Sandwiches, Cakes and Scones, Oh My!

If there's one British tradition I truly love, it's afternoon tea. I feel like the British are the only people in the world who actually understand the need to sit down and have a rest and a very good snack in the late afternoon. Because three meals a day isn't really enough, is it?

I think Anna Maria Russell, duchess of Bedford, who began the afternoon tea tradition in the early 1800s, was very sensible. At the time, a light lunch was served around noon, but dinner was not until a fashionable 8 p.m. at night, so there was a long stretch of day in which to become very hungry. So Anna got in the habit of eating some bread and butter, cake and drinking tea around 4 or 5 p.m. to stave off the hunger pangs.

Although I am clearly not a duchess in that time period -- or a duchess at all, like some other Americans living in the U.K. -- the long stretch without food is a problem for me too. As not-a-huge-breakfast eater, I tend to eat lunch at noon. By the time I'm finished with work and home again, it is often 8 p.m. or even later. (For the record, I am eating breakfast now that I am pregnant.)

So I tend to eat a snack around 4-5 p.m. and drink a cup of tea. How I wish that my afternoon snack and drink could be amazing as a real afternoon tea. If you've never had it, you must try it sometime. It's one of my favorite things to recommend to tourists to London (or the U.K. in general). My friend Kelly and I regularly go out to fancy ones in London -- she's an expert at finding cool ones, like the Willy Wonka-themed one we dined on earlier this year. Note the candy floss (cotton candy) as a very cool special effects extra.

If you've never had afternoon tea, here is how it works. It usually consists of selecting a pot of tea (the selection is always very overwhelming and includes herbal as well as black, white and green tea). Then there's the food. First a selection of small sandwiches arrives -- and yes the crusts are always cut off. Traditionally these would be cucumber and cream cheese, smoked salmon, coronation chicken (which is like chicken salad, but a little spicier), ham, and last but not least egg mayonnaise (what they call egg salad in the U.K.). The egg mayonnaise usually has watercress in it. The best part? They will give you as many of these little sandwiches as you want (afternoon tea is usually not cheap, so eat up).

Then come all the little cakes. Miniature versions of whatever the pastry chef has dreamed up, so you can taste a huge variety. But my favorite part by far is the scones, spread with clotted cream and jam. It's hard to describe how good this tastes. From what I understand is that you can't even get clotted cream in the U.S. My Mom and Aunt Pat tried and failed this summer. They even attempted to make it from scratch but then couldn't find regular cream as you need the unpasturized kind and that isn't sold anywhere they could locate.

I've clearly converted my Mom. When she was as in town in April, I took her to my absolute favorite one in London -- Fortnum & Mason's Diamond Jubilee Tea Salon. It is quite the experience there. A live pianist plays in the background as you eat your miniature sandwiches, cakes and scones. (Even the little guy likes afternoon tea. After we had our meal I had a very early ultrasound scan scheduled and we saw him dancing around on the screen.)

How adorable is my Mom?

Of course, when you're paying for it, you can have afternoon tea at any time of day really. Sometimes I like to schedule it for lunch, because then you can really dig in.

But someday, I plan to eat a proper afternoon tea every day. I just need to figure out how to make this a reality.

2

Bulls eye!

Darts is one of those things I have absolutely no interest in. Whatsoever.

So it was a bit weird when I started to become obsessed with an old game show here in the U.K. called Bullseye, which involves darts. Let me explain.

It all started out innocently enough as I found watching repeats of Who Wants to be a Millionaire, on the game show channel here called "Challenge", very soothing. With everything that's going on in the world, and the constant crush of information and hysteria on social media that's out there, this game show harks back to a more innocent time -- where the possibility of winning a million pounds could apparently fix a person's life.

But then something caught my attention. I noticed there was a show after Millionaire, involving the puzzling combination of darts playing and quiz questions. In this show, which aired mostly in the 1980s and 90s, three teams of contestants compete for money and prizes. One person plays darts and the other answers questions. It makes absolutely no sense why these two skills are linked together on the same show, but it certainly hasn't stopped me from finding the whole thing mesmerizing.

There's just the strangeness of the concept, but it's also the fact that I love getting a glimpse into something that existed before I moved to this country. It's a window into a time gone by.

The really strange thing when you move to another country is that you don't know the history. After 15 years of living in this country I have a pretty good knowledge of local celebrities and culture, but it only starts in 2002. Most things before that need to be explained to me (including biscuits). I didn't know who Jimmy Saville even was, and I hadn't ever seen that video clip of Prince Charles saying "whatever love is" (jerk).

So Bulleye gives me a glimpse. There's a bit at the beginning where Jim Bowen the host (with his dulcet calming tones) introduces the sets of guests and asks them to tell their funny anecdotes or asks them socially awkward questions like "So why is it that you're between jobs?". Most of the time the accents are so strong that I can't really understand what they're saying. I also don't get the jokes, because the audience is already laughing while I'm still trying to figure out what they've said, let alone why it's funny. It seems like Britain was a different place back then, or at least one that is more foreign to me than the place I live in now.

It's also a reminder -- particularly in these times -- at how much we have moved on at least from overt sexism. Bowen's instinctive "good girl" when a woman answers a quiz question correctly is incredibly jarring and something you would never see now.

When you look beyond that one grating verbal tick, Bowen is a nice calming host. He's always reminding the players that it's "early days" when they get the first quiz question wrong. And he tells them not worry when they are knocked out and really talks up the consolation prizes. He's also always invoking "Bully" when he speaks -- the cartoon bull mascot of the show -- as if he is very much real. I certainly believe!

I wonder if British expats in America enjoy seeing old episodes of the Price is Right with Bob Barker as much as I enjoy watching Bullseye. I wouldn't be surprised. But I feel it's really not fair. There is no American game show that is quite as cool. Or maybe it's that novelty always wins out. If it's new to you...

Have you ever stumbled on something cultural from the past that intrigues you?

Photo credit: Leo Reynolds dartboard via photopin (license)

2

There's No Place Like Home?

People often ask me whether or not I think I will ever live in the U.S. again.

It's not an easy question to answer because as I tell people, in all these years I've lived here, it's just never really come up. There has only been one situation when I pondered moving home. It was the week that the Hub and I broke up, before we were married, after only eight months of dating. I was so angry at him that I was planning to leave the country, like, immediately. I blamed the entire country for our temporary troubles.

In all seriousness, I tell people that it would feel strange to me if I never lived in the U.S. again, and I think I would welcome the opportunity to move to the States for a few years -- to give the Hub a chance to experience life there, and for me to see what it would be like to go back again. However, I always feel like I would need the safety net of thinking I was coming back to the U.K., because at the moment, this is really home to me.

Also, there's the fear of repatriation. You see, I have known many expats over the years who have gone through the repatriation process -- in both directions. Everyone knows about how difficult it is to move away, but no one really anticipates how hard it is to move back. When I tell people about this phenomenon, they are always surprised. But why? they ask.

So I'll tell you why. I've recently talked to a lot of expats about this and thought I'd share what they have to say.

The expectation factor. When you go abroad, you expect it to be hard, but going home, you don't. It's home, after all, the place that felt familiar and you knew so well. How could it possibly be harder than moving to a foreign country? As one of my friends who moved from London to California after five years said to me: "I just wish I had known how hard this was going to be." No one likes to be blindsided.

Everything's different. You've changed. Home has changed. Once you take the plunge and become an expat, there's no taking it back. You'll never be a person anymore with one national identity. Personally, I think this is a very good thing. It makes you more empathetic, and more ego-detached as well. What is nationality anyway? Aren't we all just human beings? Sometimes you're confused about when to serve the cheese course, but I think these sacrifices are worth it. Still, it means when you return home you feel a cultural separation from your former identity that you never thought possible.

Your friends have moved on. When you visit home as an expat your friends are always super happy to see you. They make room in their busy schedules, they come into Manhattan from the suburbs, they cross London when they never would otherwise. But it will never be the same when you are actually living in the same city again. I've had glimpses of this when I stayed in New York over Christmas for lengthy periods of time and friends go back to their "normal lives". It was almost an imperceptible shift, but it was a little like, "oh, you're still here?" They weren't used to having me around for so long and were just back into their normal routines. I've done it to expats too when they repatriated -- I forgot they were even back. You have to re-establish your friendship again, including the routine of when you actually see people.

No one gives a sh*t. I have a friend who moved back to New York, and she perfectly described it this way. It's so true. When you're an expat, no matter for how long, you do get treated specially. I forget I have an accent, but I just bought a piano and the guy threw in the stool for free because I was a "New Yorker". Dude, I'm not a New Yorker. I live in Streatham. I just did the side-return. Still, people are curious, interested. My friend said when she went back home after many years of living here, no one cared. You have had a life-changing experience and no one gives a sh*t. They want you to move on.

So there you go. That's the result of my research. Please let me know if you've repatriated and if you agree with me, or if I got it wrong. The thing is, if you're repatriating or you're going to, you have your reasons. As hard as repatriating might be, I still feel the pangs of jealousy when my friends talk about seeing their parents for lunch over the weekend, or when I think about the fact that the toddler members of my family think that I live in a computer screen. Still, I live by Bill Bryson's eloquent summary of life as an expat: some things are better, some things are worse.

Photo credit: Close to Home twinkle toes: 10 of 365 via photopin (license)

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The Artful Jammy Dodger

One thing I love about being an expat is occasionally you come across something completely new -- even when you have lived in your new country for a very long time.

Having watching the movie Oliver when I was a kid, I knew a lot about the Artful Dodger, but not so much about the Jammy Dodger.

In the new role I took on at work -- now not so new as it was almost a year ago -- I am now working in a U.K. team of all Brits (with the exception of me and one other expat from Ireland). These work colleagues -- well actually one particular work colleague -- are really into biscuits and we were discussing my new-found love for jammy dodgers. It then transpired that I had never had a Penguin, a Trio, a Wagon Wheel, a Gold Bar, an Orange Club or a Breakaway. I mean, what have I been doing the past 15 years in the U.K.?

You would think that we lived in a very global world, but the truth is, it really isn't always so global. I often find that the Brits I know here (including the Hub) grew up eating very different food, watching different T.V. shows and now we know, eating very different biscuits!

The first thing we should get clear is exactly what I mean by "biscuit". As my sister-in-law asked me after watching Bake Off from the U.S., "So, what is a biscuit?" (She also asked me why Bake Off takes place in a tent, which I feel is a question that could fill a whole other blog post.*)  

It's very complex, my friends. A biscuit can be either sweet or savory. If it is sweet, it is what an American would call a cookie; or if it is savory, it is what an American would call a cracker. The confusion lies in the fact that Brits will call one kind of biscuit a cookie: a chocolate chip cookie. I think this is because they consider this to be strictly an American thing. 

As for what Americans call a biscuit, they just don't understand this. I have tried to explain what an American biscuit is, but I can't communicate it at all. I think they will just have to go to America and try one. Maybe one with gravy and one with strawberries. 

Anyway... so I got to play guinea pig, and it was fun. The verdict is that I loved the Penguin and thought the Breakaway was O.K., but the rest I didn't really like (caveat: I haven't tried Wagon Wheels yet. I think we still need to secure some). But nothing could compete with the Jammy Dodger. I am pretty picky when it comes to food -- particularly sweet things. We're talking about a child who didn't like cake, only pie, and so had to have a birthday pie. Which really could go some way to explaining why I like Jammy Dodgers so much.

There are many great things about being an expat, as well as some not-so-great ones: you win some, you lose some. But getting to sample a parade of new biscuits in the office is definitely a win.

*The short answer to this question is: it is not a tent. It is a marquee. The Brits just love their marquees. I will write a blog post of this soon. Watch this space.

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Serves You Right

For some time now the Hub has been telling me that I am becoming more and more English culturally. But it's hard to know. These changes happen so slowly sometimes. When you grow up somewhere you often really identify strongly with the beliefs and attitudes of that culture. And I think (and hope) that the American tenaciousness and optimism will never leave me.

But the other day I had a moment when I thought: I cannot believe I just did that. I cannot believe that I have done such an about face.

To understand what happened you need to know the background.

During my first year here (in 2002), the World Cup was on. And it was happening in Japan and South Korea so there were matches on during the day U.K. time. My editor and I were out in the City at meetings, discussing derivatives, because that was the very fun subject I covered at the time. And after one meeting we popped into a pub to watch some football and eat lunch.

We ordered our lunch and waited. And waited. I guess it was really busy. It was the World Cup after all.

There were two women sitting near us, who had come in after us, and I noticed that they surprisingly got served their food before us. As I watched them -- because I was very hungry -- I noticed they were looking at their plates in a sort of puzzled manner. But they picked up their forks and started eating anyway.

I waved the waiter over, because of course I had an inkling that they had been served our food. After all, it was what we had ordered. There was a kerfuffle and the waiter realized his mistake. I cannot actually remember how it all got sorted out, but it did, and eventually we got our lunch.

But I was enraged. I ranted and raved at my editor. How could someone just eat food that wasn't theirs? How would you not say anything if you had been served something you hadn't ordered?

Well. The other day I was having lunch with an old friend. I ordered a tartine with parma ham and mozarella. And then I changed my mind. I told the waitress, hang on, actually I wanted the smoked chicken one instead. She wrote it down and off she went, as we went back to catching up and having a great chat.

When our food arrived the waitress served me a tartine with parma ham and mozarella. I looked at it and shrugged. It looked good anyway. And I didn't feel like it was nice to point out her mistake. It was certainly not going to make any real difference to me what I ate that day.

When we had finished our meal, the waitress came over and started apologizing profusely. She had realized her mistake and was very worried. I told her it was not a big deal, that my lunch was delicious and joked that maybe that was what I really wanted all along anyway. And then when she was gone I told my friend the story I have just told you.

English people eat what they are served. Happily. It's a good way to live, I think. I guess if you have a food allergy it's a different case. Or if the mistake had involved seafood it would have been a different story (I hate fish & seafood). But it didn't. She gave us a 10% discount, which was nice, but really I didn't care. I was just happy I didn't ruin her day by getting her in trouble in some way for a mistake that anyone could have made.

It's just funny how much people really can change.

Photo credit: frederic.gombert Holidays ambiance via photopin (license)

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The Great Applesauce Mystery

There is a lot of debate among my family and friends back home about whether or not my accent has changed in the many, many years I've lived in the U.K. My 15-year anniversary in this country is coming up at the end of this month, so it's amazing that I've retained as much of an American accent as I have. I often do get congratulated by people here that I still sound "American". I'm not sure how else to sound, but I am secretly pleased to not have developed a transatlantic affectation.

But the vocabulary that I use, that certainly has changed. In my view, there are at least three levels to usage of the words in U.K. parlance.

The first are the words that every American knows. Included in this category are words like lift (elevator), chips (fries), petrol (gas), car boot (trunk), loo or toilet (restroom).

Then comes round two. The everyday words that you would just never know from watching movies. But it's useful when you live in a place to know things like kitchen roll (paper towels), loo roll (toilet paper), washing-up liquid (dish soap), cling film (saran wrap), crisps (potato chips), pound shop (dollar store) and of course, bin (garbage can).

There are also colloquialisms that you have to learn. Bad neighborhoods are "dodgy". If you "table" something you put it on the table, not off. Not to mention "quite". This is the trickiest of them all. Americans use "quite" to mean "very" whereas Brits actually mean not-so-much.

If someone says this blog post is "quite good" it means: it was O.K., I guess.

So far, so good. But for me, there was one mystery that I just couldn't solve. It took me over 10 years to figure this one out:

What do the Brits call applesauce?

You see, in the U.K. there is something called apple sauce. You buy it in a small jar in the supermarket and it's a sweet sauce you might dip your pork into. But it's not like American applesauce. I kept looking for jars of Mott's at the store and couldn't find anything like them. And when I would ask people what it was called here they just looked at me blankly and said "apple sauce?".

But it wasn't the same thing. Eventually I just kind of gave up. I also realized that I never ever saw anyone eating it anywhere.

And then, one day, my in-laws were trying to get us to take excess apples home from their orchard. They had had a bountiful year. My father-in-law casually mentioned that he had been making a big batch of stewed apples. I said, "what do you mean? what is that?" thinking, oh my God, he's talking about applesauce! And he was. I couldn't believe it.

Mystery solved. I knew I married the Hub for a reason.

Photo credit: wayneandwax 1st applesauce 2014 # via photopin (license)

2

Your Choice: Burn Or Freeze?

I've had a reader question: Why in so many places in the U.K. (and in Ireland) are the hot and cold taps still separate?

Or precisely how she put it: How do people wash their hands in these double faucets? It's so annoying. I'm constantly burning or freezing my hands by accident. 

I told her I'd investigate it and write a post. She told me to call it: "Burn. Freeze. Not Cool."

I do see her point. And I've been here for so long that I hadn't even noticed recently how often I wash my hands in cold water -- and not just in old Victorian houses like mine, but in recently refurbished upscale gastro pubs. So why are they still installing separate hot and cold taps? 

The historical reason is that Victorian houses had open water tanks to heat for the hot supply, so they could be contaminated by rats (ew) or even dust particles or mold. The only water that was safe for drinking was the cold water, attached to the main water supply. Therefore, the two could not be mixed. 

That, my friends, is no longer the case. From someone who owns a Victorian house, I have yet to find evidence of this open water tank somewhere. But yet, as you can see from the picture above of our upstairs bathroom, the people who lived in the house before us installed two separate taps in a refurb done sometime between 2000 and 2014. (For the record, our downstairs bathroom and the kitchen sink both have mixer taps.)

I think there are two reasons why. The first is just a matter of taste. Because this is the way sinks traditionally looked, there is a desire for this kind of retro look. In a lot of pubs and restaurants the taps even have those old porcelain hubs at the center that say "hot" and "cold" and do look pretty cool. 

The second is that this just falls into the camp of the way things are done here or maybe "people can get used to just about anything." It's similar to the fact that barely anyone in the U.K. uses a dryer for their clothes. Most people hang them on drying racks. This really drove me batty at first -- what sense does it make to hang up your clothes to dry in the what is possibly the dampest country on Earth? But now I don't even think twice about it and I have even been brainwashed into thinking it's actually better for my clothes.

When I asked the Hub about the taps, he didn't see why there was any problem with washing your hands in cold water. He said the only time he used our hot water at the sink was to shave. 

And then he gave me his reason: energy efficiency. For some reason he thinks the Brits are just really green. I'm not totally convinced. I think this is a rationalization of the fact that this is just the way things are done. People -- and countries too -- seem to be creatures of habit. (Well, except when it comes to staying part of the EU apparently.)

This conversation started making me really nervous. The Hub seemed way too comfortable with cold water usage. I just hope he doesn't get any crazy ideas about limiting our use of hot water even further -- I am not a fan of cold showers. 

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Summertime

Summer is fast approaching and these days I really do try to embrace the English summer. With my bright green summer coat (if you are an expat and still find dressing for the English summer baffling, read this) and summer scarves, I am now ready to spend time outside.

I was listening to one of my favorite podcasts the other day and the idea of designing your summer was floated. The concept: to mark your summer in a different way. Take on a new activity, schedule your days differently. You get the idea.

This really appealed to me. Living in the U.K. one is highly aware summer is different, mostly because the days seem to stretch on forever. You will also know because there is much discussion over whether or not we will 'have' a summer, which still baffles me to some extent. Summer comes whether or not the English think it was hot enough.

Designing my summer seems to jive with my zen approach to the English weather, which is to be prepared for any kind of temperature and don't get disappointed if what you expect doesn't happen. Instead, mark your summer in other ways. 

For me, this means making an attempt to do more outdoorsy stuff with the Hub, like golf and bike riding. I do really like these activities once I am doing them, but like most introverted writers (I think?) I am a bit of a homebody. (Strangely enough I actually feel more compelled to go outside in the winter here, to catch a glimpse of sunlight when it's so scarce. My winter walks seem much more important.)

Other ways I plan to enjoy this summer? Eat more English berries. Last night's cheesecake at dinner was topped with strawberries and it reminded me of the outstanding quality of fresh berries here. Replacing most of my desserts over the next few months with fresh strawberries, raspberries and blueberries sounds like an excellent idea. And must not forget to make some blueberry muffins at least once.

Which brings me to eating generally in summer. I love eating (and drinking) outside, and need to find ways to do more of this. When out for lunch or dinner, I will be more gung ho about sitting outside, even if it's not that hot -- why else do I have my summer coat? 

When it comes to home life, we are not planning on doing too much to our garden this year as the kitchen extension is in the works (the architect is drawing up plans as we speak), but one thing we have discussed is at least putting in a swing chair -- like a porch swing without a porch -- at the end of the garden. Although we never manage to actually eat dinner outside, I would love to be able to sit out there with the Hub on late summer evenings chatting with maybe even a G&T in hand. 

And then there's the sacred holiday. We are taking a lesson from the French this year and taking a huge amount of time off in August for an epic Stateside trip to see many friends and family. Planning our summer holiday, including packing and all the other admin involved is definitely a way I mark my summers. There's nothing I enjoy more than the anticipation of the holiday. It's all part of the joy for me. 

It's funny that even though our modern world requires us to work all year round and everything seems 24/7 that we still view the world through the lens of the current season. We are physical beings affected by the temperature, the light and the rhythm of the natural world. We shouldn't forget that and actually take some time to enjoy it. 

Photo credit: Empty Swing via photopin (license)
Photo credit: Ovocný trh market via photopin (license)

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The Great Cheese Controversy

Over Easter weekend, the Hub and I went to a lovely Easter lunch hosted by friends.

We brought the cheese.

On the way there, we had a bet over when my friend who was hosting -- another American expat along with her Spanish boyfriend -- would serve what we had contributed.

Let me explain: Americans think it's O.K. to serve cheese as a pre-lunch or pre-dinner nibble. Usually along with crackers, it sits on the coffee table, while guests sip their beverages. In contrast, in England (and France too), cheese is usually served after a meal, alongside dessert.

While I find this post-meal tradition great and sometimes very useful (i.e. if you didn't eat enough of the main course you can top up), I also love eating cheese before a meal.

The Hub and I get along really well most of the time, but there are a few things we just cannot agree on. These include robots, football and when to serve cheese.

I learned of the cheese issue the first time we invited his friends over. There was a lot of interrogation over what I would be serving and when. The gist of it was that I was not supposed to serve cheese before supper, unlike with my friends. I mean, how could I be so uncouth?

I was very glad last weekend when my friend allowed the cheese to be eaten before the meal. There was an Italian in attendance and he took my side too. He said cheese should be eaten before and during all meals. Grazie!!

Of course like many things in marriage, the Hub and I have reached a happy compromise: sometimes we just serve cheese as the meal, by making a cheese fondue for our guests.

What's your stance on the right time to eat cheese?

Photo credit: art on the plate –the perfect charcuterie via photopin (license)

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The Grim Reaper and Podcasts

There's a scene in Monty Python's The Meaning of Life which the Hub always quotes. It's where Death, A.K.A. the Grim Reaper, comes to a dinner party. The American at the party is -- of course -- unfazed by the presence of Death and his imminent demise and starts to blather on about a positive learning experience. Death silences him.

"You Americans, you always talk, you Americans. You just talk and you talk and you talk..." Death says in exasperation.

I often think about the way that Americans and Brits communicate differently. Not only am I an American living in the U.K., but I am also -- technically -- a local foreign hire, working for an American company, which makes life doubly confusing.

I am not sure that one nationality talks more than the other (although the Hub would probably disagree). I think it has to do with the rhythm of the conversation. Over here conversation happens at a slower pace, with more silence and more thoughtful pauses. I think Americans are more afraid of silences. At least I used to be.

But maybe that's unfair. Maybe it's just that Americans really love talking, in a way that Brits may never understand. And sometimes I really miss it. There's a joy in it.

Which brings me to the main point of this post. Podcasts. I have been a very late adopter. I even resisted listening to compelling Serial for quite some time. And then one of my friends literally installed an app on my phone at lunch to force me to start listening to Freakonomics. Immediately I was hooked.

I'm still experimenting and settling into my favorites, but I do love walking around London even more these days. (I only "allow" myself to listen to podcasts while I walk, a technique called "temptation bundling", which I learned from Freakonomics. Listen here.)

What I realized one day while listening to one by two sisters who talk about Happiness, is that one of the reasons I like listening to podcasts is that I can easily hear Americans talking. And talking and talking and talking. But also Brits, for that matter. I've recently become a fan of Adam Buxton's podcast. There are two whole episodes where he and the documentary maker Louis Theroux just talk. About stuff.

Sometimes it's strange when you realize what you like. I never knew that one of my hobbies was listening to other people talk. Apparently so. I also love the fact that podcasts are like stepping back in time. It's listening to the radio. In this world of technological advancement, there's still room for something that people have been using as entertainment and a way to share information since the 1920s.

Often podcasts aren't done for commercial reasons, so there's also a real opportunity out there to learn things and share information. For my writer friends, Indie author/entrepreneur Joanna Penn's podcast is just brilliant.

One of my friends and I often fantasize about doing a podcast, and I hope this happens someday. It's not the right time now, so in the meantime, do let me know if you have any good podcast recommendations. I'm all ears. (Sorry. I couldn't resist.)

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When A Pickle Isn't A Pickle

It's been a while since I've talked about mayonnaise on this blog.

For a person who doesn't like mayonnaise, moving to the U.K. could be considered an odd choice, since it has a very beloved status here and appears on just about any food. But what I can say, I like living on the edge.

This week was very hectic at work. There was one day where I realized I only had about 15 minutes to eat lunch ahead of doing a couple of video recordings. I needed to run out and get a sandwich but couldn't find my work badge. This meant that not only could I not leave the building, but I also couldn't buy anything from the company cafeteria until the missing badge was located.

I was stressed and hungry and started to flap. Luckily, my extremely nice friend at work said she would go to Pret (a Manger) to get me a sandwich. I said I wanted the small ham sandwich with the pickles. I was very adamant about the pickles.

Big mistake.

For all my lovely American readers, let me explain. Pickle, in British English, does not mean what we mean. Pickles here are called gherkins, whereas pickle refers to 'a condiment made of chopped vegetables and fruits pickled in vinegar and sugar or other sweet ingredient'. (I just had to look this up, since after 10+ years here I still don't know what this mysterious substance is. Thank you separated by a common language blog!)

Because I was stressed and hungry, all my knowledge of my new 'language' flew out of my brain and I really emphasized the pickle part of my order. My poor friend couldn't find the sandwich I asked for, and so came back instead with a ham, pickle and mayonnaise sandwich. How these three things go together I just cannot understand.

So I just wanted to publicly thank Hina for not only buying me a sandwich this week, but also putting up with my diva attitude when I said, literally, "I can't eat this!"

Did I actually say that?

As a (somewhat related) aside, I just want to point out that the landmark London building, shown in the photo below, is called the Gherkin. But visiting Americans, without fail, call it the Pickle. This always amuses me. Can you imagine naming a building the Pickle?

In case you were wondering if I was adult about it and actually ate that sandwich, I didn't. Someone else on my team graciously consumed it to ease my conscience. All's well that ends well: After I recorded my videos, the badge was found hanging out under some papers on my desk and I slunk off to the company cafeteria where one of my favorite was being served: macaroni & cheese! What did I tell you about the fact that you can't go anywhere these days in London without finding it on the menu?

Photo credit: Hellmann's Mayonnaise via photopin (license)

Photo credit: gherkin at sunrise - 2 via photopin (license)

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16 Again

I feel like I'm 16 again. I passed the driving theory test!

In the U.K., as an American, you can't automatically transfer your U.S. license to a U.K. one. That privilege is reserved for better-behaved commonwealth countries that didn't chuck tea into the Boston harbor over 200 years ago.

If you're here for up to a year, you can drive on your American license, but after that you have to actually do the whole shebang: take a theory test and a practical to prove you are capable of driving.

It's a real hassle and I've been dragging my feet on it. It's not strictly necessary at the moment. We don't own a car, and don't really need one, living in London (and with Uber, not owning a car has become even more convenient). Still, I'd like the option at some point.

At one point I was crazy enough to think that I would use this opportunity to learn to drive a manual properly (they have separate licenses here). As they laugh at us for saying, I can drive "stick" well enough to get you to the hospital if you are bleeding to death, but otherwise, best for me to stick to an automatic. And with driver-less cars on the way, who can worry about such things as manual transmissions?

And I'm glad I came to that conclusion because jeeeeeeeez, I had no idea that the theory test meant serious business. There were clearly people coming into the testing center who had been there multiple times. "No, I don't need to read the instructions again," one man, exasperated, told the other man behind the desk.

It's been a long time since I had to cram for a test, but that was exactly what I did. The test is 50 questions and you have to get 43 right. But, in addition to the theory part, there is a computerized hazard perception test you need to take. Did I even Google it to take a few practice ones? Nope.

So I got zero points on the first two scenarios as I crazily waved my hand at the test proctor to claim that my mouse wasn't working.

"You're not supposed to see the cursor," she said as she peered over her glasses at me and -- literally -- shushed me. "Just click the button when you see the hazard."

I could feel myself flush. I was going to have to perform very well on the next 12 scenarios since I had scored nothing on the first two. Either I am very lucky, or I am a hazard perception wizard (I prefer to believe the latter), because I (barely) passed that portion of the test.

I have to say, with the giddy excitement of having pulled it off, I really did feel like a teenager again. Now I just have to do the practical. But watch out Britain, soon I'll be let loose on the road again!

Photo credit: Human-Ants? via photopin (license)

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London, Home Of Barbecue?

When I first moved to London--over 10 years ago--food and eating out was a completely different ball game. At the time, most reality T.V. shows were more focused on home and gardening. There were no Masterchefs or Kitchen Nightmares. I remember my parents' first visit to London when I took them to a Bella Italia in Leicester Square for dinner one night. What a shocker! Granted, part of the problem was that I didn't really know where to get good food, but at the same time, the restaurant culture was not the same.

These days it's a totally different story. London has become a gastronomic city, filled not only with Michelin-starred establishments but also trendy eateries with names like Duck & Waffle, Burger & Lobster and the intriguing Dishoom, a Bombay-inspired Irani cafe with queues of over an hour wait even on a Tuesday night (because of course they don't take reservations). 

We've been through lots of trends, but I find the recent one most fascinating: London has embraced Southern American Barbecue eating. You cannot go to an establishment these days that does not serve a pulled pork sandwich. One recent Friday I was out for dinner at a restaurant in Canary Wharf that describes itself on its website as "a restaurant offering traditional Scottish cuisine", where the women waiters wear kilts. And I ordered a 'Midnight' Cuban street bun, a sandwich comprised of pulled pork, cured ham & melted Swiss cheese. Seriously people, this is just getting weird.

Macaroni & cheese, or macaroni cheese as it is called here, has been a long-term favorite of Brits. But now it is everywhere, offered as a side dish at many restaurants. The pub that my book club frequents even offers fried macaroni cheese appetizers, which definitely seem American influenced. (They are, may I say it, delicious.) 

This means that when we have people over for dinner and I decide to serve macaroni & cheese as a side, does that make me achingly trendy? I don't fry my mac 'n cheese, and I always use my Grandma's recipe because it's still the best I've ever had. 

Touched this week by a very bad cold virus, I have an idea for the next American-inspired trend I'd like to see in London: A New York deli. Because where else can you find a good clear chicken broth-based soup? Chicken noodle or matzoh ball -- both soups which I miss terribly. Most chicken soups here have a cream base, which can be nice, but it's really not the same. And I can't even find a can of Campbell's chicken noodle to act as a substitute anywhere. It makes feeling ill even more miserable.  

Until then, I guess I'll have to settle for barbecue.

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Photo credit: Macaroni and Cheese via photopin (license)

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Gemma & Rose

Starting to blog is a strange thing. It's really putting yourself 'out there', not only making your writing public, but also your thoughts, observations and opinions. Scary stuff. And as public as it is, it's also sometimes difficult to get anyone to take the time to read posts. There's a lot competing for everyone's attention out there. 

But I love reading other people's blogs, almost as much as I like blogging. It's helpful to hear what's going on in other's heads and it's a great way to get all sorts of useful and interesting information as well. As a former journalist I know there's lots of expertise and creative thought hiding out under people's metaphorical hats, and I think it's damn nice when they take the time and make the effort to share of it freely with others.

Along that vein, I'd like to introduce two friends who have recently set up their own blogs: Gemma & Rose. 

Gemma is originally from Liverpool and started her blog to write about living in London, specifically chronicling 52 things she has always wanted to do or see in this great city. As she so eloquently puts it:

After a 2014 which zapped my energy levels, it was time to take a stand. I was growing weary of the endless stories from friends and colleagues (often from far off lands) of places they had visited in London, which as a native who moved to London six years ago I still hadn’t done. It was time to redress the balance. It was also time to do those things I keep wishing to do but always seem that tomorrow would be a better day.

You can find Gemma blogging at: www.gemma.london

Rose is an American expat (like me!), but she lives in Paris. I'm totally jealous as I've always wanted to live there. She writes the blog Paris, Pittsburgh and More. Rose recently wrote a post about her own experience with refugees -- an insightful and interesting piece that starts with the sentence: One of my best friends is a refugee. You won't be disappointed when reading her story.

If you are as taken with Paris as I am, or think it's the most romantic city in the world (sigh), I'm sure you'll enjoy reading her thoughts and comments on life there.

In her own words: I started my blog in a "now or never" moment, and I'm having a lot of them lately! The defining moment came when Taron told me about her blog. It's been something I've been wanting to do for a while, especially after reading Gretchen Rubin's "The Happiness Project" last year. I'm being forced to live larger, experience life more fully. As far as happiness goes, it's way up there with dark French chocolate!

If you have a blog and I don't know about it yet, please do tell me. You can comment below or you can email me at mindbodyandscroll [at] yahoo [dot] com. Happy reading!

Photo credit: Hyper-real via photopin (license)

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Hamburger Helper

When I first moved to London, my flat mate Emma and I would spend hours talking about the differences in language between our two countries. Both being countries, in which, allegedly, the same language is spoken.

I've lived here for so long now that I don't really notice the differences as much anymore. I speak 'English' English more often than not (as opposed to 'American' English), writing 'loo roll' on the shopping list and always using 'trousers' to describe those things you wear on your legs. I don't even realize anymore when a word or phrase isn't said in America.

"What does 'dodgy' mean?" one American friend said to me.

But then, sometimes there's still a comical language moment. This happened recently in the context of discussing 'Hamburger Helper'. I was watching an American T.V. show with a friend when a box of the 1980s instant cooking mixture was shown.

"What is 'Hamburger Helper' anyway?" she asked.

I tried to explain that it was a powder alongside dried noodles that you add to mince meat to make it into a different kind of dish.

"There are different flavors," I tried to explain the mysterious food, and it was much harder than I thought it would be. "I think there's an Italian one that's supposed to taste like lasagna."

She looked at me blankly.

"So what does it have to do with hamburgers?"

And then I realized the confusion. Americans often call ground beef (mince meat to Brits) hamburger meat, sometimes even shortening it to 'hamburger'. So a product that is marketed to Americans using the word 'hamburger' would also bring up connotations of the meat used to make a hamburger, as well as the completed sandwich itself.

Whereas to Brits, the word 'hamburger' means only one thing: the alleged main staple of the American diet.

By the by, whenever we do have a barbecue, guests are often shocked that I make my own burgers. They don't realize how easy it is. So here's another use of the phrase 'Hamburger Helper' -- it can refer to me if you want a lesson in how to make your own burgers from scratch.

Photo credit: slider bar madness : hamburger macro, upper market street, san francisco (2013) via photopin (license)

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The Iconic Red Phone Box

I've been thinking a lot about my first year living in London as I work on my book based on this experience. There was a very sad episode (which has definitely made it into the book), that took place on the Fourth of July during that first year.

It involved a call home to my family, who were all gathered together at our lake house, and they passed the phone around to all say hello to me. By the time the phone made it to my Uncle Doug, who I think was the last person to come to the phone, I was hysterically crying. But the weirdest part of this story is that I made the call from a red phone box with a calling card because I was at a party that day -- in Richmond, of all places. (It was this century, I promise.) 

So you can imagine my shock when during last week's bank holiday weekend the Hub and I took our new bikes to Richmond for a ride along the river, and on our way back, right before we crossed over Richmond bridge, I stumbled on what I think was that phone box, right in front of me. It must have been one of the ones that got saved -- it's so rare to actually see them these days. 

And I had just been reading that scene that very morning, even though I had written in months ago. Talk about foreshadowing.

If you had told me back then, when I was on the phone crying, that my future self would eventually be riding by and would no longer feel like the loneliest person in the world, I would not have believed you. 

It made me think about the way life works like that. When you're down in the dumps and things feel like they will never get any better, maybe it's good to think about those times when things were really rough and how they eventually passed. How you hung in there and felt sad or scared or jealous or embarrassed -- and you had to go and cry in a phone box -- but then things were O.K. again. 

Who knew a little bank holiday bike ride along the Thames could be so philosophical?

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Being A Tourist In Your Own Town (And Country)

My parents recently stayed with us for slightly under three weeks. I'll just let that sink in.

In all seriousness, it was a fun and busy visit. They saw our new house, walked around our neighborhood, ate in our local pizza place, our curry house and shared pints with us in our favorite Irish pub (although the music, sadly, wasn't as good as usual). 

But there was one day that struck me in an unusual way. I took a day off from work and booked us a tour to see Stonehenge -- a special private tour where we would be allowed to walk "among the stones" after all the normal sucker tourists had gone home for the evening. One of my other American expat friends came along too to complete our foursome (the Hub hates coach tours so I didn't even try to convince him).

And as we sat together on the bus as it pulled out of London, I felt transported to another place altogether. We were still in the town that we live and work in everyday, but given a different vantage point high up on the coach as we traveled West, with the tour guide giving us a running commentary in her strongly German-accented English. How many nights had I spent in West Ken when the Hub lived there? But yet I knew nothing about the "Famous" 3 Kings Pub on the corner -- never even realy gave it a second glance. Nor did I ever notice the fabulous windows indicating some famous artists' studios running along the A4.

We even got some vital stats on Heathrow airport as we whizzed by. And then we were rolling further Westward towards Bath, which was also a stop on this whirlwind day tour. Before I knew it I was looking out the window at emerald green fields and little white dots jumping about their fuzzy round mamas.

Frankly, it felt miles and years away from my usual daily view out of the window in Canary Wharf. There is a certain kind of undercover feeling to being a tourist where you live. A few of my fellow expat friends and I often go on walking tours in London and with our accents we are usually taken to be normal American tourists on vacation. It's something I would highly recommend for anyone, even those without a foreign accent. Take a random Wednesday off from work, get on a coach and see a part of your home in a way you don't usually do most days of the week.

I'd also highly recommend doing one of these private Stonehenge tours. They aren't cheap, but I can't imagine standing on that windy Salisbury Plain and being penned in the roped off bit only looking at the stones from afar. And here's our stone selfie to prove just how cool it was.

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Riding The Bus

We've started to have some really nice spring days in London. On a recent Saturday I needed to get from Clapham Junction home to Streatham and decided to take the 319 bus Eastward. I sat on the top deck and looked out the window the whole time.

People are always shocked and excited by the sun in this city, and they crawl out of the woodwork, filling the streets and the parks. But I'm always struck by how the rest of the city looks shocked too -- the buildings and pavement can't seem to believe that they can see the bright blue sky above. The dirt shows a little more, but the red and rusty orange brick that comprises most of London has a more dramatic hue.

On that Saturday I was happy to look out the window and let the mix of sunshine and people enjoying it reflect back onto me. I was buzzed with the warmth of the day and the energy of the city.

But I didn't always feel this way about the sun in London.

When I first moved to England, the unpredictability of the weather and the way residents acted like it was the Saturnalia when the sun came out irritated me. I couldn't understand why a rise in the temperature of a few degrees pushed all the Friday night pub goers out onto the sidewalks. I was annoyed that going to lunch at someone's house on a chilly day in May meant eating outside -- if it wasn't raining. I was always cold and cross at constant discussions of the weather, in particular, the big question on everyone's lips: Will we have a summer in Britain this year?

Maybe I am mellowing. Maybe I am getting used to life here. Maybe I just now know how to dress for the weather (see When A Cardigan Is Not Enough).

No matter what it is, I am now caught up along with everyone else in the joy of the spring weather arriving on the days we are lucky enough to have some sun. I walk through our neighborhood and smile at the smell of the barbecues firing up at a moment's notice so friends can sit outside and enjoy the warmth and sun together. Even if it is April.

I will gladly sit in my friend's garden in the middle of July wrapped up in my lightweight coat with a scarf around my neck, sharing a bottle of wine. I welcome the stretching of the days at the moment and await the time in a month or two when we will have to try to go to sleep while it is still twilight outside.

When I first moved to this country I wanted adventure and excitement, but I guess on some level I also wanted everything to be absolutely the same. When it wasn't, I gnashed my teeth and struggled against it. But as I rode the 319 bus through South West London recently I realized that things had changed and now I know what I didn't know then -- you can't have it both ways. And it's the differences and the challenges in life that allow us to also experience the joy. And, of course, the sun.

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Emma, Who Saved My Life

There's a book a friend lent me called "Emma, Who Saved My Life," and I always smile to myself when I think of the title. When I moved to the U.K. I shared a flat with my wonderful friend Emma.

Well, we weren't friends when I rang her buzzer that day in Clapham, but I hope she'd agree that after she showed me around and we had a cup of tea we were already on our way. And if it weren't for Emma I probably would have high tailed it back home to the U.S. shortly after my arrival.

Now a lot of people have saved my life -- on many different occasions -- but back in 2002 Emma was my sanity. She adopted me, so to speak. If she went to see her family, along I went. Emma got me hooked on gin and tonics and explained football (soccer) to me. She made me a bacon bap while we watched an early morning World Cup game that first summer. And she made sure I watched The Office and didn't say "pants" when referring to my trousers. (In case you don't know, "pants" means underwear in the U.K.)

I had the chance to hear Elizabeth Gilbert speak at the Southbank Centre a little over a year ago. I wasn't sure what she'd be like in person, but she far exceeded my expectations. And there was something she said that really struck a chord with me. Ms Gilbert explained that she has written all her books with someone in mind -- as if she is telling the story to him or her. I love this idea. It also lets you get out of your own critical head as you type away.

I'm currently working on a non-fiction writing project inspired by my novel attempt (through NaNoWriMo). As I was re-reading my coming-of-age story of an American girl who moves to London, I realized how much of my experience and observations of the expat life I was trying to crowbar into the narrative. It didn't work because it got in the way of the story. So I've decided to split these writing projects into two: the first being to rework the novel in a different setting so I can focus more on the story and secondly, to write a non-fiction book structured in a series of essays on my experience moving abroad.

I am finding Ms Gilbert's technique particularly helpful at the moment, because if you haven't guessed already, it's Emma whom I have in mind as I write. It's the least I can do, since she did save my life.

Also it means that I better have something to actually show her when she comes to visit. Deadlines are good for former journalists like me.

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What, This Old House?

Finally, I have evidence of my increasingly English communication style. Before Christmas I sent out an email to friends and family overseas wishing them happy holidays and trying to give a brief summary of what we have been up to recently. And I described our new house as “a big and drafty Victorian house.” And although I used the American spelling (as opposed to the British draughty) my sentiments proved entirely British.

My American aunt, responding to my email said, “Your description of your home sounds like you don’t like it much…”Ah. Well that would be because I couldn’t possibly admit that I was happy with it, or proud. That would be bragging!

When the Hub and I purchased our first property over four years ago – a flat in Earlsfield, sandwiched between the more well-known London areas of Wimbledon and Clapham (remember Squeeze’s “Up the Junction”?) – he referred to us moving to the “ghetto” and constantly talked down our pending purchase with whomever we were discussing it. And it incensed me. I would always ask him later what was wrong. He should have been incredibly grateful that we were buying such a nice flat and stop acting like there was something wrong with it.

But now I get it, and apparently I’m on the bandwagon. Just for the record: I love our new house. Including its drafty old nature and even the friendly slug that visits our kitchen at 3 a.m. (Sorry, Dad, haven’t yet brought myself to drown him in beer! Also, we probably should stop calling him Sammy or it will never get any easier.)

I just want to be humble and not act like there’s any reason I deserve this nice house other than the fact that I am incredibly lucky – and I think that’s what’s behind the English tendency to talk down achievements and windfalls in life.

In other cross-cultural communication topics: I noticed a clear distinction in the Christmas cards this year. My American friends and family tend to send newsy letters and photos of their kids. These are great as being so far away I love to hear about what’s going on and see how their children are growing up. But the English way is nice too: typically a beautiful card with a short note inside, a simple wish that we are well and that they are thinking of us.

And they look so pretty scattered around the house.

Of course no way is better, just different. And I hope that those who communicate with me these days in person, over the phone or via Christmas card recognize that I am trying my best. Even though after my American upbringing, and nearly 12 years here, I’m increasingly confused.

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