Monday Laugh

You're all in luck - I considered not posting a Monday Laugh today because I shared Look Around You yesterday, but then I decided to be kind and give you Bill Bailey's "Pubbe Gagge."  Bill Bailey is on one of my favorite, though unfortunately no longer running, TV shows: Black Books.  It's very dry English humor, and you probably can't find the show in the States, but I love it.  (I may love it because it's the first show that Jon introduced me to and I have very happy memories of watching it during the early days of our relationship... but I digress.)

Cultural Differences, Part Two

All of that being said, I definitely have moments here in which I think, "Toto, we're not in Kansas anymore."

For instance, I'm having a very English afternoon.  Jon and I had tea at a café on the King's Road in Chelsea and then argued with a bus on the way home.  (Very English, arguing with buses.)  I'm currently sitting in the living room with Jon, John, Sam, and John's fiancée Lucy - we've just watched the David Attenborough documentary on invertebrates.  We now have on a Youtube video on of Look Around You: Water.  Look Around You is a British series, made in 2002, mocking '70s nature documentaries.  I've only seen the water one, but I think that most of them are online - you've got to check them out.  At the very least, watch this one:

Hi-freaking-larious.

"What are birds?  We just don't know."

So Toto?  We're definitely not in Kansas.

Cultural Differences, Part One

Recently, I had a conversation about my blog - and blogging in general - with a friend who is a professional writer and whose judgement on all things creative I trust implicitly.  I bemoaned the lack of expat posts on my blog.  She agreed that my blog has been taken over by fashion and food, which isn't bad in and of itself, but she pointed out that a lot of people (well, it's all relative!) do read my blog for my observations on London/UK life.  She encouraged me to write about situations in which I've perceived or interpreted things differently than my English peers by virtue of my nationality and to think about experiences I've had that mark me as an American in a foreign land.

Well, Nikki, let me tell you this: I'm trying!  I'm trying, and I will try harder, but I'm actually really struggling with this.  I'm having a difficult time identifying situations in which cultural differences flare up and/or experiences in which I feel strongly "other."

I have a few theories as to why this is - and they all make me sound incredibly arrogant.  So let me apologize prior to sharing them: I'm sorry.  I'm really not a pretentious t-word, I promise!  (You Brits know of what "t-word" I'm speaking, but I don't want to offend my American readers - please understand that, in America, the t-word is a vulgar term for... um... female genitalia... whereas in England it's just a casual insult.  Oh, hey, look: a cultural difference!  Success already!)

Anyway.  The theories.

Theory 1:  I'm not new to living abroad.  I spent eight months as a student and chomeuse in Paris when I was 20 and I studied for my MA in London for eleven months when I was 22.  Therefore, I'm used to experiencing cultural differences and have made myself somewhat immune to them.  I think that you sort of have to let any difficulties you may have adjusting to a new place roll off your back because if you give in to them you'll make it harder for yourself to assimilate.  Easier said than done, I know, but I don't really have the patience to put up a fight against assimilation - which brings us to:

Theory 2:  I desperately want to assimilate to an English way of life.  I think I try not to notice cultural differences because they make me feel foreign and other, and I'm trying so hard to go native.  I'm not ashamed of being American at all; in fact, I love being American and I certainly do miss home, but at the same time I've very much looking forward to not being identified as a long-term tourist - which brings us to:

Theory 3:  I'm not a long-term tourist.  I have a visa, I have a job, I have a flat, I have a boyfriend.  I live here.  Any cultural differences I run into will just have to be folded into the learning curve of moving somewhere new.  And that is, ultimately, how I view this whole experience.  I have moved somewhere new.  It happens to be across an ocean, yes, where people have [insert adjective here] accents and rabidly follow the antics of WAGS and believe in a monarchy, but, honestly, if I moved to Boston or Seattle or Houston I'd probably still discover cultural differences.

So there.  Those are my theories.  I will keep trying to note down the cultural differences I run into, but please do be understanding when you find those parts few and far between!

Je Chante, Chante, Chante

I sing.  Have I mentioned that before?  Yes, here - I forgot.  Sorry!

Anyway, I've been singing seriously and semi-professionally since I was 12, when I joined the Cathedral Choir of Men and Girls at Washington National Cathedral.  I continued singing through college, first at St. Michael's in Manhattan and then, during my semester abroad, at the American Cathedral in Paris.  (Worst.  Jew.  Ever.  I know.)  I didn't sing much during my senior year of college or while getting my MA, but I joined two choirs - one professional and one amateur - during my year back in Washington, DC.  I knew that I'd go into withdrawal if I took any more time off of singing, and so I tried to dive straight into the choral scene here in London as soon as I arrived.  That's how I came to sing Spem my first weekend here - yay!

I've had a voice lesson here and there since then, and I sang a pick-up evensong last weekend with a friend, but the big news is that I got into a choir!  My audition was last week - it was pretty rigorous.  Besides having to prepare my own piece and sightread a piece that they provided at the audition, the director emailed me a piece a few days ahead of time to see how quickly I could learn on my own.  I've never done that for an audition before - it was an interesting experience.  I must have done okay because I got an email the next day inviting me to sing in the first concert!  The group is called Chromata, and it's going to have a core of 20 singers, though I'm not sure how many will be singing each concert.  Mark your calendars - 7:30pm on 4 December at St. Mary's Balham.  We'll be doing a selection of Marian texts from the 15th/16th centuries and the 20th/21st centuries.  Should be great fun!  I can't wait to start rehearsing and to meet the other singers.  Yay for choirs!

To Hospital

I may be, officially, the clumsiest person ever.  Last night I tripped while walking down the street in flipflops and twisted my right knee so badly that I could barely walk.  I thought that it would just get better - I've had weak knees for years and am always hurting them but they always seem to recover fairly quickly - but when I woke up this morning I couldn't put any weight on my right leg at all.  I called my GP's practice to see what I should do, and they told me to go to to A&E.  (That's the emergency room, for all you Americans out there.)  So Jon and I limped over to hospital* and waited.  And waited.  And waited.  Obviously, a bad knee put me at the very bottom of the triage list - but I did get seen eventually by a very nice doctor who hurt me very much by poking and prodding and testing my knee.  The diagnosis?  An acutely strained quadricep.  I didn't realize this, but it turns out your quads go down your thighs and then sort of down around your kneecap - that's the bit that I strained.

MendMeShop

So I'm on crutches, ice, and painkillers for the next few days, and I have to say farewell to my plan of going dancing on Friday night.  Boh.

But the best part of the whole experience?  It.  Was.  Free.  Not once was I asked for an insurance card or number, not once was I asked to pay for anything in any way.  I love the NHS.

Second-best part of the experience: Jon.  He came with me to A&E and has been taking care of me all afternoon.  Thank you Jon!

*In England, you don't go to the hospital. You go to hospital.  I don't know why.

Do You Lapin?

Success! Dinner last night was a success. I know you're not supposed to make new recipes for guests, but it think it keeps things more interesting when you do. I truly had no idea what I was doing with the rabbit, but it turned out delicious - if I do say so myself - and so I will share the recipe with you here. (Note: it is half based on this recipe and half based on what the butcher told me to do and half based on me messing around. Yes, I know that I've got three halves in there. Roll with it.)

Braised Rabbit with Chorizo
(Serves 6)

2 rabbits, jointed
6 links of chorizo
1/2 bottle of red wine (I used a pinot noir)
2 cans diced tomatoes
4 onions, diced
4 tbs garlic, minced
6 carrots, chopped to 1" thick chunks
6 stalks of celery, chopped to 1" thick chunks
2 cubes chicken bullion
olive oil
salt and pepper

Wash rabbit pieces and then pat dry. Sprinkle with salt and pepper. Heat 2 tablespoons oil in skillet over moderately high heat until hot but not smoking, then brown rabbit lightly in batches, turning over once. Transfer as browned to a plate.

Cut the chorizo links in half and cook in 2 tablespoons oil, sealing the ends first, in the skillet. Set aside.

In a large pot cook onions, garlic, carrots, and celery in 2 tablespoons oil, stirring frequently, until onions begin to brown, 4-5 minutes. Add 1/4 bottle of wine and deglaze by boiling, stirring and scraping up any brown bits, until wine is reduced by about half, about 2 minutes. Stir in the other 1/4 bottle of wine, the cans of diced tomatoes with their liquid, and the two chicken bullion cubes. Season with salt and pepper. Nestle the rabbit pieces and the chorizo in sauce and bring to a simmer. Cover pot and let simmer on low heat for three hours.

Arrange rabbit pieces and chorizo on a platter and spoon sauce on top. Serve and enjoy!

Fasts and Break-Fasts

Happy Yom Kippur?  No, you can't really say that.  What you should say is this: have an easy fast.

Yes - I am fasting today.  All things considered, I'm a pretty bad Jew (ham and cheese are my go-to sandwich fillers) but there are some habits from growing up Jewish that I can't break, and fasting on Yom Kippur is one of them.  Another habit - well, it's more of a tradition, really - is having a big break-fast meal following the fast.  Growing up, we always went to the house of a family friend; I remember that my mother always brought chopped liver, that there were at least two types of kugel, and that some heavenly woman made (and gave me the recipe for) chocolate chip biscotti.

Therefore!  Tonight my London family - Jon and my flatmates - and some new friends (including a bloggy friend, Ashley) will be having a feast to break my fast.  I hied myself to Borough Market on the hunt for lamb shanks but - oops - was seduced by rabbit.  Lapin for dinner!  Rabbit and chorizo, in fact, which is what the wonderful bear of a butcher recommended to me as they only had two bunnies and I'm hosting six tonight and apparently one rabbit only feeds two people.  (Who knew?)  I'm going to go off of a combination of this recipe and as much as I remember of the recipe that the butcher gave me.  Wish me luck!  We'll also be having mac and cheese with mushrooms.  Nom.  And Ashley is bringing cupcakes.  Double nom.

Oh man, I'm making myself hungry!  Argh.

Frock Fridays

Jon interns at Somerset House, site of London Fashion Week.  On Tuesday I received this text from him:

"Was stopped by the fashion police.  Literally."

It seems the fashionistas wouldn't let my poor (possibly somewhat scruffy) boyfriend into his workplace because they had taken over.  How fantastic is that?  I bet he's always wanted to use that line...

I'm not really paying attention to the fashion weeks either in New York or in London.  It's not that I don't like fashion - I do, and I think you can tell that from my blog!  But for some reason the fashion weeks seem very removed from my life.  I'm not sure why and, honestly, I don't really care.  I guess that makes me a bad fashionista!

However...

I saw this absolutely stunning dress from Monique Lhuillier's new collection over at {this is glamorous} and found myself breathless.  I've always loved her wedding dresses - what, you don't look at wedding dresses recreationally? - but this might be my favorite of all her pieces.  Le sigh...

A Story of Love

A good friend forwarded me a StoryCorps video about Danny and Annie and their twenty-seven year romance which ended with Danny's death by terminal cancer in 2006.  It's truly lovely; please watch it.  (Be warned, though: I sobbed, and you might, too.)

Danny & Annie from StoryCorps on Vimeo.

Expat Blogs in England

I can't go on enough about how much I rely on the community, both virtual and real-life, of expat bloggers.  The first sites I check when I go through my blogroll are those by women (almost exclusively - I guess that men aren't big bloggers for the most part) who have moved or are moving from the US to the UK.  I love reading their stories about their transitions and seeing the parallels in my own life - it makes me feel like my own move wasn't quite so off-piste!

That's why I'm very pleased to let you all know that I've been selected as one of England's top expat bloggers on GoOverseas!  It's very exciting.  Yay!  I'm honored to be in such great company - they have a great collection of expat bloggers on their list - you should go check them out.

Woop woop!

Thames Festival

As I mentioned in my last post, on Sunday Jon and I traipsed out to the Thames Festival, a celebration of the end of summer and of London held on the banks of (shockingly enough) the Thames.  Actually, it was a family outing - John and Sam came, too.  Here we are - from left to right, John, Sam, me, and Jon.

The festival was packed.  I read somewhere that hundreds of thousands of people attended over the two days.  Hundreds of thousands.  Yikes!  And, honestly, if Jon hadn't told us all about it and encouraged us to go, I probably wouldn't even have noticed it was happening.  Makes you wonder (well, makes me wonder) what else is going on in London under the radar!

Anyway, we mostly stuck to the South Bank.  The promenade was lined with stalls - food vendors (we got crèpes, nom) and tschotske-sellers and bars and, wherever there were open areas, musical acts and activities for kids.  One of the coolest sections was in front of Tate Modern, where a huge stage and dance floor had been set up for swing music.  People were really into it and had dressed up in character for the music and were bopping away.  'Twas very fun!

We walked across the Millennium Bridge just in time to catch the sunset - it was a brilliant gorgeous smoldering orange.

  

After a pub dinner, we followed the parade - yes, there was a parade - back across the river to the South Bank for prime fireworks viewing.  What, you didn't know about the fireworks?  Best part of the evening!  Truly spectacular, very impressive.  Also, it was very sweet to hear all of these city-hardened and jaded Londoners oohing and aahing over the display.  I took a video of the finale for you - pardon the bad camerawork, but enjoy!

Quality Time

Jon and I have been experiencing quite a learning curve in regards to cohabitation - no surprise there!  I knew it would take time for each of us to learn how the other lives, his/her quirks and rituals and routines.  I knew, too, that the one of the biggest issues that couples struggle with is money.  But I thought that we'd see each other all the time - I wasn't expecting that we'd have to make time for ourselves.

What with our work schedules, our social commitments, and our extracurricular activities, Jon and I have been having a hard time finding the opportunity to have quality interactions.  I'll admit that, at the beginning, this was my fault: I just assumed that coming home to each other counted as being together.  Let me tell you: it doesn't.  We've been having to schedule time together, especially during the week, which is utterly unromantic but seems to be very necessary.

So we try to make the best of the rare days that we both have free (for the past six weeks or so this has been one Sunday every two weeks, yikes).  Today I ambled out to pick up The Sunday Times while Jon cooked us breakfast.  We're having a lovely relaxed afternoon at home and in a few hours will head out to the Thames Festival, a celebration of the changing seasons complete with food vendors, craft stalls, a parade, and fireworks.  Should be lots of fun!  It's a gorgeous early autumn day - the sun's out and it's warmish, and I'm sure the South Bank will be packed this evening.

September 2010, St. Paul's from Millenium Bridge

(On a side note, I love mingling with Londoners and thinking, "I am one of you."  It's very satisfying!)

Who's a Tourist?

There is a truth universally acknowledged by all big city dwellers: you only do touristy stuff when you have visitors in town.

Having grown up in Washington, DC and New York City, I know this all too well.  Aside from an exceptional third-grade trip to all of the sights in town and aside from that limo ride around the Mall after the senior prom - remember, girls? - the only times I went to museums or monuments was when family or friends came to visit.

(Sad, I know.)

That's becoming true of my life here in London.  When I first arrived here ten weeks ago, I bopped around everywhere, drinking in the sights and sounds and smells of London.  I would go out of my way to see an interesting exhibit at a museum or to walk down Embankment along the river.  I'd suggest meeting friends at Trafalgar Square or South Bank or anywhere, really, that qualified as a photo opportunity.

But as I've carved out a life for myself here, those leisurely walks along border of Hyde Park and those endless afternoons at the National Gallery have become a distant memory, mostly because I just don't have the time to do things like that anymore.  I have a full-time job, a full-time boyfriend, and full-time friends, all of which come with commitments and obligations.


This isn't really a complaint.  I'm taking it as a good sign that, as Danielle at Bloody Brilliant says, "all of a sudden [when] you're really settled in you tend to stop doing those very agreeable activities you used to do when you were new to a city because, well, you're not!"  So yes - that means I'm not a tourist anymore - I'm a Londoner.


(Side note, speaking of being a Londoner: I was overly optimistic when I predicted the Tube strike wouldn't be too bad.  It took me 1h45m and an extra £5 to get to work on Tuesday morning.  Boh.)


Anyway, I do wish that I still had the time and the motivation to spend a morning wandering through the Tate Modern or an afternoon having tea at Fortnum and Mason.  But I like what it means that I don't!

Nomming into Autumn (Deux)

The second amazing autumnal dish I made was whipped up last night.  The plan was to make it for leftovers so that I could bring healthy lunches to work, but I suspect that the boys will find what I didn't pack and finish it before I get home!

via

Bean and Chicken Sausage Stew

1 tbs olive oil

1 12-oz package chicken sausage links, chopped into 1in pieces

2 tbs minced garlic

1 19 oz can cannellini beans

2 chicken bullion cubes

1 14.5 oz can diced tomatoes

salt and pepper

Heat the oil in a large saucepan or Dutch oven over medium heat. Add the sausage and cook, starting by sealing the ends, until browned, 2 to 3 minutes. Stir in the garlic and cook for 2 minutes more.

Add the beans and tomatoes and their liquid along with the bullion cubes and bring to a boil, stirring frequently. Add salt and pepper to season and serve.

(Technically it's supposed to have kale in it, but I couldn't find any in the supermarket.  Feel free to add some, though!)

A Monday Laugh

(Lots of posts today!)

I missed last week's Monday Laugh because I was in France.  I know, I lead a very hard life.

But it was difficult!  There was no internet at the house in France!  I went through blogging withdrawal like whoa, which makes this comic from xkcd very appropriate...

Nomming into Autumn

I'm not hiding from it anymore.  JCrew is featuring sweaters and boots in its catalogues.  Charcoal is disappearing from the aisles of the supermarkets.  Night is encroaching earlier and earlier in the evenings.

I'm admitting it: autumn has arrived.

I should have known this was coming sooner - the UK's summer bank holiday was last weekend and today is Labor Day in the States.  Really, I should have been preparing myself for weeks.  But I did my ostrich thing and buried my head in the sand, obstinately sporting dresses without tights or cardigans and refusing to tote around an umbrella.  Until yesterday.

Yesterday I acknowledged autumn with open arms - and an open kitchen.  What?  You don't think that kitchens recognize the passing of the seasons?  They absolutely do!  In fact, that's the first place I exhibit awareness of the weather.

In celebration of autumn, yesterday I made delicious muffins from the Hummingbird Bakery cookbook that Jon gave me as part of my birthday present.  They were a huge hit at my housewarming party!  Let me share the recipe with you:

Spinach and Cheese Muffins

2 tbs butter

1/2 small red onion, finely chopped

2 3/4 c all-purpose flour

2 1/2 tsp baking powder

1 tsp cayenne pepper

2 c grated cheddar cheese

1 c whole milk

1 egg

4 oz baby spinach leaves, shredded

Preheat the oven to 170*c (325*f).  Melt the butter in a saucepan over medium heat, then fry the onion until cooked.  Set aside.

Combine the flour, baking powder, cayenne pepper, and cheese in a large bowl.  In a separate bowl, mix the egg and milk together, then slowly pour into the flour mixture and mix until well combined.  Stir in the onion and spinach with a wooden spoon until evenly dispersed.

Spoon the mixture into the muffin tin until 2/3 full and bake in the preheated oven for 30-35 minutes or until deep golden.  A skewer inserted in the centre should come out clean.  Leave the muffins to cool slightly in the pan before turning out onto a wire rack to cool completely.  Then nom away - perfect for cooler weather!

(Another autumnal recipe will follow tomorrow.)

Ils Sont En Grève

Alternate title: "What, are we in France?"

"Tube strike cripples London," headlines blared across the capital this evening.  Yes, that's right - a Tube strike.  A 24-hour Tube strike that somehow is lasting from Monday evening through Wednesday morning.  (Not sure how that equals 24 hours, but whatever.)  Given that I take three underground trains to get to work in the morning, my reaction is, unsurprisingly, something along the lines of... well, you can imagine my reaction, I'm sure.

Since the strike began starting (yes, you read that correctly) at 5pm this evening, it was recommended that people leave work early or find alternate methods of transportation; bikes, buses, and boats will all be in high demand during this strike.  After checking the TFL website and determining that none of my Tube lines were disturbed, I hopped on the Underground - and found it deserted.  My usually packed homeward route was eerily quiet and creepily convenient.  I suppose everyone panicked and fled to other options.

Obviously, tomorrow morning's commute might be a different story, and I might have to hie myself to National Rail.  Luckily, according to TFL, it'll only take 1h20m to get work work via a combination of train and bus - it could be much worse.  But who knows?  We shall see.

Finding Your Way Around London

Grid system cities are fun, in their own way, but there's never really any mystery to them.  It's hard to discover winding side streets in a city with roads laid out in straight lines, and it's nearly impossible to get lost in a city that is numbered and lettered.

London, having been created by lots of little medieval villages smooshing together over the centuries, has streets every which way, hardly any of which connect at right angles.  It's lots of fun to explore a city like that, but you must take a map - even Londoners use the handy A-Z guide!

To add even more amusement to finding your way around London, Trafalgar Square has, at the moment, a maze!  In the middle of the square has been installed a hedge maze complete with street signs and blue plaques.  If you're in London, check it out!

via

La Frahnce

When I last left you, I was waiting for a taxi to take me to Waterloo so that I could hop a train to Portsmouth, from where I would catch a ferry to Le Havre.  All went according to plan: the taxi arrived at 4:30, I was at Waterloo by 5:00, the train departed at 5:20, and I arrived in Portsmouth at 7:45 - perfect for my 8:30 ferry.  I ambled up to the counter where the ferryman-check-in-guy was waiting, gave him my reservation number, and waited sublimely for my ticket.  And then.  Oh, and then.  He said.  I can't even repeat what he said.  It's too horrible!  No, I must, for the sake of clarity.  He said -

"Passport, please, miss."

[Expletive.]  [Expletive, expletive, expletive.]  I was in Portsmouth.  My passport was in London.  [Expletive.]

There was nothing to be done.  No passport, no international travel.  [Expletive.]

But all was not lost, not entirely.  I made a few calls and determined that a friend named Tom was driving down to France early the next morning and would be more than happy to give me a ride.  Yes, yes yes!  It would mean only 30 hours in France, but, gosh darn it, I was going to France.

I whizzed back up to London, picked up my passport, spent a lovely day with a friend from home who was in town for a while - unexpected bonus - and had a lovely pre-birthday supper with Jon and a couple of friends.

(Jon, by the way, was unable to go to France, which made me very sad.)

Early on Sunday morning, Tom and creaked out of London and made our way to Dover, where we drove up onto the ferry and departed for Calais.  We then drove from Calais to Alex's house, which is near the town of Beuzeville.  All in all, the trip took about 6 hours.  (Needless to say, we became very good friends on the drive!)

I'm now going to skip to the end of the holiday for a moment - or, rather, the "end" of the holiday.  You see, I was supposed to leave on Monday night.  Everyone piled into the car to take me to Le Havre and we had a very jolly drive to the ferry.  We arrived and - zut alors! - discovered that the ferry was cancelled because it had hit some rocks and was, as the ferryman-check-in-guy told us, caput.  Our jollility multiplied - we must have been the only ones to be happy about this tragedy, but happy we were.  I got another day in France!  Or did I?

On Tuesday evening, Tom drove me back to Le Havre to catch my replacement ferry.  We left a little later than we should have and we got stuck behind a lorry on the way, but we still arrived at Le Havre with 15 minutes to spare before the time of departure.  Well, apparently 15 minutes isn't enough - they had closed the ferry to foot passegers.  I was not allowed on the boat.

Yes, this meant another day in France, but boy, was I annoyed.  Annoyed and worried - I was missing two days of work.  My bosses were not going to be happy.  (They weren't happy.)  Boh.

So I ended up driving back to London with Tom on Wednesday night, 52 hours after I was supposed to leave.  We took a ferry from Calais to Dover at 2:15 on Thursday morning and stumbled back to London for 4:30.

Yikes.  What a trip!

But yes, travel snafus aside, it was quite a trip.  We had lots of good food, good wine, and good company, and we really didn't do much except enjoy all three.  There are, of course, tons of stories from the holiday, but they wouldn't be funny to any but us five.  I could tell you about our meals, but that wouldn't do anything but make you jealous.  I could tell you about the champagne at breakfast, the warm sun in the afternoons, the glowing fire in the evenings, the dance parties at night, and the deep conversations in the wee hours of the morning - but that wouldn't be of interest to you, I don't think.

But I will tell you that it was truly a wonderful holiday.  We had to remind ourselves, Tom and I, when we were pulling into London, that the past four days hadn't been real life and we - well, we hadn't really been real people.  We'd been in a lovely bubble, consumed by ourselves and our imaginations.

Actually, Clover, one of the chums of the trip, joked that if England had fallen into the sea while we were in France we'd never have known about it until we tried to return.  We all laughed, but uneasily - we knew it was true.  Imagine my surprise when, upon arriving back in London, I read the following headline in The Times: "God did not create the Universe."  Say what?  Clearly, things had changed since we'd been gone.