Love Definitely

Today has to be my favo(u)rite Sunday of the year. Every year, the Sunday before Valentine’s Day, we have a “A Celebration and Thanksgiving for Marriage” service at St. Peter's.

Couples, particularly those who were married at St. Peter’s, are invited to “return to the scene of the crime” and recall their beautiful, blissful wedding days.

We all stand, and once again repeat our vows before God and to one another. *SIGH* 

Lovely.

Today’s service was especially poignant for me as it was a reminder to me of what it truly important in my life. The fact that after years of living woefully solitary lives, the DEB and I found each other, across space and time. The fact of our meeting and marrying is truly miraculous. And, that is well worth remembering.

Sometimes, this very important fact gets a little lost in the daily shuffle. There are times, in the day-to-day slog of trying to “make something happen” on this side of the Atlantic, that I find myself, well, in tears, frankly. Days when I think of how far I’ve come in my life, how hard I’ve worked/struggled/survived, and yet here I am feeling more of a “zero” than a “hero”.

In the past two and half years, I have struggled to get my writing career off the ground, and been rejected by more agents than I can count. I have applied for four (4) full-time Shakespeare lecturing jobs in a 50 mile radius, interviewed for two (2) of them, and turned-down by them all.

The latest blow came on Thursday:

Dear Dr. Smith-Howard,

Thank you very much for applying to the post in Shakespeare in the Department of… at … University.   I am very sorry to have to tell you that we were unable to short-list your application on this occasion.   We received a very large number of responses and the field was a truly extraordinarily strong one.   I would like to thank you for your application, however, and to say how much I appreciate your interest in the Department.  

With all good wishes,

Professor Blah-Blah-Blah

There was a moment, sitting, staring at my computer screen, poised to reply to this message, when I felt as if I were suddenly trapped in a scene from Lord of the Rings.

Allow me to explain.

There’s this bit in Lord of the Rings, I don’t know which one, where the character Smeagol/Gollum is having a debate with himself, or rather the two-sides of him are having an argument... “Kill the Hobbit!” the evil side of Smeagol hisses. “No, no! We love the Hobbit!” the good side pleads.

My internal ‘Bad Smeagol’ dangled a carrot before me: “You could send that cow a short and snarky reply. You’ve got nothing to lose. We’ll show her who is ‘truly extraordinary’!” While my good side begged: “No, no! That wouldn’t be nice or polite at all!”

Every molecule in my body wanted to type venom in an email, it was all I could do to step away from the computer…

It’s incredible how moments of disappointment can overshadow our lives. So much so that we can almost forget the positive, the good, the beautiful, the joyous and the wonderful that surrounds us each day.

Today, I received an email from reader who enjoys my column in Warwickshire Life magazine. The message was short, simple and sweet: “You have a great job!”

In its own way, this, too, was a wake-up call for me. A gentle reminder that it’s not all doom and gloom. Okay, I’d love it if my pay cheque from the magazine had a few more zeroes (noughts) on the end, but, the fact that I am getting paid to write all is a huge blessing!

It is too easy to look at life and lament the things we don’t have, or pine over the things that aren’t the way we’d like them to be. But, to borrow from Shakespeare, “that way, madness lies”. 

The key, I think, is thankfulness.

There was a couple scurrying into church this morning. The man, it seemed, was still getting dressed as they jumped from their car. As he fought with his tie, his wife huffed, rolled her eyes and stomped off without him. How ironic, to be behaving in such a way on route to a service where one of the scriptures to be read was: “Love is patient, love is kind…”

No doubt, by the end of the service that couple had made amends. But, it’s human nature, isn’t it? So easy to get caught up in the details, the minutiae, and to lose sight of why we’re here, and what really matters. Not jobs, or status, or success, being right or wrong, what others think of you, or having the last word.

What matters is Love, definitely.

A Room with a view

“Home is the most important place in world.” – IKEA motto

The Bell ringers are practicing as they do every Monday evening at St. Peter’s Church. It is a sound I have come to know, love and cherish living here. The sound is steady, strong, and clear. It is the sound of normalcy, of all things being well, and as they should be in blessed Barford. It is a sound that touches me deeply, comforts and soothes me.

Here in our new home, I am even closer to this wonderful sound. Our new home is just over the road (across the street) from St. Peter's.

From our new bedroom window, the D.E.B and I have a perfect view of that sweet little church, where we were married just over 8 months ago.

So, this is home.

I know at last how “Home” feels. All my years of wandering, striving rootlessness have come to an end. Playing on our penchant for Merchant-Ivory films, the D.E.B. joking suggested we call our new home “Howard’s End” – as I have now bid adieu to that chapter of my life.

I do feel a sense of ending, and wonderful new beginning. I have never had a place to call my own. And, now, feeling so settled and complete, I realize how unsettled and unfulfilling my past truly has been.

My heart breaks a little with sadness for that girl, the former me. I wish that there were some way that I could go back, speak to her, hug her and tell her everything turns out tremendously in the end. 

“Just wait and see,” I would say to her. “One day, you will live the life you imagine!”

The D.E.B. and I have been in our cute, little house only a very short while. We are still up to our ears in boxes, but things are coming together slowly.

I discovered the incredible pleasure vortex that is IKEA UK in Coventry this weekend. I will never be the same...

The D.E.B. has done an absolutely amazing job of assembling stylish Swedish furniture, for our snazzy “Scandiwegian” house. (For some reason, Barford seems to have more than its fair share of sassy, Scandinavian designed houses that were a rage in Britain in the late 1950s-60s.)

The exterior is not much to write about, very functional, practical. But the inside is pure magic. True to the Nordic artistry, the house is all about light, height and open space.

I feel like I can breathe in this house.

This weekend, I also finally, finally began unpacking boxes that arrived with me from New York over 18 months ago. When I first arrived, the D.E.B. and I were living in a rented house, and so there seemed little point in unloading all my worldly possessions in a place we were only going to pack up and leave eventually.

What joy then, over this past weekend, to re-discover the treasures of my life! It became very clear to me, while perusing these objects and trinkets of days past, that I have been collecting and accumulating my entire life for this very moment.

So many things that I had completely forgotten I owned have now at last re-surfaced to claim pride of place in our new home.

It also a wonder, a joy and a blessing to have found a kindred spirit who shares, enjoys and adores my aesthetic.

A thing of beauty is a joy forever. – John Keats 

Easter in Barford

When all is said and done, I do believe that Easter may very well be my favo(u)rite holiday. I love everything about it. The time of year, the dead of winter giving way, tentatively, to the new life of springtide. The crisp freshness in the air, early spring buds pushing through dark earth, and the foods of Easter are simply fantastic: asparagus, lamb, salmon, yum!

Back in my old parish in NYC (Church of St. Luke in the Fields) Easter is always more than the just the "Highest Holy Day of the year," oh no, at St. Luke's, Easter is a week long Love Fest! As Easter approached here in Barford, I wondered how I would cope without the traditions and practices I know, love and hold so dearly.

A few weeks back, I got into a rather interesting discussion with a visiting Anglican priest at St. Peter's. Somehow, we got on the topic of liturgical practices and (surprise, surprise) I was quite firmly on the pro-High Church side of the debate. 

"But, God doesn't require all that to be praised," the wise, old priest smiled at me with kind, warm eyes. I resisted the urge I felt to scream, and instead smiled sweetly and replied: "You're absolutely right, God doesn't require it, but God certainly deserves every bit of it." (I have to say I was rather proud of that one.)

The way I see it, there are so many other things, institutions, people that we are willing to "bow down to," metaphorically, of course. We worship and reverence wealth, power, money, attractiveness, status, celebrity. We lavish limitless pomp, ceremony and grandeur upon our fellow mortals, a few examples: fans queue for hours to catch a glimpse of their favorite screen siren in full regalia on Oscar Night; we rise to our feet when a judge enters a courtroom, and so on.

I also believe that ritual is central to the human existence. I would argue that our predilection for ritual is what makes us human. The action of ritual enables us to underscore the significant of a particular moment, and it is the means by which we are able to transcend the mundane to reach the divine. God may not need all the "smells and bells," but I certainly do.

So, it was to be an Easter without liturgical pyrotechnics, and to be honest, I was more than a little sad about it. But, resilient and resourceful gal that I am, I vowed to make a real go of it here in Barford (and beyond), and try and enjoy Easter as it is observed in my little village.

The week began with Palm Sunday. There was an early morning procession to the church through Barford. A merry band of Barfordians gathered outside the Village Hall, and waited for the choir and the clergy in the glistening morning sunlight. After a few prayers and responsive readings, we progressed to the church. 

Although there were no special services for the Monday, Tuesday or Wednesday of Holy Week, St. Peter's Church was open each of the days for prayer and reflection. Maundy Thursday was the first big official, service day.

On Holy Thursday, Her Majesty, The Queen, gave out "Maundy Money" at St. Edmundbury Cathedral. This is an ancient royal tradition, that dates back to the 13th century. (Love that!)

I attended a quiet evening service at one of Barford's sister C of E parishes, St. John the Baptist in Wasperton. 

The church at Wasperton is tiny and old. Not as old as St. Peter's, St. John's is a lovely, wooden 19th century chapel. Very sweet. The service--like most in these parts--was very low-key and pared down; though utterly sincere and heart-felt.

There were a number of services to attend on Good Friday, and the D.E.B. and I chose to go to the afternoon service at St. Peter's. As we arrived, The D.E.B. was roped into service, and asked to read the role of "Peter" in the Passion story. (I was very proud.)

Holy Saturday was spent prepping for Sunday -- the D.E.B. and I had invited our friend Sally (Not "Sally, the Cake Baker") for Easter Lunch. We cleaned and tidied, and I made at start on my big baking project: Key Lime Pie. (Easter requires a bit of citrus zest, I think.)

Saturday afternoon we attended a small soiree in the churchyard honoring the reinstatement of the Church Clock (see post: "Watching time"). After the bells chimed 12 noon, there was a champagne and canape reception in the unseasonably warm and sunny weather. 

During the reception, our wonderful Vicar made his way over to me, and asked which Easter service I would be attending. My heart sank. 

Secretly, I had been planning to sneak away from Barford village, and attend the big Saturday night Easter Vigil at the Collegiate Church of St. Mary in Warwick to get my "smells and bells" fix for the season.

I had no choice but to confess my temporary defection: "Easter Vigil really means a lot to me," I stammered, "I'd planned to go tonight to St. Mary's." The vicar looked crestfallen. "Oh, all right then." he said sheepishly, "I'd hoped you'd come along to Easter Vigil here, tomorrow morning, and do a reading." 

The Vicar is such a cutie-pie, I couldn't just let him walk away. "I'll do it." I said before I knew it. Before I realized, I'd committed myself to the 7:00 AM Easter vigil service! Yikes, making it on time for 9:30 AM is a enough of a challenge as it is.

The D.E.B. is such a sweetie, after I told him what I'd done, he went to the Vicar and volunteered to do a reading as well. "Since you're going to the 7 AM service, I'll go, too. Don't want to be home without you." (Isn't he a doll?)

So, it wasn't exactly what I had planned, or hoped for, but I am learning--slowly, but surely--to take life here as it comes. And in the end, the early morning Easter vigil service was lovely. 

We crept to the church through the quiet, cold, sleepy streets of Barford. It was still dark-ish, as dawn was just breaking. We arrived to find a small gathering of faithful souls. The candle-lit service was truly beautiful. I was so proud of the D.E.B. when he got up to read. (I love his voice.)

Because there was such a small number of us, we were all able to sit on the altar where the choir normal sit. It was such an incredibly intimate experience, as was celebrating the first

 communion of Easter with the D.E.B. kneeling beside me. That's almost too much to take in, even for a goofy Episcopal girl like me! Heavenly.

After the service we were all invited to the Rectory for breakfast with the Vicar and Mrs. Vicar. Then home to prepare Easter Lunch. The salmon was divine (Thank you, Delia Smith!), but my Key Lime Pie was an absolute disaster (Thanks for nothing, Martha Stewart!). 

Thank goodness Sally had brought along a lovely sherry Trifle for "pudding." And there was lots of champagne, chocolate and laughter.

So in the end: No smells. No bells. But lots of love and Easter joy.

  

Watching time

Time is running smoothly once again in Barford. 

This weekend, on Holy Saturday in fact, the village celebrated the official "Re-instatement of the Church Clock," the central time keeping device of our village.

The time piece, designed by Oldham  & Co., dates back to the late 19th C.; and thanks to the great generosity of a long-standing village resident (now deceased), the clock has been restored to its formerly glory and magnificance. 

We all gathered in the churchyard at 11:50 AM, and after a few words of thanks and dedication,the lovely chimes began to ring out, just as the vicar promised, at roughly 33 seconds before noon. 

So now, it seems that Barford is precisely 33 seconds ahead of the rest of the world.

Oh, well, better to be ahead than behind...

Wild thymes

Mrs. Macbeth was lying in wait for me on my way home from the gym.

“My dear, we must, must, must settle your flowers. The time is drawing near and I must know what you want.” Mrs. Macbeth is the responsible for all floral arrangements and decorations at St. Peter’s Church. She is actually quite an amiable person, truly quite lovely, warm and funny. But, when she is on a mission, she is a force to be reckoned with.

It seems that the flowers for our wedding have been top of Mrs. MacB’s list for quite some time. I appreciate her attentiveness, but have found myself welting under the “Decide now!” pressure that ensues whenever we encounter one another in the village shop, at church or in the street.

There was no escape. This time she had caught unaware and unguarded. And without my D.E.B. there, to charm and diffuse the situation. Thankfully, I was a bit more prepared this time.

Normally, when Mrs. Macbeth has caught me, I have become an incoherent jumble of nervous, barely capable of stringing a complete sentence together. “…Tulips?” I’d stammer meekly. “Oh, no! ” Mrs. MacB. would exclaim soundly. “Hy, hydrangeas?” I’d try again. “Goodness no!  That’s a late summer flower!” she explains. “I really like Lillies of the Valley, they…” I struggle to find my voice. “My dear,” she’d break in firmly. “You really must go away and think this through. Every flower you seem to want is for a different season than the one your wedding’s in.”

Today, however, I was prepared. On Tuesday, the D.E.B. and I visited a lovely little florist shop in the tiny Warwickshire village of Kineton. The shop, which is called “Flower Thyme,” is run by a petite and perky woman called, Jill. Jill is a bundle of energy, and her bright, blue eyes sparkle when she smiles. 

“Helloooo!” she greeted us at the door of her shop with a big smile. She remembered us from our brief meeting at the Wedding Fayre at The Glebe Hotel last month. “Let’s talk flowers!”

In my next life, I’m going to be a florist. (And without my hayfever and pollen allergies.) What a great life. Surrounded everyday by nature’s beauty, sounds pretty fabulous to me. It seems a great job, and Jill clearly loves it. She had stacks and stacks of photographs for us to look at, and well as several fresh bridal bouquets for me to test-drive. (Which I enjoyed immensely.)

I immediately fell in love with a beautiful nosegay bouquet made of lisianthus, ranunculus, roses and freesia. The flowers were all in shades of ivory, with touches of green provided by tiny springs of eucalyptus and lamb’s ear. Although I had walked in determined to order lavender roses, I kept being drawn to the white lisianthus bouquet. “I think that’s the one for you.” Jill smiled broadly, eyes twinkling. I had to agree, there was something so elegant about the creamy, white flowers.

I loved the bouquet as it was, but requested a few add-ins: instead of lamb’s ear, I have requested springs of English ivy, myrtle and rosemary. I chose myrtle because I’d read somewhere that Queen Victoria had myrtle in her bridal bouquet (myrtle and orange blossoms, in fact).  If it was good enough for her, than why not?

As for the rosemary, apparently, in ancient times, brides carried this herb in their bouquets to ward off evil spirits. (Hey, whatever works.). And, of course, as Ophelia says, “Rosemary, that’s for remembrance.” (Had to get some Shakespeare in there, somewhere.)

The D.E.B. liked the look of lisianthus as well, and decided to have that as his buttonhole flower. (His groomsmen will wear lilac lisianthus in their buttonholes, the D.E.B.’s will be white.)

We had such fun together picking flowers with Jill, and she informed us that she has a wealth of experience dealing with “church ladies” in charge of flower arranging. Jill reckons she’s mastered the fine art of working with women like Mrs. Macbeth: “Oh, you know. Their hearts are in the right place. They just really care a lot, that’s what you’ve got to remember. They want your day to be as beautiful as we do.” Jill said.

She added: “I know the best way to handle ‘em. Drop the flowers off, and run away as fast as I can!”

Love is in the air…and so, apparently, is Spring!

Spring has sprung in Barford. The infamous washing-line in out and up in the garden, and has today, made its official laundry-drying debut for 2009! But, alas, this is Britain, so of course heavy snow and more winter cold has been forecast for next week. So, we must make merry, and do laundry while we may! I am actually sitting outside, with laptop and cup of tea, for the first time in I don’t even know how many months. People are shedding hats and scarves, and there is a general sense of giddiness in the air…

The DEB and I have a busy weekend ahead. We are attending a Wedding Fayre at The Glebe Hotel – finally, my first English Wedding Fayre!!! I’m so excited I can’t stand it! But, alongside the frivolity of flowers, favo(u)rs and shoes, we are also doing some serious contemplation. Allow me to explain…

As you may recall, several months ago, I was weeping into my tea about the fact that the Brits seem to take marriage less seriously as a concept than their American counterparts. And in many ways, I still believe that to be true. Period. (see posting: “Always Something There to Remind Me” - October 2008).

However. I do need to revise this sentiment just a bit. Marriage is a very, very serious business if one wants the blessing and approval of the Church of England. As a proud Episcopalian, at this stage in my life, there could be no other way forward for me than a church wedding. My first marriage was a civil ceremony, and I while I’m not blaming the type of ceremony for the failure of the relationship, I must say, I did not enter into it with the contemplative sincerity that the C of E is currently demanding.

First, our local vicar had to be “the first to know” as it were (although, I think I actually blogged about it just after the DEB proposed, so in essence the vicar was the second to know!) Then, we had our first meeting with the Parish Wedding Coordinator, Mrs. Macbeth. There were tons of forms we had to fill in and ton of things we had to remember, i.e., where we had each been baptized and/or christened. We discussed initial thoughts, plans and ideas about the service/ceremony, if we gained the vicar’s approval.

The burning question for us both was: Do we need “Permission to Marry” from the British Government to make this happen? Apparently—and I have asked this question at every juncture, and have been given the same answer—the answer is no, we don’t. It seems that the Church of England as an entity, shares a similar authority to the government, and has the power and right to sanction unions between individuals who are British citizens and non-British citizens. Interesting.

I think apart of the reason why or how, this is possible, is that, again, Marriage is taken very seriously by the C of E. As much as I adore Jonathan Rhys Meyers, and his dishy portrayal of Henry VIII in the American television series, “The Tudors,” I won’t waste space here bleating on about how ironic it is that the C of E has some (underscore some) very conservative views about marriage and re-marriage, given its own rather, how shall I put this delicately, complex history on the issue.

Suffice it to say, the D.E.B. and I have been very, very fortunate and blessed. As our union will be a “second time” for both of us, we were required to gain the permission and approval to marry within the C of E from our local vicar. Thankfully, our vicar is a kind, gentle and loving man, who takes a very merciful and compassionate view on the subject. “Marriage is meant to be for life, but sometimes, and it is regrettable, that is not always the case, for whatever reasons.” he said to us. What is hoped is that we can learn from these reasons/failings/mistakes and move forward and be better in the future, because of them.

Unfortunately, not all C of E (and maybe even some Episcopalians, too?) don’t see it this way, and take a more staunch (and I would say unyielding) approach that you get “one shot” at God blessing your union, the next time(s) you’re on you own.

Okay, maybe that’s a little unfair, the Church does provide an alternative. Instead of a full-blown religious wedding ceremony, the couple and their union–which has taken place outside the church—can come to church and have blessing. Call me simple, but this seems much of a muchness to me. How are those two things really different? Surely God’s blessing, is just, God’s blessing. But, what do I know?

And another thing! (I’m on a roll now.) I believe that God is a God of second chances (and for some, maybe even third, four and fifth chances, I don’t know!) I don’t mean to preach a sermon, but, look, life is just too short. If two people love each other, and are coming to the table with serious intentions, what’s the problem? We all make mistakes. Lighten up, C of E! I’d write Rowan (The Archbishop of Canterbury), but I think he has enough on his plate right now…

Speaking of serious intentions, The DEB and I had our official meeting with the vicar one evening in January at the Rectory. We had to share details of our past marriages: what was good about them, and what went wrong. We then had to talk about our relationship, what our hopes, fears, and expectations for the future are/were. Our vicar is awesome. And he has a great sense of humour! I think that helps, a lot.

Still, it can be quite nerve wrecking to think that your future—or at least the version of how you would like to see it played out—is in someone else’s hands. And I think that is what concerns me. The DEB and I gained our vicar’s permission to marry, but if we had had another vicar, we may not have been so lucky.

Okay, it helped that we are also active and regular churchgoers in the parish, and we hadn't just turned up wanting to use the church a “wedding venue.” As the vicar said to me: “It is clear to me that the Church is an active and important of your life, and of who you are as a person, how could I deny you the opportunity of marrying here?” What a gift. And a gift that neither of us takes lightly, because it could just as easily have gone the other way.

There is no more lovely, friendly and charming relationship, communion or company than a good marriage. – Martin Luther

Two or three Sundays ago was: “Celebration of Marriage Sunday” at St. Peter’s.  It was a very interesting service wherein all the husbands and wives in the congregation re-affirmed their vows and commitments.  The DEB and I remained silent, of course, but we were very hopeful and happy that next year this time, we shall be joining in and doing the same.

The sermon was very thought-provoking and challenged us all to think deeply about this pivotal human relationship. Ultimately, the word to the wise was that Marriage is serious business. The wedding is the public celebration of a very real and very serious commitment. It is a gift from above.

While cooking Sunday lunch that day, I reflected upon my own failings in the past regarding marriage. I acknowledge that I lacked seriousness when I approached this institution in the past. In other words, it was all about “getting married” with very little thought to the concept of “being married,” which ain’t always easy.

For this reason I am glad that the DEB and I are required to attend Marriage Preparation classes. During these sessions, we, and other couples from our parishes, will be reflecting upon “Life after the Wedding.” A very worthy pursuit.

Comfort and Joy: Christmas in Barford

Christmas is a time of nostalgia and tradition. At is a time that we let go and give our “inner child” free reign, as we relish and embrace the familiar: age-old hymns and carols that we never tire of hearing or singing year after year; reuniting with families and friends; houses with trees trimmed in tinsel and light, filled with the warm smell of familiar comforting food; Christmas plays in church halls with bathrobe shepherds; and so on. Many of us were brought up with these facets of Christmas, and have dutifully and routinely replicated them throughout our lives.

As we age, we create our own traditions for ourselves apart from our families and communities of origin. As a sassy, single gal in NYC, I had a whole host of holiday traditions with my friends and church community in the West Village. That all feels very far away from me now. And although, Christmas is in many ways the “great uniting” holiday, in that it is celebrated the world over, by Christians and non-Christians alike, there are subtle differences that serve as a reminder that, I, like Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz, am “not in Kansas anymore.”

Christmas in England has been a whirlwind experience. Choral concerts, The Nutcracker, Handel’s Messiah, dinners, parties, get-togethers, carol services, shopping and preparations! I have never been so rushed off my feet during a holiday season. Even when I was living in New York! And the Brits do enjoy “having a laugh,” so, I have also laughed more in the past few weeks that I have in my entire life! I think that is what I love most of all about Christmas in England, the incredibly healthy balance folks here seem to strike between Christmas being a time of frivolity and fun, and Christmas being a time of faith and reflection.

For example, the evening after the rather raucous W.I. Christmas Dinner was the St. Peter’s Church Christmas Dinner. (Note: all I seem to do these days is eat and drink. Lots. And lots.)

This was like no Church Christmas Dinner this girl, raised by Southern Baptist Puritans, has ever seen. The scrumptious dinner, lovingly prepared by W.I. and Church warden members, was, surprise! Not turkey! (Thank goodness.) We had yummy, yummy Cottage Pie, lots of veggies and Trifle for pudding/dessert. (I have fallen in love with Trifle, and would give my right arm for a good one.) And of course, there were Christmas crackers and funny hats that had to be worn.

And of course, there is always the requisite “After Dinner Entertainment.” Mind you, since this was a church gathering, I did assume that my zinger of a joke might be more than a bit out of place. So, no jokes here, but some wonderfully funny original Christmas poetry from a local poetess, such as one called “Spare a thought for the Turkeys.” Her act was followed by the local Magician. Yes, we have a local magician. And he’s very good. I’ve always been quite skeptical of these sorts of things, but I was very impressed by him.

The highlight of the evening was “the Pantomime”. This is a British Christmas tradition if ever there was one. It does surprise me that the whole “Christmas Panto” thing has never caught on in the States. It’s so zany and silly, you’d have thought we Americans would take to it like wildfire. The D.E.B. has promised to take me to a professional pantomime after the holidays. That dreamy Glasgow-born, Brit-American boy, John Barrowman (a.k.a., sexy Captain Jack Harkness from “Torchwood”) will be starring in a panto version of “Robin Hood” in Birmingham in next month.

I will confess—theatre snob that I am—that I hold rather low expectations of amateur dramatics, pantomimes, Christmas pageants and the like. But, let me tell you, the panto at the St. Peter’s Christmas Dinner was a riot! I laughed until I cried. It was a panto version of “Snow White.” What I loved about it was that it was very different from what I was expecting. It was not hammy, or over-acted, i.e., no one winking at the audience for a cheap laugh. The script was actually quite witty and smart, and not at all silly. The best part of the incredible humo(u)r was just knowing the actors themselves. ‘Mrs. Vicar,’ the Vicar’s wife, a strong, sharp, solid woman played a girlie, lispy Snow White, with a giant bow in her hair. The Vicar himself played “The Mirror,” earning huge belly laughs with his dead-pan delivery of such lines as: “I’m shattered.” Mrs. Godfrey was hilarious as the Fairy Godmother, trapped in the wrong play and looking for Cinderella. Mrs. Macbeth took top honors playing the Evil Queen...

No shepherds, no angels, and one could argue not really anything at all to do with Christmas per se, but gosh it was fun! Following the panto, we sang dozens and dozens of carols and hymns. The night ended with a raffle – it’s not a church dinner without a raffle, right?

Between then and now there have been countless carol services, mulled wine and mince pies. Following my grand turn at the W.I. dinner, the D.E.B. and I have had a flurry of Christmas cards and party invitations through our door. We are becoming quite the “couple to know,” as it were. Perhaps it would be more apt to say the “couple to welcome” because that is what I really feel here.

I have never been made to feel so welcome in a place. The other night, at the St. Peter’s carol service, Pam, one of my W.I. chums said: “Now that you’re here, we’re not letting you go!” It is hard to believe that I have only been here four very short months. This feels very much like home to me now. Like it has been always. Its quirky and sometimes more than a little zany, but it is also so very comfortable and cosy.

I am utterly exhausted from baking (a platter of chocolate chip cookies/biscuits) for the D.E.B. to treat his chums at work, and jam-making (the marmalade factory is in full-force now). Despite poll results, I am opting for “Sirloin Steaks with Stilton” for our Christmas Dinner tomorrow. I gotta keep it simple at this point. Organic steaks, of course. Home-grown and hand delivered by our local Lady Farmer, Di Trevis from Middle Watchbury Farm up the road. Tonight – midnight mass at St. Peter’s followed by a bit of bubbly! That’s a tradition I started with my friends in New York.

It's Christmas Eve and The D.E.B. is at work (along with Bob Cratchett and Tiny Tim, no doubt) hoping to get away a bit early this afternoon. Goodness knows in this climate it is a blessing that he has a job to go to! Two of his mates were recently made redundant, and right before Christmas!

Here’s a funny thing: yesterday, I went and did a volunteer stint helping to decorate the Church for tonight’s Midnight Mass. I was assigned to decorating the church Christmas tree with a small squad of children as assistants. I was handed a thin ladder with which to climb and place ornaments atop the tree. I am not afraid of heights, but I am deathly afraid of falling. Note to self and lesson learned: Never ever ask children ‘Where do you think this ornament should go?’ It was all I could do to talk myself through it: “Just breathe. Don’t look down. Don’t hyperventilate in front of the children.”

 

So. Here it is. Christmas 2008. Much more and better than I could have ever imagined. 

The downsides: I miss my friends. I miss St. Luke’s. I miss my Mom. 

The one and only testy little thing: The Christmas carols are not the same! i.e., “O Little Town of Bethlehem.” Same titles, same words, but entirely different tunes and timing. Humph!

And a secret: I got the D.E.B. a very special gift. I mentioned previously (see previous post: “Northern Soul”)  that the D.E.B. had a collection of works by the Lake District landscape painter W. Heaton Cooper, the painter his parents collected. Long story short, the D.E.B’s “Ex” didn’t like the paintings, so the D.E.B. gave them away. 

He really regretted it after the fact. Bless him. Love can make you do some very foolish things. Anyway, I am proud to say that this year, the D.E.B.’s lovely family tradition has been revived. Carefully wrapped, lying securely beneath our sweet fir tree is a Heaton Cooper print of “Tarns Hows” just for D.E.B.  

Our little next door neighbour, Charlotte, with our Lucy, the Christmas Elf-Dog

Curds & ways

Being a “Domestic Goddess” isn’t easy.

I have spent the past week neck-deep in cranberries, oranges and lemons. High from my Thanksgiving successes, I volunteered to make some cranberry relishes and lemon curd for the St. Peter’s Church Christmas Fayre.

“Lemon curd? You’re brave.” said Hilary, the Barford W.I.’s reigning “jam & preserve making” Queen. Hilary is my hero. She can do more things with rhubarb than I can even imagine!

I’d gone round to Hilary’s to collect some spare “jam jars”. In America, we’d call them “canning jars”. Regardless to what you call them, they are virtually impossible to find. (Not even at Sainsbury’s! I was shocked.) Hilary graciously gave me a dozen jam jars to play with. As I ‘clinked’ my way back home, faithful hound in tow, through the Barford allotment gardens, and up passed the playing field, I found myself thinking about the very thin line between bravery and foolishness, and the fact I was undoubtedly about to cross it…

My new favorite cookbook calls ‘Lemon Curd’ the “quintessentially British preserve.” However, that is only part of the reason why I’m utterly smitten with it. Lemon Curd is sunshine in a jar.  It is tart, yet sweet and buttery all at once. It has a texture like velvet. Used as a sweet spread for morning toast, or freshly made scones, it tastes of fresh, English summer days. And, it is also a major feat of British culinary engineering. If I could replicate this divine substance, what could I not do?

Here’s the recipe:

Lemon curd

Ingredients:

2 large unwaxed lemons

125 g unsalted butter, cut into cubes

180 g caster sugar

3 eggs, beaten

Finely grate the zest from the lemons into a heatproof bowl. Squeeze the juice and add that to the bowl with the butter and sugar.

(Now the tricky part) Place the bowl over a pan of just-simmering water, making sure the water doesn’t touch the base of the bowl. Stir until the butter melts, add the eggs and, using a wooden spoon, stir for 10-15 minutes until the mixture thickens noticeably and takes on a translucent look.

Well, try I did, and fail, I did.

Thankfully, I had much more success with my Cranberry relishes. I made a sweet one – and got creative and used tangerine juice, instead of regular orange juice, and added orange zest to finish. I also did a traditional, British, savoury cranberry relish, made with cider vinegar.

The poor D.E.B. suffered patiently through countless taste testing as my official taster. Given time, I’m sure he will have the strength to face a cranberry again. I had to make a second batch of my savoury variety, after the D.E.B. said gently (and with watering eyes): “You might want to tone down the vinegar in this one, sweetie.”  Well, I’ve never been good with math(s), and Metric is hard.

I did finally get the balance right, I think. Then, I boiled my jam jars dutifully, cut and pasted cute, little labels, and then, on Thursday night, before W.I. meeting, I delivered my wares to the Christmas Fayre drop off point. “No Lemon Curd?” organizer Alan smiled at me. I admitted my defeat reluctantly, and Alan kindly cooed over my beautifully packaged cranberry relishes to make me feel better.

The D.E.B. was and still is quite proud of my “Christmas Fayre project” and my little cranberry relishes. He was as excited as I to see them on display at the Christmas Fayre on Saturday afternoon.  I was also more than a little nervous that my wares would not sale at all, and that they would be left, poor darlings, to languish unwanted, unsold on the “Jams & Preserves” stall. Hoping to avoid this potential personal horror, I’d urged the D.E.B. that we get there early and not stay long.  (Basically, see them and run.)

Our plans were thwarted by a surprise visit from our wonderful friends, A&D. Another fantastic couple that enrich our lives immensely. To say that A&D are “foodies” would be an understatement. I think that I shall dub them “King & Queen of Cuisine.”  K&Q offered solid advice and encouragement on the Lemon Curd saga.

Then - on to the Christmas Fayre! I donned my Fool/Jester’s hat (yes, I have one, and yes, it does have bells) and feigned a holly-jolly aspect. As we left the house, I turned to the D.E.B. and said, “I’m not embarrassing you, am I?” He just smiled and said, “Never.”

When we arrived, the School Hall was a hive of activity and holiday cheer. I tried to appear calm and casual -- well as relaxed as one can be wearing a fool’s hat -- as I scanned the room for my tiny bits of treasure on the various stalls. “There she is,” the familiar, smiling voice of the Barford W.I. president called out to me from behind the W.I. stall.

I shyly inquired about my relishes, and asked if I could take a picture of them on display. “No, can’t do that.” Madam President chirped and smiled broad. I felt myself blush suddenly and redder than the silly fool’s hat I was wearing. “They are long gone!” she beamed. Another W.I. member working the stall added: “They went straightaway, they did.” I was stunned and relieved. And then very disappointed that I hadn’t thought to take a picture of them beforehand.

My W.I., and soon-to-be-formed Barford Writers’ Group chum, Diane, had heard about my Lemon Curd attempt, (news travels fast in these parts), and caught me at the mince pie stall, eager to offer me a bit of encouragement: “Never you mind, it’s a very tricky thing,” she soothed in her rolling, Scottish accent. 

I haven’t given up, and I shall have “another go.” I’m just glad I tried. Just by making the attempt, I allowed myself to be part of something new. To contribute something to this wonderful community.

After a few more mince pies, some delicious mulled wine, and a visit to Father Christmas/Santa (and yes, I did sit on his knee!), the D.E.B. and I wandered home in the crisp, late afternoon air.

When we opened our door, we found a small parcel waiting for me.  It was a copy of Mary Norwalk’s book: Jams, Marmalades and Sweet Preserves (1973). Page 99, “Curds & Honeys,” was bookmarked with a tiny note card. The note card said: “You Can Do It! A mistake may slow you – but don’t let it stop you!”

Christmas is coming, and I need a tiara!

I’ve decided Britons are in unknowing and desperate need of another holiday. To be sure, Thanksgiving has merits on its own, but I do like the way this November holiday serves as a sort of buffer between Halloween and Christmas. Even if you don’t celebrate Thanksgiving, isn’t nice to know there is something that will delay somewhat the run-up to and commercial onslaught of Christmas?

Don’t get me wrong, I love Christmas. What I don’t like is the flurry of Christmas lights and decorations in late October. By the time December actually rolls around, you are just sick and tired of it all.

Christmas has come to Barford in a very sweet, restrained and utterly Barfordian way. No lights or excessive decorations just yet. We are easing into Christmas here in Barford. The holiday season ‘kicked off’ last night with an amateur choral concert at St. Peter’s Church given by the Wellesbourne Choral Society called “Swing into Christmas.”

The singers did a beautiful job, and it was a lovely evening, though hearing those familiar American tunes (“Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” & etc.) left me pining (as always) for St. Luke’s. In fact, I sat there quite tearfully, missing the magnificent, choral magic of St. Luke’s professional choir. What a treat they were every Sunday. I’m sure, as much as I loved it, I took it all very much for granted. My thoughts drifted to the wonderful Christmas Eve service I will miss this year, and walking home after in the crisp, cold New York night with my BFF, “Boy Genius Playwright”.  Tears welled up in my eyes as I considered how I have yet to feel “liturgically” at home here. Though the complimentary wine at the interval/intermission did go some way to ease the pain, as did the company.

The D.E.B. and I are becoming known and recognized in the village. (I should add, a couple we met recently remarked, “Oh, we’re new here, too.” They’ve been here for two years.) Anyway, it’s nice to go places and have people recognize and remember you by name, like Mr. and Mrs. MacBeth, whom we sat behind at the concert last night. And yes, they are related to the Macbeth Macbeth.

It was splendid start to the season, and I do feel very Christmasy at last. And it’s all go from here! Today was the Barford/St. Peter’s “Christmas Fayre”. Father Christmas, tombola (a sort of non-raffle raffle), lots & lots of mulled wine, mince pies, hot chocolate…and the D.E.B. bought me a lovely antique brooch. Which I am planning to wear next week when we go to…

“The Nutcracker”! I am a “Nutcracker” addict! I love it. At one time, I had the goal of landing myself in the Guinness Book of World Records as “The Person who has seen The Nutcracker more times than Anyone Else.” I first saw it as a child at Ballet Arkansas. I was transfixed. Since then, it has become a sort of Christmas tradition for me, and one that the D.E.B. thankfully supports.  We saw it together last year by the New York City Ballet at Lincoln Center in Manhattan, and this year we are seeing it at the Birmingham Royal Ballet. Our good friends, Fiona and Gavin are joining us, and the four of us are making a night of it. Fiona’s like me - any excuse to dress up is a good one!

Speaking of dressing up, I have decided that I need a tiara. Shocking, I know, that I don’t already own one, but I don’t. And why should brides, ballerinas and beauty queens have all the fun?

So, being the “outlandish, yet practical” girl that I am, I decided that if I wanted a tiara, I needed some place to wear it. Thus began the quest for a gala event that would be tiara-appropriate. Yes, I know that scores and scores of people wear tiaras as an everyday accessory, but I’m in it for the overall glamourous ambiance.  And nothing says “tiara appropriate” more than a New Year’s Eve Ball.

This is another reason why I think Brits need another holiday before Christmas. Bookings for the most splendid formal New Year’s galas go very quickly in these parts. The original plan had been to go out as a “gang” of three couples. But, by the first week of November, it was “every couple for themselves” and the best I could do was to get the D.E.B. and myself on countless ‘wait lists’ throughout the county!

To my mind, the best affair in Warwickshire will be the white tie, “Black & White Masquerade Ball” at Coombe Abbey. Can you hear the sound of me weeping into my champagne glass? When I phoned Coombe Abbey in the first week of November, and they had one, yes, one place left. For a split second I did think, “Well, I could sit on the D.E.B.’s lap…”

Here’s the thing. I bought this dress in the West Village, on the edge of Soho. A designer sample sale.  An Italian designer sample sale.

I was heading home from St. Luke’s along Bleecker Street, one bright, sunny, summer, Sunday afternoon. “Bella, bella!” A voice called out to me. A tiny Italian man, with a measuring type around his neck, “Please come in, and try.” How could I resist?

Rita Hayworth. That is who sprung to my mind when I saw “the dress”. It was the color of wood smoke, or fog in autumn. Classic, 1940s lines, floaty silk chiffon, with a satin panel rippling down the front from the plunge neckline. I put it on, and immediately felt tall, thin and screen-siren gorgeous. I stepped out from the makeshift dressing room, and everyone gasped: “Molto bella.” I had to agree, and I had to have this dress. How’s this for frugal: a $2,000 dress for $100.00? Only in New York City.

This dress is now in my closet in Warwickshire crying out to be worn, and it deserves a tiara! And a tiara it shall have. And an event worth of such an ensemble.

The D.E.B. looks stunning in a dinner jacket. I think men—British men, at least—secretly enjoy getting dressed to the nines as much as women do. It gives them a chance to live out those “Bond, James Bond” fantasies.

So, without much convincing the D.E.B. has agreed that a formal event is a “must do” for New Year’s Eve. And our plans are to go North to Cumbria. Formal attire, dinner and dancing, bagpipes at midnight, fireworks across the bay, bacon butties (sandwiches) at 3 a.m., and warming whiskey nightcaps at bedtime. Sound perfect to me. Now, I just need to find that tiara.