have assembled a Greek salad, instead I brought several bags of gourmet chips and some swanky salsa and buffalo sauce/rance dressing dip that I purchased at one of the gourmet food stores here in Wmsbrg. But, after seeing the table positively groaning with fried chicken, salads, casseroles, couscous, taco salad, sandwiches, fresh veg and fruit and plates upon plates of brownies, I wasn't surprised when no one dipped into my buffalo dip. I should have remembered there's nothing like a Methodist when it comes to potluck.

Next time, I'm bringing my "A" game.

The party was nice though--I ate too much, of course, and sipped awkwardly on sweet tea while my tablemates chatted about grandchildren and people I didn't know--but I had a good time.

Meanwhile, it's a hundred degrees here. I'm not even exaggerating. I know I said once I'd rather have it be hot than be cold, but even I, in my salamander-like state of mind, am finding it difficult to be outside. I think I'm going to go find a muffin and some more sweet tea...if there's any ice left in thic town.