Warning: This recipe may blow up in your face, or, How Not to Make Lancashire Hotpot

Quick & Easy Lancashire Hotpot

1. Slice the potatoes to about the thickness of a magazine (half a cm). Cook in boiling water for 8-10 mins until tender. Meanwhile, heat an ovenproof frying pan or shallow casserole on a high heat. Dry-fry the lamb for 5 mins until browned, letting the meat release itself from the base before you turn it. Heat the grill to medium.
2. Tip the onion and most of the rosemary into the pan and fry for 3 mins until the onion is slightly softened and takes on some of the colour from the lamb. Stir in the gravy, then season with black pepper.
3. Drain the potato slices and lay over the meat, each one overlapping slightly, then grill for about 5 mins, until the potatoes are golden.

This recipe promised me ease and convenience. Just what I needed on a day when I was feeling less than brilliant. The two-day-a-week commute to London, teaching keen American undergraduates, had finally taken its toll. Venturing out in the world, unprotected without my annual flu jab, I had succumb to the first cold of the season.

Things always (and always) seem worse when you have a cold. Damp weather seems wetter, the wind, windier, and melancholy moods, moodier. Feeling sorry for myself -- and wanting to prove to myself that at least my domestic prowess had not waned -- I drag myself from off the settee, and shuffled to the kitchen with the goal of preparing a Lancashire Hotpot for my Darling English Boy. 

Truth be told, I was feeling guilty. The poor DEB has done double duty in the kitchen these days, what with my traveling back and forth to London, and now being poorly/ill. I needed to reclaim my territory. So, armed with my favourite pyrex casserole dish, I set about this simple three-step recipe. How hard could it be? A cheat, really. A doddle, really, even with feeling under the weather. 

Famous last words... 

I got half way through Step #2, added the onion, began to stir, and BAM! And explosion of seared lamb, roasted onion and blackened glass. I stood there for a moment in shock. What had just happened? I stepped back and realised, to my surprise, that I was okay. There was glass everywhere. 

Clearing up the mess, I thought: How could something so simple have gone so wrong. As I stared at the shattered bits and pieces, I realised that the same may be said of my new life in Britain. How could something so seemingly simple have gone so wrong? Or, at least, not quite as well as it should have?

The past four years have been full of great joy and a great deal of struggle. And I know I am not alone in feeling that I am not exactly living to my fullest potential. I know that these are hard times, all round. Millions are struggling to secure and stay in full time work in Britain, not just me. Redundancies are common place. Why should it not happen to me? Receiving my 'walking papers' this week from the popular, regional magazine that has hosted my monthly column for over 2 years was a real blow. The new editor was kind and gracious, she acknowledged the popularity my column has enjoyed, and her reasons were the buzzwords of the day: cuts, budgets and costs. I, of course, understood. But not without feelings of hurt and resentment.

The hardest part about this is that my column, although it never paid me much, gave me joy and real sense of purpose, drive, hope, direction and definition. It was a monthly challenge, that gave me a real sense of achievement. An identity (beyond that of Wife) that I could cling to and amble about in socially. In essence, it gave me everything that had seemed all but lost for me. In the midst of a sea of (endless) rejection letters from colleges and universities up and down this country, my column was my anchor. It held me fast whenever I felt I just might drift away in a wave of depression or anxiety. And now that anchor is gone. I'll have to start again.

What are you meant to do when you have tried every trick you can think of, every thing that you know how to do to succeed? How do you 'give up' when giving up isn't really an option? Am I discovering that there is only a superficial openness here, and the Britain is in fact a deeply closed society? 

This was the first moment in four years when I seriously doubted my decision to move here. And, the first time I ever seriously considered wanting to leave. (Taking the DEB with me, of course!) But where we would be go? What would we do? Who would we be?

And how much would we be leaving behind? I know I wax lyrical about our beloved Barford, but it truly is a special place. We have family near by, and good friends now, who feel as close as family. 

Just as I begun to doubt this place and this choice, this place once again revealed itself to be 'right'. Over the past four sick days I have been shown such loving tenderness. Friends and neighbours stopping by to drop off 'sick day supplies' (boxes of tissues, magazines and chocolate); or home remedies ("My mother picked these elderflowers this summer, make two cups of tea and drink it daily. I swear by it with my boys."). My sweet friend, Kate, who insisted on foregoing her well-deserved day off lay-in to drive me to the doctor's, sat with me in the surgery (doctor's office) and treating me to a hot chocolate after; cheering phone calls from my brother-in-law; and a warming plate of dinner delivered straight from the Harvest Supper in the Village Hall.

These are the things that matter, these are the things that round out our lives. The rest are merely incidentals. That is what I have to remember, whenever I feel the urge to weep, to wail, to give up, or just plain run away.

Few things in life that are truly worthwhile are hardly ever "quick" and are certainly rarely "easy". Next time I attempt Lancashire Hotpot, I shall opt for a different recipe. One that may require a bit more effort and more time, but one that will hopefully give better results. I've learned one thing though: when, even after all your very best efforts, things blow up in your face, all you can do is clear it up and start again.

'The New York Times' is having a Bake Sale

Yesterday, I finally felt like a writer.

Although I’m the author of three works of scholarly non-fiction – for which I occasionally receive royalty cheques/checks in sums that might possibly allow me to purchase a book of postage stamps. (Well, that it is until Royal Mail puts up stamp prices next week!)

I am always somewhat dim-wittedly surprised when these cheques arrive in the post. I open the letters, and say aloud, almost yawning, “Oh, yeah. I wrote that.” 

My nonplussed attitude stems from the fact that these three tomes, although sources of great pride, have -- due to their status as scholarly works (and their exorbitant price-tags) – remained largely unread and unknown.

In fact, it is quite soul-destroying whenever I walk through the Bookstalls in The Courtyard Theatre at the Royal Shakespeare Company and NEVER, EVER see a copy of my book, Studio Shakespeare on their shelves.

My book is the definite history of the RSC’s studio theatre, The Other Place, and biography of its first artist director, Mary Ann “Buzz” Goodbody. I had the honour of being distinguished as the “Buzz Goodbody scholar,” at a memorial event for her in 2006; where I shared the stage on a panel with Patrick Stewart.

I toiled for eight years to produce that work, to commemorate that place and time in the Royal Shakespeare Company’s history. I am told, whenever I pursue the topic with them, that everyone in the Company admires the work, thinks it’s great and invaluable, &etc. – it is their history after all – but regrettably, the book is too expensive for them to keep in stock.

Sad, isn’t it, how things always seem to come down to money at the end of the day?

So, the way I have chosen to cope is to just try and forget about it, and to remain indifferent when it appears that another copy has actually been sold, somewhere in the world.

What a different feeling then, to be a “Columnist” with a regular column in a magazine that people actually read!

And yesterday, said-magazine hosted a fabulous spring luncheon at the Alveston Manor in Stratford-upon-Avon, to celebrate its on-going success, and congratulate its staff and contributors.

When I received my invitation, I danced about the house with glee. I was more excited receiving the invite to the magazine’s posh lunch, than I was about receiving my pay slip!

I jumped into the car, and rushed over to Warwick to see my friend Ella at her fantastic vintage shop, Corina Corina to find something fabulous to wear. Ella kitted me out with a splendid pair of delicious Dolce & Gabana knickerbockers.  (A steal at £55.00)  They made me feel every inch a diva!

I sauntered into yesterday’s lunch feeling fabulous, but also more than a little bit nervous, as I feared I wouldn’t know anyone. I needn’t have worried, as I soon felt right at home, when our wonderful, wonderful Editorix-in-Chief, Jane Sullivan made a beeline to me, to say ‘hello’. (She’s mega.)

Everyone was very enthusiastic about my column; at one point the Publications Director grabbed the forth-coming April issue, and through pales of laughter, started reading out bits of my column to others around the table.

Needless to say, I was flattered beyond belief!

There is a book (on our newly assembled IKEA bookshelves) by George Orwell called “Why I Write”.  I bought that book for the title, and the way it prompted me to contemplate why I write. People write for lots of reasons: for profit, for pleasure, for fame, for fun, and so on.

I will say it was such a great, great pleasure to witness people actively enjoying something that I’d written. Quite a wonderful feeling.

I left that lunch walking on air. As I drove home on the windy road through the tiny hamlet of Loxley, I thought about the funny journey I have had as a writer.  I was giddy, and despite the light splattering of rain, I lowered the windows of the car, and shouted ‘Helllooooo, hellooo!’ to the sheep grazing, not so peacefully, in the lush, green fields beside the road.

I laughed at myself. And recalled an episode from my high school (secondary school) journalism days. I was a staff writer for the school paper, and every year we were given the chance to apply for the various leading, editorial posts on the paper. For years, I’d coveted being Features Editor.

Our newspaper teacher, Mrs. M., was a stickler for precision and organization, she was hard to please to say the least.  The day before she was to make her final decision for editorial posts for the coming year, she scheduled a fundraising “Bake Sale” for the paper. We were all meant to contribute to sale and put in the time selling the edible wares.

Every girl knew this was the last chance to shine before Mrs. M. – to show your undying commitment and dedication to the paper and its survival.

Alas, dear Reader, I am sure you have already guessed my predicament: I forgot. I arrived at school blithely, and brownie-less, as if it were any other day. I was devastated.

My best friend, Noël, found me beside myself in tears, in the restroom.  “C’mon Al,” she cajoled. “I can’t believe you’re seriously upset over the fact that you forgot a stupid bake sale.”

“You don’t understand,” I cried. “I want to be a writer, and I’ve just blown my chances with Mrs. M., I’ll never be more than a staff writer now.”

“Look,” Noël said defiantly. “If she doesn’t pick you for Features editor because you didn’t stay up all night making chocolate chip cookies, than she’s crazy. What’s that got to do with writing anyway? Oh, yeah, I can just see it now, ‘The New York Times is having a Bake Sale.’”

That conversation cheered me immensely, and I still laugh heartily when I think on it now. In the end, I wasn’t selected for Features Editor (absence of brownies aside, it was most likely because I’ve never met a comma that I didn’t like).

However, my ever-defiant friend set me to a task that pushed my writing far more than that editorial position ever would have. Daring me to ‘just write,’ Noël set us both to the challenge of writing a daily short story. 

We’d meet at our lockers, blurry eyed, at 7:55 AM and exchange massive, handwritten bundles.  “You’re going love this one, I was up till 3 AM writing it!” Noël said, shouting back at me, over her shoulder, from the midst of a sea of navy-blue uniforms, as the bell for homeroom rang…

Brilliant, wonderful, writer-ly times.

 

 

 

  

Patience is a virtue

My dear friend, Patience, has impeccable timing.

This morning. A knock at our front door. A special delivery from luxury food purveyors, Fortnum & Mason. 

A lovely box set, in the classic Fortnum & Mason "almost Tiffany blue" box, and gold lettering. Twin pair bottles of champagne. 

The card, simply stated, as elegant as she: "Cheers, and lots of love, As you celebrate first Christmas as Husband and Wife!"

Her sweet, loving and thoughtful gift reaching us precisely on the date of our 7th month anniversary. 

How perfect. And what a way to start this special day.

Tomorrow is year end, and what a year it has been.

The difference a year can make

Early morning jitters.

Cup of tea in hand, 

Waiting for the sun to rise over my quiet little corner of England...

It is quite remarkable, the difference a year can make.

This time last year, I was exploring my new world, trying not to look back on what I'd left behind, keen to make a fresh start, and anxious for what the future might hold. And, I started this blog, which has been a saving grace in so many ways. 

That seems such a long time ago, as I look upon myself now. There are still things yet to be discovered and chronicled, to be sure. The journey has just begun. 

The coming year will undoubtedly be no less adventure-filled than the one which has just passed. It begins today...

Last year this time, I went along to magnificent Coughton Court for the Throckmorton Literary Festival. This year, this morning, I will be speaking there as a feature author. I am sure I must be dreaming, but I hope that no one wakes me till its over.

But more than the dizzying high of being in the company of such illuminati as Kate Adie and David Starkey, what I am aware of most profoundly is a deep sense of wholeness and love.

I cannot fully describe what I mean, beyond saying that I have never felt so loved and supported in my life. This morning, my inbox was peppered with cheery messages of encouragement from friends and neighbours here in Barford. Other Barford friends and family made cheerleading phone calls or left rallying voicemails for me yesterday.

Practical support has come alongside the moral variety. The Darling D.E.B. has taken the day off work today. Not only is he planning to come along to cheer his little Wifey on, he's volunteered to be one of our Elizabethan waiters. 

We are serving samples from our cookbook as part of our session today. The D.E.B. in floppy shirt, short trousers and tights, a la Jonathan Rhys-Meyers in "The Tudors"...lovely!

Our wonderful Sally arranged the costumes; sweet Hannah--who sang 'our song' at our wedding--has stepped in to be Elizabethan Server #2. (I've decided to call them "Romeo" and "Rosalind"...let's see just how twee I can get today.) 

Maggie, from the Barford Heritage Group, phoed with good advice, prompting me to think about having our session recorded, which in the great mix of things had escaped me. 

I could go on and on, and name dozens of other Barfordians have been here for me with pep talks, cups of tea, and hugs that have helped bring me to today. And not just "today" in the literal and date specific sense, but Today. This Life.

That is the difference a wonderful, English year can make. 

Thank you, dear Reader, for sharing this journey with me.

Ten days...

"Journeys end in lovers meeting.” - Twelfth Night

“I can’t wait to put that ring on your finger,” the D.E.B. said, waking me with a kiss in the soft light of morning. After days and days of rain, the sun has finally deemed to shine in these parts, and the birds outside our bedroom window twittered joyously in their dawn chorus.

Ten days from today I will be Mrs. D.E.B., and what an amazing journey it has been. I have surprised myself with the level of calm I seem to have found in these past few days. I have no doubt that all of that will change drastically next week, but at least for now, there is peace of mind.

Things are coming together beautifully. I had a very successful meeting with the Vicar (He is lovely.) about the flowergirls, and he has even taken on board the possibility of me entering last during the bridal procession.

Monday of last week, I turned up at the rectory with flower girl baskets in hand, to show the Vicar what we intended. Just the Vicar and I made our way across the churchyard for our trial run with the flower petals – PLOP! I got splattered by a low flying pigeon. “Well, that’s good luck!” the Vicar laughed. He has a great sense of humo(u)r.

Good omen it was indeed. Our meeting went very well. The Vicar himself sprinkled bits of lavender and rosebuds from the baskets during the test run. Most importantly, he tested how easily the bits could be swept up.  Looking up at me, as he knelt down with broom and dustpan in hand, he declared: “Yes, I think we can manage this.” Without restraint, I threw my arms about him in a shower of thanks.

I left that meeting with a very strong sense that all would indeed be well, that everything would be fine. And so it seems. The “Jam Making Maven of Barford” stepped in and saved my sanity and the wedding favour project (Blueberry and Lavender Jam); and all in less time that it would take me to make a cup of tea.

The quilt saga has yet to be fully addressed, but will receive my full attention this weekend. (I’m learning to focus on what I can control, and on one thing at a time.)

There is a turn of phrase I hear a great deal around here: “Well, you’ve got to laugh, haven’t you?” This bit of British truism is advice to which I am trying to adhere. I had a true test of this last Friday.

Last Friday was my “Day of  Reckoning” – my final fitting at Eternal Bride in Warwick. This was the moment for which I have been running, swimming and sweating for nearly five months.

Of course, I arrived late. I wanted to achieve the “full effect,” so I booked a last-minute appointment beforehand at my wonderful, newly discovered hairdressers (Pardeep at Toni & Guy in Leamington Spa) and got a haircut. Dashing back to the car, I grabbed some flowers from a street vendor on The Parade, a spur of the moment “thank you” gesture for Morag, the alterations/seamstress at Eternal Bride.

Little did I know, these flowers would be so well deserved. I zipped carefully from Leamington to Warwick (becoming ever so confident driving the Tank these days!), and sprinted into the shop.

Poor Karima had been sat waiting for me for twenty minutes (I should have got flowers for her, too!). Morag’s next client had already arrived so I took Karima for a coffee until Morag was free again.

I envied the lemon cheesecake Karima had ordered with her coffee, but I was good and resisted. “Think of the dress,” I thought to myself. Finally, we went back to Eternal Bride and climbed the stairs to Morag’s loft. I was ready for my Cinderella moment.

I skipped behind the curtain, and slipped into the bottom half of the dress with ease. Then leapt out of the changing area, giddy with expectation, holding my ivory, silk bodice in front me. All smiles, I stood before the mirror awaiting further assistance.

Morag moved swiftly and came to stand behind me, taking the ends of the bodice in her hands. I watched in the mirror as Morag and Karima’s smiling faces slowly turned from gleeful delight to shock and dismay.

“What have you done?” Morag said softly to my perplexed reflection in the mirror. I looked to Karima. “It won’t close,” Karima said with tears in her voice. “That’s impossible,” I squealed. “There is no way I have put on weight,” I said, trying not to cry.

“No, my dear. You haven’t put on weight. You’re not fatter. You’re bigger. Broader.” Morag said, completely confounded. She grabbed her measuring tape to confirm the fact. “Well,” she sighed, “You’ve taken two inches off your hips, one off your waist, and you’ve added inch to your torso. In short, my dear, you have reshaped your body type.”

I was stunned. “I told you you were working too hard!” Karima insisted. “What have you been doing?” Morag demanded.

“Running, lifting weights and swimming. Two and a half hours a day. Five days a week, plus Pilates on Tuesday afternoons...” I said meekly.

Morag needed to sit down.

With the wedding roughly two weeks away, I stood before her, a bride in an altered dress that did not fit. A dress, once several sizes too big, now a size too small. A bride who had come to her as a pudgy, but shapely petite, who had rebuilt herself unwittingly in a blind fitness frenzy. 

I stood before her now, looking like Michael Phelps in a dress.

 “What are we going to do!!?” Karima panicked. 

Morag stayed silent and thought. I could see the designing wheels turning in her head. This woman has designed her way around the world, costume dramas for the BBC and countless other stage and screen productions. This was surely, hopefully, just a minor blip on her landscape.

“It’s going to be a long weekend.” Morag said finally.

She then shared her strategy for rescuing and essentially re-designing the dress. She’s a genius. I am so sorry that she will need to go to so much trouble, but I think her interventions will not only save the dress, but will even improve upon it.

This was an utterly harrowing experience, but I think even this, too, will be one of those “It worked out even better than I expected” moments, when all is said and done. 

Well, you’ve got to laugh, haven’t you?

 

April showers

American-British writer T.S. Eliot once declared that April is “the cruelest month”.  For me, this month has not been cruel so much as it has been temperamental, and certainly at times a challenge.

Sunny summer-like days, followed by sudden, chilly showers, it has indeed been a month of highs and lows. Just when I felt I was closer to solving the ”wedding cake dilemma” (latest samples for testing being delivered tonight), I now have an unimaginable problem with the wedding quilt!

Foolish Southern belle that I am, I decided to make (by hand) a wedding quilt, with less than four months to achieve the impossible. But the timing is not the worst of it.

On one of my transatlantic visits to see the D.E.B. in November 2007, we had a day out in the Cotwolds with the D.E.B’s wonderful aunt and uncle. We went for a walk near Sulgrave Manor – ancestral home of George Washington, the first president of the United States – and spent the afternoon in Banbury.

While in Banbury, I found a cute, little fabric shop and bought some beautiful fabric. Like so many quilters, I am nuts about fabric, and routinely buy small amounts just to hoard, and hopefully  (eventually) use. On the occasion, the fabric in question was a green and ivory toile, and solid green cotton. Lovely.

So, when the idea of making a wedding quilt struck me, I thought: Voila! And, viva le toile! I had the perfect pieces right to hand. Also, like most quilters, I had bitten off more than I could chew, and had engineered and begun a project that would normally take 12 months to complete, in less than 6.

I called in reinforcements, and all looked to be going well, until, we ran out of fabric last week. And, we are nowhere near the end. At last reckoning, it appeared that we possibly, only possibly, have a quarter of the quilt done.

To add insult to injury, the fabric I have selected has now been discontinued. (What else, ye gods?) I contacted the shop in Banbury, going so far as to send them a handwritten letter in the post (remember those?) with cuttings of the two fabrics and an urgent plea for help. The called me the next day to say, regrettably, they could not help. They remembered the fabric but not the manufacturer. “The only thing I do remember,” the shop assistant said, “is that I think it was called ‘Reminiscences,’ maybe you could look it up online?” Great. Just what I needed, another Google challenge. And this time, a Google fabric and colo(u)r matching challenge.   

Fearing failure in the virtual realm, I had a modicum of success at “The Quilters Den” in Warwick. It’s a great shop, with super, helpful staff. They could special order all the fabric I need, the toile and the solid green. Hurrah! But – it will take 3 weeks for the fabric to arrive. I’m not sure that my quilting army can survive a 3 week delay…worse still, when I phoned today to ask the Quilter’s Den staff what the name and make of my fabrics, they were unable to tell me.  No doubt fearing that if they armed me with that information, I might take my trade elsewhere. April is a cruel month, indeed.

But, April can also be kind.

All around the village, everyone has been so supportive and enthusiastic about the wedding, and us. A few examples: The man who will be ringing the church bells for us on our wedding day came and introduced himself to us following a Sunday service. “I shall be ringing your bells, let’s hope for a fine day,” he beamed. He is such a gentle and loving old soul, who clearly takes great pride and joy in what he does, the joyous service he renders to couples on their special day. (At some point, after the wedding and all, I would love to join his little group of church bell ringers.)

Last week, after the St. George’s Day church service, Julia (part of the Monday-Wednesday Swim Club) and her husband, Robert surprised us with a large bundle of Asparagus, fresh from a local farm. “Just a little something” to let us know we were being thought of, and to introduce us to local offerings.

I got directions to the farm from Julia, and as it turns out, it is the same sweet, little farm where the DEB and I bought our Christmas tree. Growing Christmas trees and asparagus, what an idyllic way to spend one’s life. 

I went along to the farm yesterday and bought more lovely asparagus, plus a bundle for Julia and Robert, as well as one for the Vicar and Mrs. Vicar. Seemed a nice thing to do.

Another example, of April kindness: A knock on our door in late afternoon, my friend Di, with urgent news. There’s a couple in the village planning to sale their house. Di asked them to wait, before placing their house on the open market, and give and the DEB first refusal. “I know how much you two want to stay in the village, and we want you here, too,” she said.

Such a sweet and thoughtful thing to do. So, last Sunday, after church, we went and had a look at house down Mill Lane. Very lovely couple, wonderful part of the village. I really, really, really wanted to like this place -- not least because Diane had gone to such trouble.

In theory, the house sounded ideal: 3 bedrooms, garage and parking space (gold dust here in Barford), nice garden. To be fair, it was lovely. The kitchen had been extended was huge, light and airy.  But, as I am finding with most places we seem to look at, the downstairs is super, but the upstairs always leaves much to be desired.

The 2 double bedrooms upstairs turned to out be the size of what one would roughly call a large single, and the single room was the size of a broom closet. Jackie 1 (from the Monday-Wednesday Swim Club) teased me mercilessly the following Monday, when I reported this viewing in the pool. She said: “Ooh, you two clearly spend a great deal of your time upstairs.”

Embarrassed and flustered, I tried quickly to explain that our seeming obsession with bedroom size was to do with the bulk and size of my American furniture (Thank you, Crate & Barrel), and the vast amount of “stuff” the DEB and I have acquired and accumulated over time.

Why is that so many English homes, particularly those of a certain age and character, can be so lovely in some aspect, and yet, simultaneously so dark and pokey? (SIGH)

I really hated to disappoint Di. But, neither the DEB nor I were 100% sold on the place. Funnily enough, the house we are living in and renting at the moment seems to fit us pretty well. It is a modern construction, though not entirely characterless. So the quest continues. Not that we don’t already have enough on our plates at the moment.

State Secrets

“I hear you're attending Marriage Preparation classes in Wellesbourne.” remarked Phil, balancing himself atop the large, yellow Body Ball. “Yes!” I wheezed breathlessly from the cross trainer. “How’s that going?” asked Graham, as he headed toward the treadmill. “Back in my day, they’d never have had ‘classes,’ you just called in on the vicar, or were forced to call in on the vicar, rather.” Phil smiled broadly with a chuckle.

Times have certainly changed.  And, as I said to my wonderful gym chums, I’m very thankful for the preparation course. This is something the Church of England gets absolutely right. I think it is much needed in this day and age. As my friend, Mikala, reminded me on the phone today, I am secretly quite a staunch traditionalist at heart, though my life has often been far from it.

At our marriage seminar we walked through “The Marriage Service” line-by-line, word-by-word. But this is much more than a rudimentary “Do-you-understand-what-you-are-saying?” exercise. We dissected the text chunk-by-chunk and explored issues that are directly and tangentially related to the points being made.

As a part of this, there were a series of written and conversation-starting exercises that we were to complete individually, and then share with our partners. The exercises tackle some really important and pertinent issues.

The first exercise is called “Appreciating Your Partner and Their Talents.” Rationale: “Do you appreciate your partner? Do you value yourself? Marriages are built on a combination of each partner’s talents. Someone once said that one key to a good marriage is where ‘My partner enables me to love myself more.’”

We are then meant to fill in the following blanks:

1.) Something I really appreciate about my partner is (blank). 2.) Something my partner does really well is (blank). 3.) Something I like about my partner’s appearance is (blank). 4.) One special memory about our life together so far is (blank).  We then had to share our answers with our partner, in the form of a direct sentence: “Something I really appreciate about you is (blank).”

The next exercise was called: “Where Does it Come From?” This exercise looks back on that pivotal relationship of our parents, and their marriage. The dynamics of our parents’ marriages have such a significant influence and impact on how we interact with the opposite sex, and how we see the construction of marriage in both positive and negative ways.  One often hears people making statements such as I want to, “marry someone like my Dad” or “never ever be a wife like my mom.”

For this exercise we had to sit and consider who did what in our families, i.e., paid the bills, did the dishes, disciplined the children, mowed the lawn, taught the children how to pray, sent out Christmas cards, and etc. The course leaders stressed the point that these childhood experiences can create strong, deeply-held convictions, assumptions and expectations of which we may not even be aware.

The most interesting part of the exercise for me was that in addition to outlining our own experience of “who did what,” we had to guess what our partner’s experiences had been. Coming together later with our answers revealed much about how my Darling English Boy and I became the people we are.

In his family’s household, the washing up/doing the dishes was a shared responsibility, most notably done by the children. The D.E.B.’s mum was responsible for the family purse, and paying the bills, while she and the D.E.B’s dad shared the tasks of disciplining the children, deciding where to go on holidays, and deciding where the children went to school, & etc. They also made a joint effort in sending out Christmas cards and entertaining guests.

I was astonished. 

By comparison, my family was a cliché, 1950s, American sitcom. 

I never once saw my father (god rest him) wash a single dish, and I’m sure he had no idea where my mother even kept the broom, let alone the Christmas cards. 

I’m not saying my parents had a bad marriage, clearly, it worked for them; their marriage was just very different to the one that the D.E.B.’s parents had.

I will say that my parents' marriage did in some ways, put me off the idea. I can also say now that I did resent the way my father wasn’t involved in household chores and such. There was clearly a “male/female” divide in terms of who did what, and who had the ultimate and final say.

After delving into the past, we had to look at the present. The next exercise was: “What Sort of Person Are You?” Again, working individually, we had to decide and note down, between ourselves and our partners, who was: a.) The more clothes conscious. b.) The one more likely to take risks.  c.) The more thrifty. d.) Gets angry the soonest. e.) More ready to show affection. f.) More inclined to sulk. and, g.) the more reserved. 

When we came to share our answers, The D.E.B. and I had each awarded the other with the “most affectionate” mantle.

There was a great deal of substance in this experience for us. Particularly in the area of who gets angry soonest (me) and who is more inclined to sulk (The D.E.B.). This exercise led us to talk about conflict, and how to handle differences.

As I said to my gym chums, I think the one thing we as people are not taught to do well is to disagree. Arguing is viewed as such a negative thing, yet it is something that inevitably happens in every relationship.  I really appreciate our Preparation class acknowledging that, and pushing us to actually think about “How do you argue?”

Other points we addressed were: “The ways we express love to one another: Touch, Words, Service and Gifts” --  raising such questions as “How do you feel you are being cherished in this relationship?” And, “Which ways of being cherished are most important to you?"

“Marriage is seriously joyful, seriously hopeful and seriously demanding.”

One of the course leaders—a priest who was truly amazing!—got up spoke frankly about how his first marriage didn’t work and had ended, and how God had blessed him with a second. 

He was honest, open and vulnerable with us, and that meant a lot. He led us through a segment called “Commitment Through All The Changes Ahead”.

We were asked to list some of things that we were individually looking forward to, which we hope might happen during our marriage, either in the near or distance future; also to list the things we might find more challenging, painful or fearful; and then finally, asked to consider and list “roots you can put down now which will help you to cope with situations as they occur in the future.”

The remaining two segments were the most profound: “What Do You Want From Your Partner?” (Rationale: Sometimes it is hard to tell your partner that you want something from them; but how will they know if you don’t tell them. Equally important is being willing to listen to your partner’s needs – sometimes we have to be aware of unspoken signs.”) and, “It Worries Me…” All about revealing your fears and concerns about marriage (money, boredom, loss of freedom, and etc.)

Great stuff. 

And things that most people rather not thinking about. Much easier to get caught up in flowers and tiaras…The leaders intended all of this to be a springboard into our on-going conversations with each other as we journey into marriage.

“So,” I said, huffing and puffing my last 5 minutes on the cross-trainer, “what’s the secret to a good marriage?’

“Oh!” Phil and Graham say in unison, more than ready to give some fatherly advice. “Keep the woman under control,” cheeky Graham said with a smile and wink in the mirror. “Do as I’m told,” Phil says plainly, finishing his squats.

“Of course, you know,” said Graham, slowing down his treadmill, and facing me, “Phil’s answer is based on reality, while mine is completely and utterly from the realm of fantasy.”  

April Fools

Perched atop my favo(u)rite treadmill, I could see Jackie 1 was "giving it some wellie" (working very hard) in the swimming pool this morning. (Lucky her, she had the whole pool to herself, a rare privilege we all relish.)

After punishing myself in the gym, I was ready to reap my “reward” (a swim and a steam) and wandered into the pool area, just as the other members of what I have deemed, “The Monday-Wednesday Swim Club” arrived (Jackie 2, Beryl and Judy).

After swimming flat out for an hour, Jackie 1 was ready for a good old natter (chit-chat). To be honest, I used to find the “M-W Swim Club” really annoying. But now, fitness goals achieved, I am mush more relaxed about things, and have really grown to enjoy their company. And they were all on top form today.

“I’ve been dying to tell you,” Jackie 1 swam over to the edge of the pool to meet me, “I went along to a wedding at Walton Hall over the weekend. It was lovely, but quite different. When the bride came in, she didn’t have any music at all. Rather, the vicar asked us all to applaud her. Can you imagine? She came in to the sound of people clapping and cheering her! Isn’t that unique?”

Before I could respond, Jackie 2 chimed in: “Well, that’s fantastic. Why not? People should do what they like.” “Well, yes, that’s my point, exactly. You should do exactly what you want!” Jackie 1 said patting me on the back.

“Morning, girls!” Beryl and Judy had arrived. These two are quite simply, fabulous. They are two peas in a pod, same height, same build, best friends. Both in their 60s, they are a laugh a minute, and as tall as they are wide, and they could care less what anyone else thinks about that.

(“If people don’t like what they see when they look at me, don’t look, I say!” the wonderfully boisterous Beryl declared once.)

“Are we talking weddings, again?” Judy teased and winked, lowering herself into the pool. “I remember my wedding like it was yesterday,” she added. “Oh, that’s so sweet,” giggled Jackie 2, splish-splashing around the pool, but never actually getting her hair wet.

“It weren’t sweet, we fought the entire time!” Judy confessed. We all froze and looked at her. “Oh, yes. That’s right. He and me, we fought every day the week before the wedding, and the week after.” Judy revealed.

“No!” the Jackies and I exclaim in utter disbelief. “Yes. After two weeks of that, I’d had enough. I packed my bags and went back to my mum’s!” said Judy, she and Beryl erupted into laughter. “Don’t look so frightened, lovey. She weren’t back home with ‘er mum, long,” Beryl gave me a wink.  Judy explained: “Of course, I went back. After he came a’begging!” The twin peas cackled in unison. 

“Did you keep on fighting like that?” Jackie 2, her mocha-colo(u)red, springs piled high on her head, enquired timidly. “Goodness, yes,” Judy said proudly, “I’ll tell you. There aren’t two glasses in my cupboard the same, what with me throwing ‘em at him when we was having a row.” “She’s not lyin’!” Beryl testified. “My goodness...” blushed the demure Jackie 1.

“Well, there’s a lot to be said for a good fight, isn’t there, Judy? A lot good can come of it. ‘Specially in the making up.” cheeky little Beryl winked, and reduced us all to schoolgirl giggles.

With that, Beryl and Judy began their laps in the tiny pool. The Jackies and I returned to more simple wedding talk: “How are you wearing your hair?”; “Who’s going to lift your veil for you?”; “Has the D.E.B. decided what he’s going to  wear?” and etc.

I explained that I had originally planned to wear my hair down, since the D.E.B. prefers it that way, but that my opinion had changed during my first fitting.

“The Dress” requires a much more pull-together coiffure than my rather unruly, and unkempt long and loose look. I had yet to even think through the “veil lifting” issue. 

Both Jackies think I should have the D.E.B. do the lifting. (“That would be so romantic…” Jackie 2 swooned.)

And as for what the D.E.B. is wearing, I informed them that things had taken a decided 19^th C. turn, and that the D.E.B. would be wearing a charcoal grey “morning suit.”

“Oh, like Mr. Darcy,” sighed Jackie 1. “He is my Mr. Darcy.” I blushed, and the two Jackies squealed with glee.

“Listen,” Jackie 2 leaned in close. “Don’t worry about the arguing. Marriage is the greatest adventure I’ve ever been on.” She smiled and swam away, corkscrew curls still dry.

Later, while sitting alone in the steam room, I hear strains of singing. It’s Beryl entertaining Judy with a rendition of “The Cuckoo Song.” Beryl was twirling about in the pool, while Judy, sat in hysterics, watches from the side.

Beryl was reminiscing about Springtime when she was a little girl at school. “Teacher made us sing that song, everytime. And we had to do the ‘Daffodil’ poem, and act it out, with gestures and all!” she exclaimed, as Judy howled with laughter.

I opened the door of the steam room and teased them: “Oy! You two are having far too much fun out here!” This only served to set them on an even bigger roar.

At which point, dear Julia arrives. Poor Julia’s been feeling under the weather, and only managed to get to the gym very late. “What sort of time you call this?” Beryl teased her from the pool. Poor Julia, she had no idea what a time she missed.

“Lord, what fools these mortals be!” – Puck, A Midsummer Night’s Dream

 

Fit for a Queen

I looked in the mirror, and I actually liked what I saw. After nearly 10 weeks of sweat and strain, I found myself standing before a large mirror in the alterations loft of Eternal Bride bridal shop in Warwick. Surrounding me were the smiling faces of Debbie, Eternal Bride shop manager, Morag, the alterations diva, and my friend, Karima. 

I made myself think of that famous portrait of Princess (later Queen) Alexandra, wife of King Edward VII, or that portrait of the Wertheimer sisters by John Singer Sargent. "You look beautiful," Karima, getting misty-eyed, said as she stood close by me.  

Karima has been an amazing friend to me throughout this process. A bit of background: Karima is the D.E.B.'s best friend. She stood by him, and helped him through the difficulties of his divorce. She is one of those incredible people that is just all heart. When I first arrived in England last August (can it really be seven months ago?), the D.E.B. had asked Karima to be at our place to receive a floral delivery for me. (Yes, the D.E.B. had arranged to have a beautiful bouquet of flowers waiting for me when we walked in, and he had written me a little card that said: "Welcome Home. You're home now, darling, here with me.") 

Karima kindly received the delivery, and went further. She and her sisters, "Fudge" and Salina, spent the day at our house, decorated our bedroom with flowers and candles, and they prepared a huge Indian meal for us (our favorite cuisine!), and laid the table for us. They even left us a little menu detailing the goodies on offer, complete with reheating instructions.

Karima, Fudge and Salina have adopted me, and have stepped up and taken on the role of "sisters," just when I needed them. (Isn't it amazing how God/the universe places people in our lives precisely where and when we need them? I am firm believer that we always have the family we need, when we need them. They may not always take the shape, form or number that we imagine, but one must trust that they will appear.)

 

Aside from teasing me mercilessly about the pending wedding night high jinks, they have mucked in and offered hands-on support with my (overly-ambitious) crafty wedding projects: the wedding quilt and my lavender jelly (the intended wedding favour). 

A funny moment: Fudge and Karima came round the other day to harangue me (much needed) about the quilt, and I had prepared my first attempt at Lavender Jelly (anything to not work the quilt). 

"I think it might be a bit on the sweet side..." I warned Fudge, handing her a small jar and a spoon. "Good god! That's awful!" Fudge shouted, running to the sink for water. "You need some help, girl. Let's work on this." 

I love their candour, their warmth, humor, and colorfulness. I'm looking forward to spending more time with them, and they have promised to introduce me to the wild and wacky world that is "Bollywood." I can't wait to discover the Asian side of British life.

                                    

Back to the fitting...

In true sisterly fashion, Karima fussed and fretted around me, advising Morag on the necessary nips and tucks, until I reminded her that Morag clearly knew what she was doing. (In a previous life, Morag was a costume designer for stage and screen, so she knows a thing or two about alterations...) Good-natured Karima stepped aside, and let Morag do her job.

As my darling friend, Christopher, likes to say I had chosen well. My dress, an ivory gown by British designer Helen Marina, is quite divine. And I felt absolutely gorgeous in it. 

It is a very simple and elegant. 

What I love most about it is that it has a delightfully Edwardian feel about it. That luscious, Lillie Langtry-esque "Here-are-my-curves, you-may-adore-them" look that is sexy, but elegant all at the same time. (I have said before that I have often felt I've been displaced from the 19th C.) 

"Such a regal look about it," Morag said looking up at me, her mouth full of straight pins. "I feel like a Princess," I said, happy at last with my reflection. "No," admonished Karima taking my hand in hers, "that day, you'll be the queen."

It takes a village

Throughout this early and very intense stage of wedding planning, I have learned one clear and valuable lesson: “No bride is an island.”

No matter how smart you are, or how smart think you are, you can always benefit from the knowledge, wisdom and experience of others.

Obviously, a lot of the advice that one is given when one is a “Bride-to-be” is often a load of old rubbish and nonsense. Such as the email I received from a friend (and I use the term loosely) of mine, who wrote recently with advice about Bridesmaids. To illustrate her point, she included the following, a picture she found on a bridal blog she’s a fan of:

Her advice: “Choose your bridesmaids carefully, make sure they are all shorter and fatter than you. And, everyone knows the drill. Pick a ridiculous color and a god-awful design that no one looks good in.” 

It was only after reading this message that I began to contemplate just how and why the sender counts me amongst her friends…because I’m shorter and fatter than she is, perhaps?  Hmmm….

Well, I discarded that advice from my mind, as swiftly as I deleted her message from my inbox. From the ridiculous to the sublime, wedding advice runs the gamut.  As does, I’m proud to say, wedding support. Barford in a very small English village, in a small English county. Not much happens here, but there is always a lot going on. And a village wedding is big news.

As if I weren’t “novelty factor” enough, I now carry the mantle of “upcoming Bride-to-be.” This quite happily translates into one receiving sweet, little missives regularly through the door. Short, handwritten notes of advice with names and phone numbers of people I should contact, speak to, get to know, and etc. And, more importantly being a Barford bride-to-be means I am routinely invited round to bright, warm living rooms or cosy kitchens for countless cups of tea and girlie conversations about wedding invitations, music, flowers dresses and honeymoon plans.

There is something about weddings, isn’t there? We women love them. No, I mean we really love them! I remember, (was it last year?) when Elizabeth Hurley got married and had three different wedding ceremonies, with at least 5 different dresses! The press scowled and poo-pooed her, but not me. “Lucky cow!” I thought. I mean, who wouldn’t jump at the chance to wear each one of the wedding dresses you like, and every pair of wedding shoes you want, but no, the rest us have to settle for one dress, one day. Well, phooey!

And, as it happens, I’ve lived part of my life as a professional Theatre director, so “putting on a show” is in my blood. It makes difference whether the “production” is Off-Off Broadway or a small village wedding, the principle is the same: It’s all about the details.

I’m very thankful I’ve got a team of people (dare I call them my Village People?) pushing me on the details.

Graham, Ron and Phil.  No, they are not a Beatles tribute band. These three chaps are my best mates at the gym. Between them, their average age is 70; and on one of my first days at the gym Ron beamed at me proudly, and said: “Bet you can’t tell which ones of us have had hip replacements.”

These fellas keep me motivated, and honest.  When I feel weary and fed-up, they cheer me on. When I’m late coming into the gym in the morning, a merry rebuke or two comes my way from the treadmills. I admire their chutzpah and their skills. These guys are no joke. They are there before I get there, and they are still working out long after I’ve thrown in the towel, and headed off for a cup of tea and wedding talk.

The “tea & talk” support team are super, too. Diane, my sassy Scots friend, is spear-heading the “wedding favor” crusade. I have decided to give jars of marmalade or jam as our wedding favor. As we are leaning toward lavender as the wedding theme colour, I thought, naïve, novice jam-maker that I am, that it might be clever to produce a lavender jam/marmalade as a gift to give our guests.

Di loves a challenge, and she was all over this project in no time. She’s planning to experiment next week with a “Lemon Lavender” recipe we found online last week.  Over coffee and chocolate biscuits – I resisted as best I could—we discussed wedding music. Di is a huge Lesley Garret fan, so we talked arias. It’s so nice to have people in my life with whom I can really discuss classical music.

(I’ve had some rather zany ideas about music lately. I’m toying with the idea of walking down the aisle to “O Mio Babbino Caro” better, and for me, more importantly, known as: “The Theme from the film ‘A Room with a View.’”)

On Tuesday, after the gym, I went round to Sally’s for tea. Sally’s another amazing woman. (We need to get her into Barford W.I.) Sally is an actor, who has performed and lived previously in the U.S. and Canada. There is something about theatre people, isn’t there? I mean the world over, we’re just part of one big global tribe.  She’s one of those people that you meet, and you swear you’ve known them before. And she makes a fantastic tea-cake. I could not resist. We spent the afternoon bouncing around wedding ideas, mainly about flowers. 

Thinking I may copy Liz Hurley and carry a lilies of the valley bouquet. Lily of the Valley is such a beautiful flower, and it has such an incredible smell. I like the idea of having flowers that carry a strong scent – okay, a no-no for allergy sufferers, like myself—but, at least theoretically, I like the idea of making this a very sensuous—as in feast for the senses—event.

Oh, it’s just fun, isn’t it? I hope in the midst of the chaos, and the inevitable onslaught of “To Do” lists and deadlines that all of this continues to be fun.