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.

"A Snowy Caper"

Last night, our two of our little neighbours built a Snowman. 

They gave him a carrot nose. 

He was a very short Snowman, and Lucy took a shine to his nose...

In fact, Lucy destroyed the little Snow Man completely....

The next day, I had to tell the little girls what had happened to their Snow Man... 

And they responded by building Lucy a "Snow Dog" to play with instead...

Laquisha, Charlotte and "Marshmellow" - The Snow Dog

More snowy scenes...

Barford by Snow Light

Mother Cathy, en route to Morning Prayer, in full snow gear

Beautiful Barford church

This Green and Pleasant Land

“Charlotte,” I hear my next door neighbour, Rachel, calling out to her small daughter, “go out into the garden and pick some blackberries for us, please.”

I hear the sound of tiny, wellington boots clomping through overgrown, summer grass. “Mummy!” sweet Charlotte calls back to the kitchen, “I will pick some for us, but I’m going to leave on enough here for Mrs. Blackbird and Mrs. Robin. Mrs. Blackbird and Mrs. Robin have got lots of babies to feed.”

Charlotte is completely adorable, in that way little, English children uniquely are. I am very often struck by her tiny, but astute sensitivity to nature. And I think this is very English trait.

“How are your tomatoes coming along, Alycia?” asks Jackie 1, during a short swimming break in the pool. “They’re struggling.” I confess sadly, fearing my less-than-green, American fingers had failed in their gardening attempts. “Oh, no,” Jackie re-assures me, “mine are dreadful this year, as well.”

‘The Brits and their gardens’ is a fascinating facet of life here. From the legendary and highly-acclaimed Radio 4 program(me), “Gardeners’ Question Time” to the weekly pilgrimages to the breath-taking gardens of the National Trust, Britons are utterly captivated by nature, landscape and greenery.

No matter the size, or lack of the size, of the plot, an English garden—even if it is merely a window box—is a must. The passion does not stop at roses and foxgloves, oh no. Long before the economic crunch, and eco-friendly, organic philosophies were all the rage, generations of Briton have been “growing their own” in allotment plots up and down the country.

Allotments are serious business here in Barford. Rumour has it that there is a 10 year waiting list for one of prized plots, just off Wasperton Lane.

I can see that in a terribly lovely, quintessentially English way, The D.E.B. longs for a garden of our own. He longs for a connection with the earth, time spent out in the fresh air, working with his hands. And I must confess, I’ve caught the garden bug, too.

I am quite, quite proud of my window boxes full of colourful pansies. And I, too, long for a back garden of our own, full of color and possibility. I think more than anything  else, I’d like to grow garden peas – that classic, English veg.

But, with thoughts of gardens, come thoughts of houses, which at this juncture is painfully sore topic.

What is it about English houses?

I mean, seriously, I’m not a very large person, by any stretch of the imagination, but when we go on property viewings, I walk into to some of these places and think (often aloud), “You have got to be kidding me, I had more room in my microscopic, one-bedroomed, New York apartment then there is here, in this ‘Cosy Cottage’.”

What is it with Estate Agents, anyway?

Do they happen to think we are all mindless, gullible buffoons? Who doesn’t know that buzzwords, such as ‘quaint,’ ‘cute,’ ‘cosy’ and ‘charming’ are all just code for: “This place is no bigger than a cat’s head?

And don’t get me started on architecture! It is as if British architects and planners of the 1960s and 70s, looked upon any vacant and available green space, and had one, insane directive: “Erect as many dwelling places in this one square foot area as possible!”

I will accept that it is a fundamental flaw in my American character that I do not wish to live like a sardine. “Terraced houses”, “semi-detached,” “end of terrace,” that’s all code for: “You don’t have space of your own. There is no breathing room between you and your neighbours.”

Yes, I am cranky about house-hunting in Warwickshire. (Could it possibly be the most expensive county in England?!)

I resent the fact that in America, somehow, even people with the slightest of means, and possibly even without any means or a steady income at all, seem to manage to have big houses, with big backyards. Land and space are practically birthrights in America.

Hyperbole? In some ways, yes, but not entirely.

Our wonderful friend, Sally, said something a few weeks ago. Sally, born and raised here in Britain, has lived great stretches of her remarkable life in the UK, USA and Canada. She reckons that in Britain today the discrepancy between the have’s and the have-not’s is greater than it has ever been. And the tightest squeeze is on those in the middle. I think she may be right.

Someone tried to explain the English property situation to me: “Britain is an island,” (Thank you for stating the obvious.) “and, as such, land is a dear commodity.” At the end of this lecture, the point was made that the “problem” here is that the bulk of the land in this country is in private hands, something like 3% of the population own something like 80% of the land.

Which leaves the rest of us to fight it out for the remaining 20%. Brilliant.

Well, all that the D.E.B. and I want (with apologies to Virginia Woolf) is a place of our own here in Barford. Nothing too grand or ostentatious. But, something with a bit of character, not too modern or flashy. With a nice garden, and room to breathe and move around in.

It’s very funny, we had a look at this one place on the market here in Barford, a “barn conversion” – let me just say, if this place had been a barn once, it must have been a barn for at the most two Shetland ponies. Or a tribe of hobbits.

The minute we walked into the “Living Room,” I thought (possibly aloud), “Our nephew, Harry, would never even fit in this room, if he came to visit.” And that was truth! It was a doll-house.

Of course, we would have better chances if we ventured further afield.  But we love Barford. We have put down roots here, made friends, feel a part of a community, and have people we care about here.

Very frustrating.

Our house pursuit comes and goes. Some days we are both very keen, and other days we don’t see the point of bothering at all at the moment. We find ourselves in a very rational frame of mind, and say to ourselves: “Let’s just hang on, and see what happens.”

Right now, I feel another “why bother” spell coming on…