tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16386776712684695992024-03-21T20:41:47.763+00:00Aye to ZedAn American Take on Life in BritainJennhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07871904278938954402noreply@blogger.comBlogger11125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1638677671268469599.post-62942999093187365812015-02-18T13:31:00.002+00:002015-02-20T16:17:03.487+00:00Fat Pancake Tuesday<br />
If I'm anything, I'm consistent in my inconsistency. At least <a href="http://aye2zed.blogspot.co.uk/2013_07_01_archive.html" target="_blank">this time</a> there's only been 470
days since my last post. <o:p></o:p><br />
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2014 saw many trials, many cakes and many changes. But I'm proud to say that
I've come out on the other side and my adventures in the UK continue, but now
as a bona fide Brit.<o:p></o:p><br />
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Indeed, I've passed a test, sworn an oath and was given a medal. I can brew a
proper cuppa, say “cheers” freely in all social situations and have
completely forgotten how to pronounce “basil”. <o:p></o:p><br />
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But getting here has been a tad rocky. (There’s a bit of a British
understatement for you.) And much as <a href="http://aye2zed.blogspot.co.uk/2011/03/its-been-sew-long.html" target="_blank">sewing was a way for me to acclimatise</a> when I
first emigrated, cooking has been a meditative outlet that’s
helped me through some of the more difficult times. <o:p></o:p><br />
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Unemployed? Bake a cake! Overwhelmed by student debt? Learn to flambé!
Homesick? Perfect the pulled pork sandwich!<o:p></o:p><br />
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My father taught me to bake while he was a stay at home dad and we would
make chocolate chip cookies between Sesame Street and Eureka’s Castle. I know this
helped inspire my food desire because like many Americans I was sold the idea
that cooking is difficult and I’ve had to fight against this. Why peel an egg
or dice an onion when you can buy a gadget on QVC to do it for you? And how can I
be expected to mash my own potatoes or make stuffing when it's safer to
just add water to a dodgy beige powder from a box. <o:p></o:p><br />
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But now I whip my own cream, blind bake my own pie crust and have been
known to can my own ketchup or even mayo my own nnaise. It's been cathartic and creative and I think I'll keep it up.<br />
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Yesterday was Pancake Day (better known in the US as Fat Tuesday, Mardi Gras
or Get Drunk off Your Face on a Tuesday Day). In Britain, you’re meant to clear
out your cupboards in order to indulge and occasionally someone will remember that
there’s some religious connotation to it. <o:p></o:p><br />
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But in the UK, a pancake is a crêpe, and no offense to crêpes, but they ain’t
no pancakes. (Especially seeing as they’re French, but I’ll save my views on the
confused affair the English have with the French and their language for another
time.) So in the spirit of taking any opportunity to entwine American traditions
with British culture, and always being keen to cater, I enforced
a “breakfast for dinner” gathering on my housemates. <o:p></o:p><br />
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If I may: blueberry buttermilk pancakes, served with apples stewed in spiced
rum and vanilla bourbon bananas, topped with chopped pecans, whipped cream
cheese and homemade cinnamon syrup and a side of pancetta bacon.<br />
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In your face, crêpes. <br />
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<o:p></o:p><br />Jennhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07871904278938954402noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1638677671268469599.post-37358074427123464382013-11-05T10:12:00.000+00:002014-09-12T15:01:54.144+01:00What Does Guy Fawkes Say?<div style="text-align: center;">
Remember, remember</div>
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The fifth of November,</div>
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For it's Guy Fawkes Day</div>
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<span style="text-align: right;">And the Brits are at play,</span></div>
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<span style="text-align: left;">Lighting the skies with fire!</span></div>
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That's right! It's Guy Fawkes Day and that means fireworks and bonfires are ablaze throughout Britain. It must be some celebration of freedom or commemorating some historical event that changed British history forever. Well, kind of, but not really at all. If they hadn't made a holiday of it, people might not even remember it, considering all that happened was a close call.</div>
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Let me explain.<br />
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Guy Fawkes was a dude who, along with a dozen other people, plotted to assassinate King James I in 1605 and restore a Catholic monarch to the throne. They planned to do this by blowing up Parliament. But the plan was foiled and he was the unlucky sod caught guarding the gunpowder.<br />
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So instead of history allowing him to drift into the forgotten abyss, the Brits ensured that he went down in history for his major cock-up. (For my American friends, a "cock-up" is just a "fail", but more hilarious sounding.) How have they done this? By blowing stuff up and lighting giant fires. Amazing. Technically, or at least according to Wikipedia, the tradition started with the public celebrating King James I's escape by lighting bonfires. Not sure if they appreciated the irony then, but hopefully when the fireworks were added to the mix, it was obvious.<br />
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This is why I love Britain, and now Guy Fawkes Day, because it wears its irony on its sleeve. I'd say that it is my favorite holiday, but it ain't got nothin' on Thanksgiving. Although Thanksgiving is not without its badge of irony.<br />
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I have no beef with Thanksgiving if you look at it as a celebration of the harvest that is commemorated by taking a respite from work, gathering with family and enjoying a festive feast. But in the US, children are taught that it's a celebration of the Pilgrims and the Native Americans living in harmony and sharing the bounty.<br />
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Okay. I'll give you the bounty thing a little bit if they were also taught that the British, I mean the settlers, then committed genocide on the Native Americans and stripped them of their land, traditions and pride. But that's not really what you want to tell a 6 year old, so let's just tell them that everyone got along and everything was hunky-dory. It won't be traumatic and confusing to later learn that not only were the Pilgrims incredibly brutal, but you were kept in the dark about it - not to mention all the other horrible facts that were conveniently omitted from history class! - leaving you feeling naturally suspicious of your education and all authority! ...Or was that just me?<br />
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At least in Britain, they're a bit more honest and up front about the violent roots of their holiday and bloody history. Until you mention how the British conquest resulted in cultures going extinct, languages dying, and general havoc that forever changed the course of human history. But, hey-ho, that's all in the past, right?<br />
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Anyway, to my American mates, go light a sparkler, get in touch with your empirical roots and don't let anyone say that you don't understand irony!<br />
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<br />Jennhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07871904278938954402noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1638677671268469599.post-13641189582577163452013-07-31T07:43:00.000+01:002013-07-31T22:13:32.202+01:00What To Do 'Bout Those Expat BluesIt's only been something like 849 days since my last post. But it's not like anything significant like the 2012 Olympics, the Diamond Jubilee, a royal wedding and subsequent birth of an heir to the throne happened in the meantime that would have been interesting to blog about.<br />
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In the last few years, my accent has become a bit confused and the occasional "u" has been known to find its way into some words where once upon a time that would have been bizarre grammatical behaviour. I now "go on holiday", "ride the tube" and "go down the pub for a pint". And I got to say, it's pretty awesome. </div>
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I absolutely love Britain. I will defend its cuisine to the end, I think I've nearly got the Brits figured out and the weather, well it still sucks. But my theory is that because the weather's so miserable, they've focused on making everything else, like signage, healthcare (to be continued) and transportation, brilliant...most of the time.</div>
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But even though I haven't lost my English infatuation, I still get the occasional hankering for some rootin' tootin' American fun. So I've had to come up with some tricks to get my yankee fix. </div>
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For a while, baking filled some sort of nostalgic gap. I even thought, "Hey, I'll introduce some of my favourite goodies to the UK market - snickerdoodles, whoopie pies, thumbprint cookies - and make a killing", until I discovered that the <a href="http://hummingbirdbakery.com/" target="_blank">Hummingbird Bakery</a> beat me to the sweet, insulin resistant punch. </div>
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Then I thought I'd become a devout American sports fan. But taking into account the five hour time difference and an unwillingness to commit to an overwhelming TV sports package, that just seemed impractical. So alas, I had little choice but to pay homage to the homeland itself and take a trip back to the land of the free. </div>
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It'd been 18 months since my last visit and I quickly realised that I was seeing my motherland through union jack tinted glasses. Not surprisingly, the thing that culturally shocked me first was the sheer volume of stuff. There was so much of everything, most notably, peanut butter. </div>
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In the UK, the slot allotted for a product on the shelf of a supermarket will typically be as wide as one, maybe two, of whatever the item is. But in the US, they cram in as many of each thing as they can, sometimes five items in breadth. But it's little wonder that they do when you look at the scale of everything else. If you didn't shove three dozen of each brand of cereal on the shelves, the vast aisles would look nearly empty and ridiculous. </div>
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My surprise at what was once an unconscious assumption becoming a fascinating tourist attraction worthy of a photo in the middle of Food Lion under the gaze of a gentleman wearing a confederate flag as a hat, made me stop and think about how noticing things like this must mean that the line of binational patriotism has become a little blurrier. It made me question how I define home and if every place I go will feel at least a little foreign now. But then I went to Target and saw 25 checkout lines and only one open and thought, "No, I've just been blessed with a fabulous sense of irony."</div>
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Jennhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07871904278938954402noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1638677671268469599.post-12120290539175410622011-04-04T11:45:00.000+01:002011-04-04T15:11:16.722+01:00Rain, Rain, Go Away...In kindergarten, I learned that April showers bring May flowers. And every year, I waited for the torrential Pennsylvanian downpours that would transform my neighborhood into a lush landscape of technicolored flora. But they never came. Now I realize that expression had no place in my curriculum as it <i>clearly </i>refers to English weather.<div><br /></div><div>It doesn't surprise me that they came up with a motto to excuse England's infamous weather patterns. I can only assume that it was meant to reassure the population that this miserable climate can have a silver lining. But it's hardly as though April is the only month that sees rain in the UK. It seems to me like they ought to have a rain-related rhyme for every month. So I've taken the liberty to suggest a few. Like...</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>July precipitation yields August anticipation,</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: center;">or...</div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>October drizzle will never fizzle,</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: center;">even...</div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>December's wintery mix leaves much to be missed.</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"> I'll admit that Springtime here is ridiculously picturesque though. With its rolling, green paddocks speckled by bleating lambs, and bumbling bees bouncing between beds of blooming blossoms. Okay, maybe I see their point. It might be worth the rain. Maybe. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXiZSz6Xb-GkF9GC8ErV-Ld3qKBqMRJvkd2LHBYB1Sx6rJjhtT7rHToJ2MHQXVBCcVx514985x9legLtztkoONEs_eCBM1bmmVYvkupWPQ2tMU5MDSq7JXgd-7qlit2vlXrtuhM-8HYU43/s1600/IMG_0246.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXiZSz6Xb-GkF9GC8ErV-Ld3qKBqMRJvkd2LHBYB1Sx6rJjhtT7rHToJ2MHQXVBCcVx514985x9legLtztkoONEs_eCBM1bmmVYvkupWPQ2tMU5MDSq7JXgd-7qlit2vlXrtuhM-8HYU43/s320/IMG_0246.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5591674959705841538" /></a>Jennhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07871904278938954402noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1638677671268469599.post-67487835213243472342011-03-28T11:44:00.013+01:002011-03-31T12:21:18.014+01:00It's Been Sew LongIn the past 359 days, I have been a negligent blogger, only read one of the books on my <a href="http://aye2zed.blogspot.com/2010/02/t-minus-10-days-and-10-books.html">reading list</a>, returned to the USA for three months, married my Brit, and my passport and visa application that were lost by the USPS arrived in New York a year and two months late (which didn't stop the consulate from processing it and threatening to refuse the visa). <div><br /></div><div>I now find myself in unemployment limbo, that seductive stalemate in life that gets you thinking things like, "Maybe I should open a 1950s themed ice cream parlor in Picadilly Circus". It only took me about a month to discover that the only way to survive not working is by having a hobby. So now I sew. And my project list grows as my job application list dwindles. </div><div><br /></div><div>But sewing has been more than a pass-time, a stress-reliever, and a distraction, it's been an acclimation tool. It's been a way to get involved in the culture here and meet new people, which admittedly hasn't been easy since England seems to be surprisingly lacking in haberdasheries and fabric stores. The crafting culture in the UK isn't the same as the US and there's nothing similar to a JoAnn Fabrics or Michael's. So at the beginning of every project, I have to go on the hunt and drive forty minutes to a tiny village in Wales in search of Amy Butler fabric or a replacement bulb for my Janome sewing machine. But these expeditions have introduced me to some interesting places and I'm slowly making connections with the "locals" and women who have been sewing since the Second World War. </div><div><br /></div><div>I'm so used to the convenience of the giant chains in America and I'm realizing just how impatient it's made me. It's nice to slow down and enjoy the entire process of a project. Still, sometimes I just want that quick crafting fix. Maybe I should open a chain of fabric stores...</div><div><br /></div><div>Happy Spring! </div><div><br /></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyGH6i7mBLmZqeIBmCV5kJs-Yx-8s6VzmBrn3L4fiTvXH3cKLXLHA56hmlKMCmoB7j6w_92EyCahXJjv7he_GVvniMief_Do3QhaORSkdmulctYPr6QbVpvz_b4rLd7LaIyikZGiLeO-h2/s1600/IMG_1735.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyGH6i7mBLmZqeIBmCV5kJs-Yx-8s6VzmBrn3L4fiTvXH3cKLXLHA56hmlKMCmoB7j6w_92EyCahXJjv7he_GVvniMief_Do3QhaORSkdmulctYPr6QbVpvz_b4rLd7LaIyikZGiLeO-h2/s320/IMG_1735.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5589088876745532114" /></a><br /></div>Jennhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07871904278938954402noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1638677671268469599.post-29237837744798932052010-04-02T15:01:00.015+01:002014-09-12T14:42:54.297+01:00It's a Good Friday Sing-a-Long!<div style="text-align: center;">
Hot cross buns!</div>
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Hot cross buns!</div>
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One a penny,</div>
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Two a penny,</div>
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Hot cross buns!</div>
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If you have no daughters,</div>
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Give them to your sons;</div>
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One a penny,</div>
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Two a penny,</div>
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Hot cross buns!</div>
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When I was little, I sang this song. And like the other children, I had no idea what it meant, but didn't particularly care. Who knew what any of those nursery rhymes were about? After my fifth grade recorder concert, I never gave 'Hot Cross Buns' much thought and remained blissfully uninformed. Not anymore. </div>
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A hot cross bun is a bun. A bun that has a cross on it, and is served hot...a hot cross bun. I don't know about anyone else, but I was mildly disappointed to learn that's all they are. In England, they're eaten on Good Friday to commemorate the crucifixion of the Christian Messiah. Hence the cross. </div>
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As for the rest of the song, I wouldn't make the argument that it's particularly informative or even interesting. Thanks to inflation, it's been quite a while since you could get anything for a penny. And why would you sell various quantities of the same product at the same price? So that's not really teaching realistic consumer awareness or economics to children. And I can't even think of a reason why sons would only get buns if they don't have any sisters. </div>
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Really, why are these seriously out-dated (and let's be honest, creepy) nursery rhymes still around? Take 'Ring Around the Rosy' for instance. What child wouldn't enjoy singing about plague-ridden corpses burning in the streets? Then there's 'Three Blind Mice'. Knife wielding farmers' wives who mutilate seeing-impaired rodents = jolly good fun! We can't forget poor 'Jack and Jill', who while performing a routine chore fell perilously down a hill, resulting in Jack's broken skull. And seriously, Miss Muffet, what the hell is a tuffet?</div>
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Anyway, I made hot cross buns. </div>
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Jennhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07871904278938954402noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1638677671268469599.post-54055385378035299472010-03-11T09:49:00.010+00:002011-04-04T10:58:46.900+01:00Juicy BitsIf you're in America, and you're referring to the 'juicy bits', you're probably getting to the good part of the latest piece of gossip. But if you're in England, you're probably talking about orange juice. Juicy bits are pulp.<div><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgX5r2Lu245xUt81xJt0KDtwuDgsHqKkGF_m7ZUvBHDgKCxfTszm58Y9b6P_kVc2OxI-_7WAFKnZ6fooo26H_Um1nNJ3U7GM3GviS-AweWzFDF1_Ykn4rbbvSuVAlRBVxfliOon_ckqvza4/s1600-h/Tropicana.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgX5r2Lu245xUt81xJt0KDtwuDgsHqKkGF_m7ZUvBHDgKCxfTszm58Y9b6P_kVc2OxI-_7WAFKnZ6fooo26H_Um1nNJ3U7GM3GviS-AweWzFDF1_Ykn4rbbvSuVAlRBVxfliOon_ckqvza4/s320/Tropicana.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5447374289429947698" /></a><br /></div><div>I find this ironic considering the pulp is the least juicy bit of juice. I was told though that 'pulp' sounds too literal and unappealing. Okay, I'll give them that. But then they need to see my point about calling the bathroom the 'toilet'. Saying that you need to use the toilet, or asking where the toilets are, is much too literal and quite unappealing. </div>Jennhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07871904278938954402noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1638677671268469599.post-55865046062982598622010-02-27T20:05:00.035+00:002011-03-29T01:14:55.053+01:00Pleasant Pheasant<div><br /></div>Sunday roast: A big thing in the UK and a nice tradition that some families still have in the US. A lot of effort can typically be expected to go into this meal. But I imagine that few go to more elaborate lengths than a trip to the local butcher's (which in itself has become a rarity in the States with the heaps of readily available shrink-wrapped animal parts waiting in mounds at WalMart) to pick up a piece of meat. But there's no need to go to into town when dinner wanders into the front garden.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhG1LHtMticW8tt2JgGvF11H0Mv3RvFepMd5gAXOE-DgG5T3tfcDJ-IpigdmSvu6isiGYQM0sXXb0g_xatbKZA1GvezI14eMTj6CzDgtM0rZic8w0bFPxv7El639YRTg0YKOpO20aSqQxDa/s1600-h/Phes+1.jpg" style="text-decoration: none;" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 152px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhG1LHtMticW8tt2JgGvF11H0Mv3RvFepMd5gAXOE-DgG5T3tfcDJ-IpigdmSvu6isiGYQM0sXXb0g_xatbKZA1GvezI14eMTj6CzDgtM0rZic8w0bFPxv7El639YRTg0YKOpO20aSqQxDa/s200/Phes+1.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5443422914876353250" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibSmV3cEdEII3Ht1SyFQbtWk8F29ahh5OFJ-74wxvjGG5gVwMfUun16mypS5nOIiLB1l1Bw1p0DcW7LDkhWfCRkp74IIKZL_bI2HFPa1CT3ZCb-qtsJkUhc3u4QOSIUC9SEIYziguogN6z/s1600-h/Phes+2.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibSmV3cEdEII3Ht1SyFQbtWk8F29ahh5OFJ-74wxvjGG5gVwMfUun16mypS5nOIiLB1l1Bw1p0DcW7LDkhWfCRkp74IIKZL_bI2HFPa1CT3ZCb-qtsJkUhc3u4QOSIUC9SEIYziguogN6z/s200/Phes+2.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5443422908869042194" /></a><br /><div><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzKKF8elkNstSCOC1iSs-JYi76_bU_Qxd9RVn8Qcd1wUozTkg4KkHByJ9KBaZWvyn1qywgtE0K_Rqf0fWKIKsMZfw_jmFTWivPDakvNRVEevdoBB9FtTkP7DvAiBEfnWOhq34Or7HsyKDY/s1600-h/Phes+4.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzKKF8elkNstSCOC1iSs-JYi76_bU_Qxd9RVn8Qcd1wUozTkg4KkHByJ9KBaZWvyn1qywgtE0K_Rqf0fWKIKsMZfw_jmFTWivPDakvNRVEevdoBB9FtTkP7DvAiBEfnWOhq34Or7HsyKDY/s200/Phes+4.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5443422902432020050" /></a><div>I glanced out the window earlier this week to see a brightly colored bird, the size of a house cat, peacefully pecking at the lawn. "Oh, look! It's so pretty!", I said to my British beau. And next thing I knew he's marched into the yard with a loaded rifle. Apparently these lovely birds have been bred for the sole purpose of being hunted, evidently by lazy hunters who don't want much of a challenge, which would explain why it did little in the way of fleeing for its life as I watched, reluctantly curious, from the bedroom. </div><div><br /></div><div>Given today's cornucopia of rehydrated, dehydrogenated, freeze-dried, flash-frozen, genetically-modified, prepackaged bounty, I've always seen hunting as a cruel and unnecessary hobby. But as I was reminded by my proud provider, "In these economic times, who can really afford to pass up a free meal?". So feeling as though the unfortunate fowl was owed the respect of a dignified death, we consulted YouTube for a step-by-step guide to how a pheasant goes from pecking to plate. </div><div><br /></div><div>We were fully equipped with plastic gloves, bin liners, vacuum cleaner, newspapers, paper towels, bleach,...and knives. Though my job was little more than holding open a plastic bag, I'll still omit the details. I was surprised, however, by how horrible it wasn't. It didn't take long for it to resemble what I would find in any freezer section and for some reason that's the stage where we can comfortably disassociate life (and subsequently death) from our food. </div><div><br /></div><div>I realize that this experience is hardly unique to the UK and there are plenty of people in the US who prepare food this way quite regularly. But I will note that even while this was the first time I've been so intimately involved with the origin of my dinner, the abundance of locally grown and produced food in the UK is notable. </div><div><br /></div><div>Most labels in a supermarket boast "British Beef", "English Cheddar", "Made in the UK". We even get our milk delivered to our doorstep fresh from a dairy farm a mile up the road! It wouldn't even be difficult to stock a pantry with only products produced within just one county. This is something that I can't imagine being able to do in the US. </div><div><br /></div><div>Even if you're lucky enough to have a farmer's market, or even a WholeFoods, within a 25 mile radius, you'd still have a hard time consuming such an array of local goods. I get the impression that consumers have much more of a voice in the UK. It's an island that could fit inside Alabama, with more than 60 million people, and they've managed to keep a lot of food local. So why on earth can't the United States, with its vast amounts of land and hundreds of millions of consumers not successfully demand more locally grown, produced, and sustainable food? I mean, consuming is what we do!</div></div>Jennhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07871904278938954402noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1638677671268469599.post-84486339249054705812010-02-21T00:50:00.009+00:002010-02-21T11:38:13.036+00:00He-Who-Must-Not-Be-ElectedI think J.K. Rowling must have had Nick Griffin in mind when she wrote Lord Voldemort's character. Given his 'pureblood' propaganda and ability to communicate with snakes, the similarities certainly are uncanny. The dementors of the BNP, I mean, the <i>demeanor</i> of the BNP, does give one an overwhelming feeling of despair. And he has been quoted as saying that Muggles "are the most appalling, insufferable people to have to live with". Oh wait, my mistake, he said that about British Muslims.<div><br /></div><div>For those who aren't familiar with Nick Griffin and the British National Party: <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gd-R6rqqVYE">http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gd-R6rqqVYE</a> </div>Jennhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07871904278938954402noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1638677671268469599.post-53454445754273869392010-02-16T06:26:00.005+00:002010-02-18T16:16:27.698+00:00Grey Skies Smilin' at Me<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">In some ways, my high school education was lacking; particularly in the area of international awareness. So my early academic exposure to English culture wasn't exactly extensive. British literature was limited to Macbeth. I'm pretty sure one of my English teachers thought that we invented the language, and seemed to have her own version of it. And we somehow managed to gloss over centuries of colonial rule under the British Empire (but then again we had "social studies" not history). So until too recently, my knowledge of Great Britain consisted mostly of the stereotypes.<br /></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:'Lucida Grande';font-size:small;"><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I may have heard a rumor that British food was inedible, heard mention that the weather was pretty dismal, and saw endless cinematic evidence that their oral hygiene was, er...poor. After spending some time there though, I've found the food quite charming, the teeth generally healthy (thanks to a nationalized health care system!), and the weather, well, rather bad. But surely that's a matter of opinion. I mean, 113 days of rain and more than 3,000 hours of overcast every year must be someone's ideal climate. Though English weather certainly did live up to its reputation the first time I landed in London.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br />During the flight, we had soared along the blue horizon and through the wispy white clouds. I was brimming with excitement as the pilot announced our decent into London. But as we went lower, the clouds grew darker. And we got a drizzly, foggy welcome when we touched down. I knew I really must be in the UK!<br /><br />I wasn't disappointed on my next trip either. Like some sort of weather-time warp, the sky transitioned from wide-open blue, to mildly oppressive grey. Without fail, each time I fly to England I receive the same dreary greeting. And it always puts a smile on my face. Here's hoping that Wednesday's forecast calls for rain!</span></span></div><div><br /></div></span>Jennhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07871904278938954402noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1638677671268469599.post-3519446454013807892010-02-07T01:43:00.018+00:002010-02-07T04:10:11.148+00:00T-minus 10 days (and 10 books)In ten days, I will at long last embark upon my journey to begin an internship in the United Kingdom. The term "at long last" may seem a bit dramatic, and I imagine some will think cliche, but I am prepared to justify the use of this sappy prepositional phrase.<br /><br />I suppose the wait really started when I first visited London for New Year's two years ago. It was my first trip to Europe and indeed the first time I left the continent on which I was born. Instantaneously, I swooned for the tiny island that could just about fit snugly within the borders of my home state. Everything was fascinating, from the tube to the toilet. Oh yes, even the toilet. I couldn't stay away from Britain; from then on I just kept coming back. It probably wasn't the food that had me hooked, it certainly wasn't the weather, and I hadn't yet realized the brilliance of the BBC. So maybe it had something to do with a guy.<br /><br />Through a series of well-timed coincidences and uncomfortable social situations, I had fallen for a local. A trans-Atlantic romance certainly sounds like the stuff of fairytales and steamy paperbacks while you're still together on the same continent. But the reality of jet-lagged visits, timing Skype calls to fit each others' schedules with a five hour time difference, and the ever present visa issue quickly hits you (and your bank account) hard.<br /><br />So after two years, countless frequent flyer miles, 1 lost passport, and a lot of patience, I will <span style="font-style: italic;">at long</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">last </span><span>be</span> living in the UK. And I will blog about my experiences and struggles as I settle into a new culture.<br /><br />To help the assimilation process along, I've comprised a list of 10 British novels, from the contemporary to the classic, that I will read during my first months. In theory, these books will provide a glimpse of English culture and life as perceived by 10 literary artists over two centuries.<br /><br />The list:<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows</span> by J.K. Rowling (2007)<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Lord of the Flies</span> by William Golding (1954)<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">1984</span> by George Orwell (1949)<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">The Great Divorce</span> by C.S. Lewis (1945)<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">The Hobbit</span> by J.R.R. Tolkien (1937)<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">The Picture of Dorian Gray</span> by Oscar Wilde (1890)<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Jane Eyre</span> by Charlotte Bronte (1847)<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Wuthering Heights</span> by Emily Bronte (1847)<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Oliver Twist</span> by Charles Dickens (1838)<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Pride and Prejudice</span> by Jane Austen (1813)<br /><br />Naturally, I could think of nowhere better to begin than by finishing the Harry Potter series!<br /><br />I should note that my journey is far from over and I expect to encounter many more obstacles and visa fiascoes as I transition to an American expat living in Britain. But I haven't given up yet and with only a week and a half of pre-departure planning and packing, the light at the end of the deceivingly long tunnel is brighter than ever!Jennhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07871904278938954402noreply@blogger.com1