Eat. Sleep. Sing.

The month of November has dissolved in a haze of train journeys, cough syrup and rehearsals. For the second year running, the DEB and I are participating our village Music Hall, which is great fun, but also a massive undertaking. At this stage in the proceedings, I start to lose the will to live, and begin to question why I have forced myself through this grueling routine.

The major difference in this year’s experience is the fact that I am now more actively employed (yeah!) than I have been in the past, so my energies are occupied across a variety of fronts; and I have far less “recovery” time.

Music Hall is a great joy, I have rediscovered my love of musicals and singing. And, it’s all for a good cause, but my god, the time and commitment it takes! And, I think, the harder we work, the easier it appears to be, which is such a contradiction. On the surface it seems a doddle: two rehearsals a week starting in late September, with a few more sprinkled in as time goes on. But, it truly is an all-consuming endeavour. And, then, the cold kicks in. The Music Hall equivalent of ‘kennel cough’ starts at the end of October, and works its way around the dressing room for the next month.

Both the DEB and I have had thrice recycled version of the “Music Hall Cold” since the beginning of November, and we are still hacking and sneezing as we progress to the last two performances this weekend.

I amazed myself during opening weekend, last weekend. Blurry-eyed and feverish, I rose from my bed for the 8:00 PM call. Somehow, sufficiently doped with cold medicine, I made it through the opening song. Coming off stage, I looked and felt like death. But I pushed through. By the interval, I was spent. “You should go home.” Our director Wendy, advised. “No way!” I said. I’d worked too hard, to just walk away from it now - especially not my solo number, “Adelaide’s Lament” – which is the second act in the second part of the show. “Okay,” she said. “After Adelaide, go home.”

I struggled into my nurse’s uniform and blonde wig, went on stage and gave Adelaide all I had. And, of course, it felt fantastic. I’m sure I sounded like I had a cold, but thankfully, that fits the lyrics of the song. The minute I came off stage, I had a massive coughing fit that nearly caused to retch. All the girls gathered round to pat my back, hold my hand and my hair.

“You need to go home!” my chum Chris, ordered. “I’ll do your line in Les Miz, for you.” When she said those words, something in my performer’s brain snapped to attention. It’s a kind of killer instinct that I used to train my acting students to develop. “No, thank you, I’m going to do it.” I said.

And I did. Immediately after, however, I surreptitiously lost myself in our onstage Victorian crowd, slipped off stage, and ran to the loo to be sick. I came back, and in eased myself back into place to re-join my section of the chorus, without anyone even noticing. My students would be so proud!

It’s a great way to flex ones artistic muscles, but I must say, it does seem that we utterly miss the Autumn altogether. It’s September, and then suddenly, it’s Christmas, with a blur of eating, sleeping and singing in between.

I had actually forgotten that Thanksgiving was this week! My BADA students reminded me in class on Wednesday.  That’s how lost/tired/ill I’ve been! But, it has not been a time with some real high points, too.

Last Wednesday, I attended the service to celebrate 400 years of the King James Bible at Westminster Abbey. When I read the dress code details on the invitation, urging all ladies to wear hats, I had very high hopes indeed, and I was not at all disappointed! Her Majesty the Queen, the Duke of Edinburgh and the Prince of Wales were all in attendance!

The service was absolutely wonderful. A real Anglican/Episcopalian love fest! Both Archbishops present, with the Archbishop of York reading the Gospel, and the Address being delivered by the Archbishop of Canterbury, Rowan Williams. * SIGH *

We held a smaller, but equally extraordinary celebration the following Sunday here at St. Peter’s with a Choral Evensong using text from the 1611 Book of Common Prayer. Heavenly.

Two more nights of Music Hall, and then, I get my life back. Now that really is something to be thankful for.

More than a bit of sparkle

“Remember, remember the Fifth of November!”

Bonfire Weekend is always a big weekend in Barford. Tonight, we’re going to the village Bonfire Night celebrations with a few of our friends. Guy Fawkes Day was actually yesterday, but most towns and villages hold their bonfires on the Saturday nearest the 5^th of November.

Last year, I was laid low by a nasty flu, so I missed all the fun. I was tucked up in bed, not even able to see the fireworks, though I could hear them. I’m really looking forward to tonight.

Thankfully, it rained last night, and this morning is crisp and clear, with bright sunshine, so - fingers crossed – we should be okay for fireworks, cider, sausages and merriment tonight!

There’s a small Christmas market in the village hall today, in aid of Home Farm Trust. I want to try and go up later and show my support, but I have one or two things I need to get done around here first.

Tomorrow is the big Music Hall “Audition Day”. I have spent the better part of this week hunting and gathering costumes for the DEB and myself. How did we all live before eBay? It is such an incredible resource for the kind of stuff you need for a village variety show!

I found an incredible seller that I must praise, called “Superstar UK”. They are simply great! We’re supposed to be fully costumed for the auditions tomorrow, and I was desperate to get an item I needed. The gals at Superstar UK were incredibly helpfully and they got my stuff here first thing this morning!

Praise, and a warning … be careful searching for cabaret accessories on eBay UK. While conducting a completely innocent search for “stockings and suspenders”, I came across some vendors whose presentation was right on the edge of the very fine line between advertising and “Readers’ Wives” styled pornography! Yikes!

So wrong, on so many levels, not least for the fact that surely no one is in the market for tights that have been worn by someone else?! …Double Yikes!

Marks & Spencer is a much better alternative in this regard! Speaking of M&S, while ordering stockings, I had a sneak peek at their champagne and wines. They are currently running quite a few pre-Christmas specials on champers. So – time to stock up!

Now that I think about it, Bonfire Night, is really the last “hurrah” before Christmas here in the UK. These days, I am really torn about Thanksgiving. Of course, I love the concept, the colors, the foods, etc. But, in a way, it really is a just sort of very sincere “Dress Rehearsal” for Christmas.

I don’t mean to belittle Thanksgiving in any way, but I must say it does seem a little redundant. Although, there is clearly a need to have some sort of festivity between Halloween and Christmas, at the very least just to keep shopkeepers from putting up Christmas decorations in August!

Speaking of decorations, I must go and make sure the DEB has everything he needs for his costumes for tomorrow. And, I have a few “arts and crafts“ projects to get our props ready as well. Then, off to the Bonfire and hopefully, an early night. I’ve got a stint on the radio tomorrow morning – as if I needed another challenge.

It’s for a sort of “Week in Review” show. The host, another guest and I will read through and discuss the Sunday papers. I was flattered to be asked. I’m really looking forward to it, if somewhat nervous about it.

So, the theme for tomorrow is nerves and hopefully, a bit of sparkle!

Belated Thanks Giving


"O Lord that lends me life,
lend me a heart replete with thankfulness." – Henry VI

Thanksgiving took me almost completely by surprise this year. Even though I had stockpiled my tins Libby Pumpkin and Carnation condensed milk quite dutifully, I was caught unaware.

A rare and funny thing considering that Thanksgiving is an all-time favourite holiday of mine. The food, the colours, less hype than Christmas…

This year something changed. A change that was not due to my new location. An internal change.

I am not proud to say it, but I think it is hard to be thankful when life doesn’t seem to be going your way. And I realize it is always so much easier to see things from a “half empty” perspective.

Things just feel so sad right now, with Lucy being injured; and me still slowly, slowly recovering from my bout with flu. (Side note: I was fine before I had the Flu jab; and fell ill precisely seven days after having the job.)

Lucy’s surgery was a success, and she seems to be getting back to her old self. It’s awful to see her in pain, and it is going to be a long road to recovery for her. They say that pets are a good preparation for having children, as the level of responsibility can be just as high. Well, I can see how that works.

Lucy is going to need full-on care for the next 6 weeks. She will be unable to walk unassisted for that time period. That means for us, our holiday plans will need to abridged or augmented. Still, it’s a commitment we are happy and willing to make.

 Along with this very traumatic situation has been my own nearly month-long battle with the flu. I’m not one for just lying around at the best of times, and prolonged idleness makes me quite maudlin.

I find myself thinking far to deeply about things, and brooding about them: “Why are struggling so to find an agent for the cookbook?”, “Why am I even bothering trying to be a writer?”, “Maybe I should just give up and get a proper job?”

In my former life, I was an avid workaholic. Taking leave of that rat race was a joy, and I finally feel like I can breathe. But, it is so difficult when we live in a world that places value on what we do, as opposed to who we are.

I have applied for several teaching positions over the past several months, and have been rejected by every single one. Add those letters to the ones I have recently received from agents and publishers and the pile becomes quite considerable, indeed!

I was even turned down for a job in a local library for having “too much experience.” Is that possible?

Repeated rejection, flu symptoms, a poorly pooch, and rainy November days can really conspire against a girl.

The DEB tells me all the time that he is proud of me. I daren’t say “Proud of what?” He says he’s proud of me for “having a go,” daring to dream a dream, and pursue it with my whole heart.

Some days, I admire me, too. On others, I wonder why I bother getting out of bed. I feel like I am just drifting along, a boat without paddles or a sail.

Even my latest attempts at “doing good” have failed. I organized a charity sale here in Barford, and it was a huge, lamentable flop. If we had had a sale in downtown Manhattan like the one here in Barford, there would have a feeding frenzy. There would not have been a stitch of clothing left after the first half hour.

We had two pairs of Vera Wang shoes, brand new, never worn, each selling for less than $300.00. As a gal who likes a bargain, I thought the idea was heavenly. And apparently, according to The Sunday Times, the “Weekend Bargainista” hitting the second-hand sales is all the rage. In London. It takes a while for trendy to reach the countryside, apparently. Lesson learned.

And that is what this time feels like most of all. A time for lessons. Figuring out who I am, and what I want with and from this life. Pupils are rarely thankful for lessons.

Still, a week late, here I am giving thanks. I am mindful that in the midst of this inertia and seeming inactivity, I have much for which I am thankful. Not least the love that surrounds me on every side.

Post script

Our menu for Thanksgiving dinner last week: Southern fried chicken, succotash, sweet potatoes, stuffing and gravy. Pumpkin pie and ice cream.

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.

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.

Giving thanks

Yesterday was Thanksgiving – the quintessential American holiday. My favorite holiday, in fact. I love its autumnal colo(u)rs, its food, and its focus on gratitude. I did not miss being in the US yesterday, but I was very thankful right here, where I am.

The day began with a sound knock on our door. Parcel Force had arrived with a HUGE package. My mother, god bless 'er, sent over a wildly extravagant Thanksgiving care-package from America. I’m not kidding; there can be no doubt from whence I get my “champagne tastes”. She really outdid herself this time – nearly surpassing the Christmas package I received from her while I was living in London during my undergraduate Junior Year Abroad.

That Christmas my mother sent a 10lb smoked turkey and a homemade lemon pound cake from America, hand-delivered to me by childhood BFF (Best Friend Forever)! Now that is a care-package. My poor friend had to wrestle a 10lb turkey and a lemon pound cake as carry-on luggage through Customs on both sides of the Atlantic. You’d never get away with such shenanigan now, that’s for sure!

My mother is a bit more restrained these days, but not by much. This time, via Parcel Force, she sent two, whole, smoked pheasants from Vermont, Canadian ham, fruitcake, freshly baked Stollen, Christmas pudding, and an array of Tipton’s sauces. Bless her, I have tried to explain, but she fails to listen/accept, that I live in the land of freshly killed pheasants and homemade Christmas pudding; and Tipton’s sauces are available at my local Sainsbury’s. But, as they say, it’s the thought that counts, and what a dear thought it was.

Thankfully, the early parcel arrival helped me to build up enough steam to make it to Morning Prayer at St. Peter’s -- an ordinary event for a Thursday in Barford, but one that held special significance for me yesterday.

As thankful as I am for this new and amazing life, I must confess that I spent most of yesterday in a rather low and melancholy mood. We have guests coming on Saturday for a Thanksgiving Feast—more on that later—and so I busied myself by finally tackling the boxes of clothes that have long overrun the guest bedroom. Luckily, it was also collection day for clothing donations for the Warwickshire & Northamptonshire Helicopter Ambulance unit, so a good old sort out was in order.

For some reason, facing my wardrobe yesterday was like reading through old love letters, or rummaging through old family photographs.  Trouser suits. Skirt suits. Silk shirts. Leather bags. Suede boots that would make Sarah Palin weep. Ann Taylor this, Anthropologie, that.  J. Crew for days. Fragments of my former, sassy, New York, “diva professor” life. 

I picked up a slinky, black, schoolgirl-style jumper dress that I have yet to even wear; I looked at it longingly, hoping, praying it will still fit. My life, before I discovered British carbs. At my smallest, last year, I was a size 0. Those days are long gone.  I stopped, and caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror, and what I saw was a chunky, little, Warwickshire hausfrau in comfortable sweats and wild hair. What’s happened to me?

As you can imagine, this line of thinking only led to a larger, more pathetic re-evaluation of my life in general. “What are you doing?” I asked myself aloud. “Get a job, get a life!” I barked at the woman in the mirror.  “I’m doing the best I can,” was her weak response.

One of my very best friends, another sassy New York diva (she would probably say “the” sassy New York diva) left New York two years ago, and now lives in Hong Kong. She recently described to me a scene similar to the one I had, and my advice to her at that time was short, snappy, tough-love: “You’ve got a great life. Get over yourself!” The truth is, leaving the paying, professional world behind to follow your heart and your dreams is actually quite tough. And it didn’t really dawn on me until now. I owed her an apology. So I dropped her an email and said:

You realize, as always, I am about six months behind you. It is slowly sinking into my rather thick skull that my world now revolves around Sainsbury’s, my BBC Good Food Guide, creative ways of making dinner, laundry, pet food, and the Barford W.I. Who have I become? Who am I kidding? I'm still waiting to have the last laugh. But, maybe the joke's on me.  I miss who we were. I miss dressing up for work.

She’s away on holiday, so I’ll have to wait for her reply. In the meantime, I have treated myself to my own short, snappy, tough-love: “If you love that cashmere sweater dress – put it on!” and so, I did. I went on: “Listen. You made the decision to leave the workaday world, so live with it. Now, you work for me!”

I threw off my sweats, brushed my hair, squeezed myself into my grey cashmere sweater dress, and felt so much better! Okay, I work from home. I’m trying to build a career as a freelance writer, and that is work. It is just as much work as my old, “sassy suit” job in New York. Sure, it pays a whole lot less, well, okay, it doesn’t pay anything yet, but at least this time, it’s about me and for me. And for that, I am truly thankful.