Blue Monday

Today (17 January) is said to be the gloomiest day of the year. Can’t say I’m particularly gloomy, although I am a bit exhausted.

Yesterday, we were finally able to host the Family Get-Together we had planned to have over Christmas, but were unable to do so because of colds, flu, snow and so forth.

As the fates would have it, we had everyone round for Sunday lunch. The DEB made the invitation while we were dining at his brother’s, along with our lovely rellies from Cumbria. “Shall we have everyone to ours for lunch on Sunday?” he asked. There was general, enthusiastic agreement around the table.

My panic did not set in until the following day! My brother-in-law, a.k.a.,"The Guru" is an amazing cook, who entertains with an effortless abandon that would make Nigella green with envy! His partner-in-crime, a.k.a, "The Guru-ette", is a sassy, hard-core foodie, who likes what she likes.

My heart sank at the very thought of cooking a serious meal for these two. I mean, of course, I’ve cooked a ‘fun’ meal for them (big bowls of chili con carne) before we moved into our new house, and we’ve had everyone round for Indian take-aways, snacks and nibbles, anniversary party finger food, bacon butties (sandwiches) and even a World cup barbecue – but we’ve never hosted The Guru and The Guru-ette to a proper, full-on, sit-down meal.

 

The minute we returned home, I ran to my cookbook shelf for inspiration! Whilst fumbling through pages of Jamie, Nigella, and Easy British Classics, I sneaked a peek at The Perfect Hostess to see if good, old Rose Henniker Heaton could offer any cheering words of advice…

In her section entitled: “The Family Gathering takes place at your House” her advice is shrewd and curt:

“It sounds a lot trouble but it’s really worth it,” she begins. “Having the family to Luncheon,” she warns, “is a most difficult form of entertaining.” (Hmmm…I had already figured that one out myself.)

However, Henniker Heaton continues, “if, at the end of the meal everyone is still speaking civilly to everyone else, the hostess may congratulate herself on a successful party.” (…Oh dear. Thankfully, ours isn’t that sort of family.)

Once she moves on the menu itself, Henniker Heaton finally strikes a more pertinent note: “Cocktails,” she declares, “are absolutely essential!” (Finally, some useful information!)

I read recipes until my eyes blurred, and then decided the best way to decide what to cook was to take to the streets! Or, rather, to the shops. Off I went to my beloved Sainsbury’s for some inspiration.

Warning: Vegetarians, stop reading now.

Steak, turkey, venison, duck, goose, chicken, lamb, roast beef, pork…I was overwhelmed by choices. Before heading off to Sainsbury’s, I had a gander at BBC Good Food online, and the first thing that came to mind was Lamb.

It sounded to appetizing, delightful and fresh. After a long, cold foul (fowl?) winter - Lamb seemed a harbinger of a Spring that is surely, surely somewhere out there on the horizon? 

All the Lamb recipes I found promised an easy process, with a huge and impressive pay-off. Hmmmm…it all seemed a little too good to be true…

I walked briskly into Sainsbury’s, straight to the lamb section of the meat aisle. Legs, shoulders, joints, steaks, chops - lamb everywhere! My mantra was clear: “I will not be intimidated by lamb. I will not intimidated by lamb…”

Though that eventually gave way to a much simpler motto: “I will not cry in Sainsbury’s. I will not cry in Sainbury’s...”

Thank heavens, for the DEB. A firm hand on my shoulder, and his calming voice: “You can do this. And, I’ll help.”

In the end, it was lamb, and it was lovely! And more importantly, it felt so wonderful to be sharing a meal and hosting this wonderful, new family that I love so much!

Here is the recipe I used – a combination of several different ones, cobbled together:

Roast leg of lamb with rosemary & red wine gravy

Ingredients

1 leg of lamb - about 2½kg

olive oil

1 garlic clove, sliced thinly

3-4 sprigs rosemary

sea salt

pepper

dried mint, thyme, marjoram, rosemary

Red Wine Gravy

2 onions,  sliced

2 shallots, sliced

2 garlic cloves bashed

300ml red wine

1 lamb stock cube

Heat the oven to 190C/fan 170C/gas 5. Put the lamb in a shallow dish and rub with olive oil all over the surface. Make holes in the lamb with a small sharp knife and stick slices of garlic and few sprigs of rosemary in each. Sprinkle with sea salt, pepper, dried mint, thyme, marjoram, and rosemary.

Line a roasting dish with the onions, shallots, garlic and rosemary sprigs. Drizzle with olive oil. Crumble the lamb stock cube over the top of onions, shallots, garlic and rosemary. Pour in the red wine. Place the lamb on top of the onions, shallots, garlic and rosemary.

Roast for 11/2 hours. Leave to rest loosely covered with foil for at least 30 minutes.

Strain the liquid into a jug and serve piping hot.

We had a super time. It was Uncle C’s birthday, and so the DEB and I got a cake and indoor sparklers. The sparklers failed to cooperate, but that just made the mood all the more festive! And, I realised there was no need for me to be have been so stressed, after all.

There are moments...

Michael Boyd, Artistic Director of the Royal Shakespeare Company, in the new auditorium

There are moments that change your lives dramatically, and then there are moments of sheer bliss that reveal: "Ah, yes, girl, you got it right." I had such a moment -- several of them in fact -- last Tuesday.


"I want to go big on the theatre re-opening," my wonderfully commanding editor chirped down the phone. She had secured places for both of us at the Press Preview Day, the day before the new theatre's official opening.


Jane is every inch an editor. She is exactly what one would imagine a "lady editor" to look and be. She is tall (of course, everyone is tall compared to me, but Jane could actually be described as statuesque). She is elegant, and not afraid of bold fashion statements: flawless houndstooth jackets in black and lime green. Her dark hair is cut neatly into soft, flattering bob. She exudes a warmth that is coupled with clarity and shrewdness -- this is a woman who doesn't suffer fools lightly.


When I arrive -- a miniature mod hipster, in a (gorgeous) pair Dolce & Gabbana culottes (Thank you, Ella at Corina Corina in Warwick!), knee-high black patent leather boots, and teal and cream cashmere, turtle jumper, I could see her giving me an unconscious smiling nod of approval. We were quite a team, and we had a super day!


A day which began with that  blissful "Aha!" feeling as I drove to Stratford in the brisk chill of a late autumn morning. Warwickshire was being Warwickshire in the background, mist was still rising off the dark green fields. A bright, blue November sky was peppered with soft, grey clouds. I thought to myself as I drove, "Yes, yes. This is it. This is the life I imagined!"


I have long been inspired by that wonderful quote from Thoreau: 

"Go confidently in the direction of your dreams! Live the life you imagine!"

Living the life 'you imagine' ain't easy. It takes daring, risk, tears and guts, but I think I'm there, and getting there more each day.


Other highlights of the day were: meeting RSC Artistic Director, Michael Boyd, and him acknowledging  my book on the RSC's former studio theatre, The Other Place. This was topped by the opportunity to meet the utterly fantastic, Lady Susie Sainsbury. 


I allowed myself to become a complete groupie when I met Lady Sainsbury. I declared my undying love for Sainsbury's, as my favourite retail outlet. Absolutely true! Love it, love it!

Lady Susie Sainsbury, Deputy Chair of the Royal Shakespeare Company

  

Let them eat cake...

Plans for getting work done today have been foiled -- by cake. 

My wonderful English "cake baker," Sally, graciously sent along yet another cake sample for me and the D.E.B. to try. As with her three previous "American wedding cake" attempts, she has made a lovely and positively yummy little cake. But, it's still not quite right. 

I don't really want to try her patience much further, but you know that feeling, when you know precisely what you want, and you want so desperately for the other person to get it right, but it's not? That's where I am. I really want to say: "Oh, Sally! Well done! It's perfect." But, that isn't 100% true. What she has done is lovely, no doubt. And would be perfectly splendid on the day, but it's just, not, quite, it.

I have already spent countless, precious hours scouring the internet for recipes, so today, more urgent action was needed. I sent out frantic emails to friends across the water ("Go buy some slices of wedding cake, and post them to me!"), and even dropped a pleading, electronic missive to legendary Italian pastry chef, Biagio Settepani, owner and Head Baker of Bruno Bakery in Manhattan. I have no shame. Besides, when I lived in the West Village, I was a regular at Bruno's, so why not. I'll be shocked if I hear back from him, but it was worth a shot. 

Even more foolishly, I posted a "Wedding Cake Distress Call" to all my friends on Facebook. (I'm still awaiting all the witty responses which will undoubted ensue...) What else is a girl meant to do?!

Then, like a flash of lightning, it came to me: Betty Crocker. 

Forget Martha, Betty was there long before! Betty Crocker White Cake, isn't that what I'm looking for?? Surely, the answer to this dilemma and major life crisis can not be as simple as that? Or could it?

At least I now have a focus to my campaign. One grand last ditch effort, before I give up the cause. So, I just need to make several boxes of Betty Crocker White Cake mix magically appear on this side of the Atlantic. 

My beloved Sainsbury's actually carries numerous Betty Crocker products and mixes, just not the white one. So, pushy Yankee doodle that I am, I wrote them. "Dear Sainsbury's: Please help!"

We shall see how far I get. I only hope, for poor Sally the Cake Baker's sake, that Sainsbury's can save the day.

Driving ambition

Ugh.

Driving in England. I agonize over this one activity like nothing else in my life.

Here was my plan. The D.E.B. and I had planned to do our big Easter shop yesterday evening. Then, a thought flickered through my mind: it was a bright sunny day, I was feeling frisky and chirper, why not do the Sainsbury’s run by myself?

You see, The D.E.B. has been being a very good lad, and has been cycling to work, so the car (a.k.a.,"The Tank”) has been sitting on our drive, taunting me, teasing and tempting me.

What am I so afraid of? I don’t really know exactly. The stupid thing is that I actually learned to drive here in Britain. Years and years ago, while I was a graduate student the opportunity to learn to drive presented itself, and I took it. Took the test, two or three times, and eventually passed. I know how to drive, and am licensed to do so.

But that was many, many years ago, and in the interim, living in the States—my fellow Americans will have to forgive me, but I must say this—I have become a very lazy driver. Driving in America is a doddle. You could do it in your sleep, in fact, I am sure that I have driven in my sleep!

To me, it seems that driving is quite a casual affair in the States, where else in the world would one find “Drive-Thru Liquor Stores”? I remember one time, when I was in high school, some friends and I were out on the town; we went to the “Drive Thru” liquor store/off-license for some Bartles & Jaymes wine coolers (Egad, I’m showing my age here.)

And, I kid you not, as the man behind the counter, leaned out of the window to hand us our package, he said to the driver: “You want me to open those for ya?”  I wanted to shout from the back seat: “She’s driving!”

More than casualness, there is just the matter of skill sets. In many ways, at least for me, it seems that driving in Britain requires a different set of skills. And that’s what worries me. It will just take a bit of time for my brain to re-re-adjust to driving here.

I did make it to Sainsbury’s yesterday, though. And proudly did the big Easter shop all on my own. Felt very empowered and liberated. (And got a super deal on whole salmon!) My victory was bittersweet, however...a minor boo-boo that resulted in a cracked, passenger wing mirror.

Ugh.

Making Martha Stewart Proud!

This past Saturday, The D.E.B. and I celebrated Thanksgiving with our friends,“The Songstress” and “The Music Man.” They are an amazing couple. The Songstress is a little dynamo, a bundle of energy, who embodies little pieces of 'home' for me. The D.E.B. reckons she reminds him of Angie Dickinson, who played Pepper Johnson on the American, 1970's TV show, Policewoman. (How does he even know about such things?) I think she's Nancy Sinatra. Anyway, she’s fab. A singer and photographer, who moved to Warwickshire 4 years ago. Still here, still happy and still in love with her man and her new country. They are an awesome couple.

And they were to be our first “Dinner Party Guests” here in Barford. My first dinner party! I shocked myself with how well organized I was. No fretting, no swooning and no tantrums! Shakespeare suggests, “The readiness is all,” I’d say: “The planning is all.” Not to mention Sainsbury’s, and the importance of having a helping hand.

The D.E.B. was an extraordinary help as sous chef and general, all-around dogsbody, and that made a huge difference. We cooked all day. The D.E.B. brought tea to me in bed at 8:00 AM, and we were cutting, dicing and dancing around our little country kitchen by 10:00 AM. Our 8lb turkey went into the cooker at precisely 11:30AM. It was clockwork, and loads of fun. Even that lovely Jamie Crick at Classic FM did his part. He kept us going with beautiful music, and played a bit of Aaron Copeland by request, with a dedication from me to my D.E.B. for being such a stellar American Thanksgiving sous chef! (That made the D.E.B. blush.)

Dinner wasn't until 6:30-7:00PM-ish so we had plenty of time. Even had time to take the Princess Pup for big walk around Barford in the afternoon, even though we had planned a huge meal, pulling out all the stops, and doing almost everything from scratch. Traditional Thanksgiving spread: Turkey, dressing/stuffing, gravy, roasted veggies (carrots, potatoes and parsnips), candied sweet potatoes, Brussels sprouts, cornbread, mulled wine…

I made Cranberry Relish for the first time! Used my trusty Easy British Classics cookbook and BBC Good Food Guide. I made myself proud. Realized that much of cooking is down to instinct. AND!!! I finally, finally, finally licked the infamous Yorkshire pudding! (Bite that, Nigella Lawson!) Yes, Yorkshire puddings for Thanksgiving, a gesture of thanks and concession to my new homeland. (Besides, I have no doubt that the folks who celebrated that first Thanksgiving back on Plymouth Rock still thought of themselves as English, and England as their homeland, so why not?) I was so pleased with myself, I could hardly eat! My greatest discovery in all of this was: la truffe graisse d'oie (goose fat). I’m not kidding. How did I ever cook, or live without it?

The Songstress and The Music Man were the absolute best dinner guests a hostess could hope for! They arrived on time and bearing gifts of chocolate profiteroles and pumpkin pie. Pumpkin pie is my absolute favorite. It is not Halloween, Thanksgiving or Christmas without Pumpkin Pie. And The Songstress made a pumpkin pie that tasted like home, and made me want to cry. We gathered round the table and Songstress gave me a nod. I lifted my glass and declared a toast. That wasn’t what she meant, and I knew it. I don’t know why, but I do get shy about praying in front of other people. Partly because I find words sometimes lack the ability to express my depth of feeling.

And, as an Episcopalian, I’m utterly unless on the spot without my Book of Common Prayer.  I challenge anyone to find a more eloquent expression of thanks than the BCP’s beautiful “Litany of Thanksgiving”. Unfortunately, as much as I love that Litany, I have yet to learn it by heart. So here I was, speaking to God on the fly. Over turkey, stuffing and homemade cranberry relish, we lowered our heads, closed our eyes, and I spoke. In that moment, a discovery more profound than goose grease. From the heart. That is all that matters. In cooking, writing, praying, and living. Start from your heart. 

I was thankful for each person that was sat around our table, and thankful to finally make use of my pink Wedgwood china! Probably no surprise that the pattern I own is called “Old Britain Castles”…

The meal was declared 100% “Yumsch!” by the D.E.B. After pudding/dessert there was more mulled wine and music.  I’d had my iPod playing ‘American tunes’ over dinner, and at one point, as we were tidying up, there was a magical moment when the four of us paired off and slow-danced around the tiny kitchen to the Dixie Chicks’ “Landslide”. Very appropriate. (I should have put a warning at the start that this posting is not advisable for the hard-of-heart or under-romantic.)

The Songstress and I sat in front of the little fire in the front room.  We sipped whiskey, and chatted while the D.E.B. and The Music Man took out their guitars and played. The Songstress and The Music Man treated us with an amazing duet, a song he wrote for her voice. We had a little folk music sing-along to the wee hours of the morning, until we were too tired to sing anymore. A beautiful way to end an unforgettable English-American Thanksgiving.

Is this an appliance, I see before me?

I refuse to be outwitted by my new “hoover” (vacuum cleaner).  I am too smart to be defeated by British electrical appliances! Sometimes, I wonder if all of my British appliances are against me, or if the Dyson is on its own? Without a doubt, the Dyson is in it to win it. 

The “cooker”(stove/oven) is clearly in league with the Dyson; it has a mind of its own, along with a very frightening, flame-throwing death wish. The refrigerator is an insult to all appliances worldwide that bear that name.  It is the size—and shape—of a small shoe box. No, in fact I think there would be more space in a shoe box.  A toddler’s shoe box. Oddly, the largest appliance in my kitchen is the Freezer. We have more freezer capacity in our kitchen, than a caribou hunter in Alaska! And what, pray tell, could possibly have been the reasoning behind that design choice? Microscopic fridge (typically, the appliance used for maintaining necessary everyday items), with a colossal freezer (typical, in my case, only used for ice cream, French fries and occasional Edamame.) The mind boggles.

Having such a small refrigerator basically means that the D.E.B. has to perform a near daily run to Sainsbury’s on his way home from work. Sure, it’s very hip and French to do a bit of grocery shopping everyday, but, surely, eventually this has to become an annoyance. Although, I will say the “Sainsbury’s run” does have the side benefit of a very fun, routine exchange between the D.E.B. and myself. I log on to sainsburys.com, and create a virtual trolley of everything I want to buy. I then email the Trolley, pictures and all, to the D.E.B., who dutifully prints it out, and carries it forthwith to Sainsbury’s. On some occasions, we arrange to meet, and shop together. I really, really enjoy this.

On those days, I take the silly Warwickshire bus to Warwick (sounds redundant, and often feels that way) and walk to the bright, new, glistening Sainsbury’s. I run gleefully to their dazzling, new Starbucks (Yes, Starbucks!), order my Grande Soy Latte, read a book (currently, Professors Wive’s Club, by my dear friend, Joanne Rendell, a.k.a. “Superstar Writer Friend.”), and wait for my D.E.B. He arrives, smiling that smile, and we sit and have coffee. We stare into other’s eyes, and those few precious moments, in this Starbucks--that looks like every other Starbucks in the world--it feels  to both of us like we are back in NYC. Having coffee out in the Village during one of the D.E.B.’s transatlantic hops to see me, deciding how we should spend the afternoon, if we should go to the MET, the Morgan or just back to the apartment… Perhaps, our tiny fridge isn’t such a bad thing.

The washing machine. I have a secret fascination with the washing machine. I find myself purposely dirtying my clothes, just so I can use it.  (“Oh, dear. Did I just accidently spill tea on that skirt, and smear Marmite on my t-shirt? Oh, well, better wash them!”) The washing machine is adorable. The tub inside it is just about big enough to hold three pairs of socks, two towels, a t-shirt and a bra, to be washed at the same time.  It’s a Hobbit Washing Machine. I guess it’s a good thing that I am a Hobbit-sized person—though I’d prefer to be an Elf.

Although it is not technically an “appliance,” per se, my arch-nemesis—even more than the Dyson, or the masochist cooker—is the “washing line.”  The washing line is, of course, the implement I use to dry the clothes I am constantly washing. A nifty trick for a girl who has never known life without a huge, electric, tumble dryer.

The washing line tempts me. Whenever there is even the slightest a bit of sunshine on the horizon, the washing line whispers to me, like the serpent luring Eve: “Psst, psst. It’s a sunny day, better use it while you can…” I try to ignore it. I drink my tea, and keep reading. But as the sun beams hotter, I feel my resolve melting away. I dash about, madly gathering clothes, putting the Hobbit Washing Machine to work flat out. I then relish the moment—over an hour later—when the Hobbit Washing Machine has chugged its last and final spin, and I proudly drape the freshly cleaned clothes on the tempter washing line. Of course, of course, two hours later, as I am out walking Lucy up the hilly foothpath to Hareway Lane, the clouds break. Rain. On my clean, nearly-dried laundry.  And I can just hear the washing line, and the Dyson, sneering: “Gotcha!”

Deadly sins and green-eyed monsters

Apple trees.

As I walked home from "Morning Prayer" at St. Peter's this morning, I realized my soul is in mortal danger. I am guilty of the deadly sin of envy. 

I covet my neighbo(u)r's apple tree. With the arrival of autumn and the shortening days, the apple tree in our next door neighbo(u)rs (a lovely Irishman and his very sweet girlfriend) garden has sprung into magnificent bloom. The tree is heavy with beautiful fruit, and some of the apples have begun to blush. 

Recently I have caught myself on a number of occasions, peering longingly at Kevin and Laura's apple tree from my office window. I want an apple tree. I DESERVE an apple tree! I have begun to obsess about apple trees. 

While we were out walking Lucy one late summer evening, D.E.B. and I began a conversation about eventually buying a house of our own -- we are only renting/letting this place for the time being.  We talked about the kind of place we dreamt of having. Thankfully, our tastes are very similar. We both prefer older homes to new. Cottages to townhouses or 'executive homes.' A garden is, of course, essential and fireplaces. But, above all else, I made it very clear that my most essential requirement is an apple tree! I have no idea whence this obsession with apple trees has come. Not so terribly long ago, I was a sassy Manhattan diva who would have openly and rampantly coveted another woman's Manolos, her handbag, her lipstick or her job. 

Speaking of shoes, my cute, little rain boots have become a real hit and the topic of many a conversation about the Village. 

They are adorable and I love them. I live in them. They are in fact, the most comfortable shoes I own. I wear them, rain or shine. I don't care, and I am quite spoiled about it. They are made by a company called "Western Chief" and the company's motto, stamped on the back of each boot, is: "Wear a Big Smile." And from the moment I saw them, all I did was smile. I bought them ages ago in NYC, and I lived in them even then, back in the City. The way I guess some folks are enamo(u)red of their UGG boots, though I fail to see the fascination there. I have friend who loathes UGG boots, and seeing people in them. To her, she says, the UGG boots, with their lamb's wool lining, always give the appearance of being 'smelly.' Well, my Wellies are not smelly, and have a cheering affect wherever I go. They have become my "conversation starters," and have facilitated many an introduction for me here. "Those are great Wellies, aren't they? Where did you get them?" I am often asked as I am out walking Lucy, or striding down the aisles in Sainsbury's. I stop, smile and say, "New York." And thus, a new acquaintance is made.  

So, perhaps we all have things that others might covet, desire or admire.