Home Improvement 101

What luxury, on the one hand, this week has been with no more pressing responsibilities than to settle in to Red Gate Farm, fix the little bits and pieces that have gone astray in our six months' absence. But how lonely on the other hand, with no Avery! We're looking forward to getting her back tomorrow, and then Monday we'll have her partners in crime as well, Anna and Ellie, to wreak havoc and eat us out of house and home, I hope.

We have turned quite the Home Improvement Team, with John waking up super early filled with ideas on how we can try to stem the tide of disintegration here, and generally make things more livable. To that end, we spent all of Monday switching the dining room and entrance halls with each other. Why have we spent all these years with the dining table and all its many chairs (and therefore guests) crammed into the smallest room in the house, just because it was presented to us as the "dining room"? And equally, why did we leave the largest room in the house as the entry way, used only for the Christmas tree, since everyone who comes over comes in the back door? It was but the work of a moment (well, a back-breaking day) to swap them around, pure and simple.

But as Oscar Wilde said, things are never pure, and rarely simple, so in point of fact it was a massive undertaking. The dining table would not, of course, fit through the doorway between the dining room and the entrance hall and so had to be carried out the back door, down the terrace steps and all the way around the house. Keep in mind, now, that I'm 5'6", my stalwart husband is 6'2". We are not, therefore, the best of partners to be carrying enormously heavy furniture around half of the state of Connecticut. "Keep your end up! Don't let the leg scratch the doorway! Come around the corner a bit faster!" he adjured me, and I was well tempted to point out that the world was filled with many wives who would refuse point-blank to play Happy Movers, but I held my tongue, and we got it done.

Equally, howsomever, the Shaker desk that we thought would look so much nicer in the dining-room-turned-library would not... fit through the doorway, so around the house we went again. We decided that in order to count as a library, the room needed more bookshelves, and if there is one thing this crazy house has, it's bookshelves and the books to go in them, so back to the nasty room off the kitchen that we've always euphemistically referred to as the "pantry," containing as it does the mice-eaten remnants of packets of wild rice, flour and crackers from previous seasons. In that room were languishing a gorgeous bookshelf from Scott Jordan, furniture purveyor to our newlywed days in SoHo, and a Victorian shelf from much the same period in our lives, dusty and neglected both of them.

Out they came, we managed to throw away nearly everything that had lived on their surfaces, I wiped them down with furniture polish (and a toothbrush for the curlicued carved ornamentation on the Victorian piece!), and we carried them (through the doorway, bless their legless hearts!) through to the newly-arranged rooms. And then, my friends, the real work began.

Because guess what's in the big red barn? In addition to bats and Rollie's second-hand tractor parts and the shutters that should adorn our house? Books, my dears, hundreds and hundreds of books that for some reason we left here during the big move to London. I made the executive decision to leave my art historical past behind me, and so I marked out dozens of boxes, imperfectly labelled to be sure, as "art history books," and the long-suffering movers simply dumped them in the barn, whereupon we covered them with big blue tarps and looked upon them no more.

Well, Monday was their big comeback day. I dug into box after box after box, discovering many treasures of fiction, Avery's picture books that somehow hadn't made it to cousin Jane's bookshelf, cookbooks and biographies, and finally, yes, some art history. All told, I carried in about 300 books, distributing them in that Quixotic way all book collectors will understand: not according to subject but according to how tall they are. For this reason "Great Paintings From the Hermitage" rubs shoulders with "Morrocan Barbecue" and "Amelia Earhart's Adventures." No Dewey Decimal System for me, that's for sure. But it's all colorful and pretty and there's nothing to bring back memories like shelves full of beloved books. I even found my undergraduate thesis, "Michelangel's Neoplatonic Sculpture and Poetry"! What on earth was it doing in my big red barn?

Well, that was the early part of our week. Everything has taken on that newish feeling, as objects do when you move them out of their accustomed places. Art from my old gallery that we had just propped up on flat surfaces got hung on the walls, mercury glass candlesticks that had become invisible on a desk here or mantelpiece there were put in new places and suddenly shone. It's all really lovely, and I have the sore muscles and bruises marching up and down my inner arms to show for it. And guess what: the barn is STILL full of books. I didn't even scratch the surface. We found one more bookshelf out there, but without the shelves or the pegs to lay them on. Hmmm. Food for thought.

This project completely exceeded my interest in home decorating, so we moved on to other things, like greeting our dear neighbors Konnie and Mark, here to deal with the horses they board in our back meadow. At some point they'll mosey over with their nearly four-year-old daughter Stephanie, so I'd better get some cookies and be ready. And just as I was getting my baby-back ribs under some barbecue sauce and the corn on the cob OFF the cob and under some cream and garlic, Jill, Joel, Jane and Molly arrived! Jill and Joel were as handsome and chipper as ever, Jane as full of conversation and bounce, but little Molly has been completely transformed from slightly wobbly Christmas baby to a bundle of real person: bright eyes and placid gurgling, completely happy and content. She allowed me to carry her around, but she saved her real enthusiasm for John, who always looks much taller and bigger all around when he holds a baby.

Jane entertained us all with the recounting of several intricate picture book plots, we all tucked into barbecued ribs and scalloped corn, and generally basked in the luxury of being reunited. It's always the same, every summer: standing the children up carefully in the doorway to the laundry room to put the latest measuring marks up: this summer Avery has grown two inches since Christmas, and Jane nearly as much. I suggested we prop Molly up for her first measuring, but I don't think anyone listened to me.

The next day brought us the first visit and rambling account of local events from Farmer Rollie, pulling up in his battered blue Ford truck, smiling on us benevolently, declining to shake hands because he'd got his fingernail torn off the night before by a "cow who'd gone down." "She whipped her head around and caught me, just like that, so it was off to the emergency room..." We are now completely caught up on Southbury gossip, of the sort, that is, that interests Rollie, namely second-hand farm equipment and its pricing methods. He reported gleefully to John, "Got some really good milking equipment last week, didn't cost me more than 10 cents on the dollar, because I got it from a local guy who got arrested for running a crystal meth lab."

Life has not been without its typical Connecticut encounters, to be sure. It's hard to define, but there is such a thing as a Typical Connecticut Encounter, especially with a member of the sales community. Finally exasperated beyond tolerance by our dripping kitchen tap, we took ourselves off to the venerable Allen's Plumbing in nearby Seymour. Defective cylinder in hand, Pete behind the counter turned the pages of the cylinder handbook with a well-licked thumb and motioned to a pile of fluorescent papers to his right. "Fill one of those out, if you have a mind to," and we picked up the "Entry for Free and Discount Propane Contest." Hmm. "What if I didn't want any propane, but I won the contest. What else would you give me?" John asks. "But you DO want propane, we have a propane grill," I object on the grounds of truthfulness, and John replies placidly, "I'm just asking. What else could I have? How about this Disney keychain?" "Don't know as we could do that, Disney's my nickname," says Pete equally placidly. "Now, we could do you for some of this here Natural All-Purpose Cleaner." "How about Squidge-Free Drain Unclogger?" John persists. Pete considers, then shakes his head. "Don't think that's included."

As we drove home along the old Oxford Road, John laughed suddenly. "Lookee over there, there's a cop parked by the side of the road, with an actual Dunkin Donut and a cup of coffee. That's what we come home for."

And then there are the inevitable strip malls lining the road, countless nail salons and package liquor stores, pizzerias and mortgage brokers, piano tuners and day-care centers. But my favorite is the little series of shops with "Internal Medicine" sandwiched between "Grand Prix Cigars" and "Pets 'n More." I just don't think I'd be comfortable having my kidneys examined in between people pricing out stogies and clumping cat litter, call me a snob.

Being home for the summer always arouses in me a latent junk-foodie. I fill the cupboard with Doritos and Cheetos, the freezer with some sort of shredded potatoes that I am convinced, each summer, will be just as good as the hashed browns at the nearby Laurel Diner (but they never are, probably because I don't cook them with a pound of butter each time). But this summer I drew the line at one of my childhood favorites, because it's always so disappointing: Rice Pilaf, in a boil-in-the-bag. Things boiled in bags were a staple of my mother's kitchen when I was a child, and the sight of the little Birds-Eye boxes in the freezer section always sends me into a mild nostalgic frenzy. But somehow the Shoepeg White Corn in Butter Sauce and yes, the Rice Pilaf With Mushrooms and Green Beans never taste as yummy as I remember them. So this summer I decided to make my own. And you know what? It's just as good as I remembered.

Rice Pilaf with Mushrooms, Green Beans and Garlic
(serves 4 as a side dish)

1 cup mixed white grain and wild rice
2 cups chicken broth
3 tbsps butter
3 cloves garlic, minced
6 white mushrooms, chopped roughly
1 cup green beans, sliced roughly
seasoning to taste

Simply steam the rice carefully (do not boil dry!) in the broth in a covered saucepan for 50 minutes. Then take off the heat, still with the lid on, and leave aside while you saute the garlic, mushrooms and green beans in the butter. Then toss all together, salt and pepper to taste. LOVELY.

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With this we grilled some marvellously fresh tuna steaks, marinated as I've described before in everything under the sun: chives, garlic, cilantro, sesame oil, lime zest, you name it. I couldn't find any lemongrass here, so I substituted even more lime zest than my original recipe called for. And for lunch the next day? The tuna salad of your life, quite simply the most luxurious tuna salad you will ever have.

Grilled Tuna Salad
(serves 4 as a luncheon dish)

2 grilled (leftover!) tuna steaks
2 tbsps mayonnaise
1 tbsp chili sauce
2 stalks celery, split in three and minced
1 small cucumber, deseeded and sliced thin
1/2 red onion, minced
juice if 1/2 lime or lemon
fresh ground pepper

Pull the tuna apart into bite-size pieces with your hands, or I suppose you could cut it with a knife if you were feeling all neat and tidy. Then gently mix all the other ingredients with the tuna, and serve with toast or Triscuits or Ryvita, and a sliced avocado on the side.

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Well, our terrace has been enlivened with several flowering plants in baskets, delivered by Rollie, along with a blueberry pound cake from his wife Judy, which I promptly put in the freezer to be part of the menu at Camp Avery next week, when we have three little girls to feed. John was taking a nap when Rollie arrived, so we sat together on the stones of the terrace, looking out over the peaceful afternoon landscape, sometimes chatting, sometimes silent. I enquired sternly if he had been taking proper care of his injured finger and he allowed as how he'd soaked it the night before and taken off all the dressings, which I'm sure the hospital staff did not intend him to do. Finally he said, "Well, I'd better mosey along, although if the boys catch sight of me they'll have a whole list of stuff I should do, so maybe I'd better not go home..."

This afternoon will bring, we hope, the delivery of a whole batch of tennis rackets from an internet scheme: you get to try out a whole lot of them, and just send back the ones you don't want! Since I've become rather a better tennis player than I was last summer (as in, I don't completely suck all the time), John feels I deserve a better racket than the one I've currently got, which has a nasty habit of sort of grabbing at the ball and sending it all over kingdom come. Yesterday we actually played twice, feeling ambitious! We arrived in the early evening for our second game and there, slightly awkwardly for me, was Val, my teacher of last summer, who in comparison with Wacky Rocco in London simply did not teach me anything. I had wondered what I would say when I saw Val, since I haven't signed up for lessons this summer, but I soon saw I had no reason for qualms. Fully the entire female population under 45 of my little town lined themselves up for an enormous group lesson! All highlighted blondes of a certain age, dressed in fancy little outfits (I simply must rise above my boring shorts and t-shirts!), brandishing fancy rackets and tossing their hair: Val won't miss me at all!

the ones we love

Well. John's stubble is lengthening, my interest in makeup is dwindling, the number of corncobs in my rubbish is piling up: it's summer vacation. The barn is red, the goldfinches golden, Avery has been kidnapped by her best friend, the tiger lilies in the front yard are orange, the lawn guys have arrived with their earplugs and suntans, we've arrived.

We arrived, in fact, on Saturday evening to the blue skies and sunset colors of a New Jersey Fourth of July, and to a shower of overwhelming memories. Twenty years ago, as a nearly-married girl of 24, I moved to Maplewood, New Jersey to plan my wedding and settle down for a lifetime of married bliss. My first step in this direction was to enter the bookshop of my small town and introduce myself to the girl behind the counter. She was none other than Livia, a person whose smile and meeting of the eyes was perfect magic. I fell in love (not at all awkwardly, since my almost-married state could definitely encompass falling in love with just one more person), and we made fast friends within an instant. Livia and her mother, the effortlessly elegant and timelessly adorable Janice, became our constant companions for the following year. And then... John was transferred to London. Eleven months after we'd spent all our time cementing our friendship, we were... gone.

And yet such was our mutual admiration society that we have remained the most devoted of friends through the last 20 years. Livia came to us in London, we came to them every summer when we came home from England, we spent countless weekends with them after we returned to live in New York. I remember well the evening dinner party with them when I was just hours from giving birth to Avery, and the photograph of John cradling a giant piece of quartz from Livvy's collection that she reckoned was about the size our baby would be when born... her gift of a monogrammed sterling silver cigarette case for Avery upon her birth was the most, let's see, characteristic gift of all Avery received.

In the intervening years, we have had marathon phone calls from London to New Jersey, frantically intense visits on our returns home, a snowy dinner out at an Indian restaurant in Tribeca, the odd snatched dinner at their house, an unforgettable millennium house party in 1999... and finally a terrible, encompassingly loving arms-opening gesture to us in the days after we escaped our experiences of September 11, 2001. Our days there recovering from what we had been through will never be forgotten.

And through it all, many, many Fourths of July together, on the park hills of South Orange with glow-in-the-dark necklaces strung around Avery's sweaty little girl neck, she donning a white dress with smocking of an American flag for YEARS until she could scarcely breathe in it!

And so our arrival on Saturday night was, for me, simply steeped in love and memories. Impossible to live up to and yet, because they are who they are, their welcome to us surpassed anything we had ever had before. "Nothing ever changes here," Livia said placidly, pulling us into the white, white kitchen of the 1920s stone house. A glass of old Scotch, exchange of gifts, endless tale-telling, then a rush out to see fireworks... and back for the dish I had so hoped I would get: Janice's pink gazpacho! Ice cold, flecked with roasted almonds and permeated with the perfume of cumin... We remembered the old days of trying to decide what Avery would call Janice, when she was a tiny tot, and the agreement upon "Janicemommy," because for ages Avery could not seem to distinguish between "Janice" and "Mommy." I couldn't have been happier.

Candlelight both tall and in votives, Janice's granddaughter Anastasia there in all her 25-year-old glory, inclining her head gracefully when we realized that she was the age Avery is NOW, when Avery was born. How felicitous, how delightful! She who taught us to sing "Over in Killarney," to comfort newborn Baby Avery, and we still sing it to her every night.

Following the gazpacho was the most sublime cold shrimp salad, whose recipe I must share with you here:

Janice's Cold Summer Shrimp Salad
(serves 6 as a main course for luncheon or a late supper)

1 1/2 lb cooked large shrimp, tails removed, cut in thirds
1 1/2 cups celery, chopped fine
1/2 red pepper, cut fine
tiny bit of shallot, minced
1 cup mayonnaise
1 tbsp Worcestershire sauce
squeeze of lemon juice (plus the squeezed bit stirred through the salad)
1 tsp salt
dash Tabasco

Simply mix all, add the best of grateful friends and candlelight, and enjoy...

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We succumbed in our own ways that evening to jetlag, or simply realistic exhaustion: first Avery who crept off to her old accustomed bedroom, sleeping with the plushy swan she has always slept with at Janicemommy's house, her room lit subtly by the ceramic nightlight "Gladys the Goose," tucked away in the corner of the room, dark shining wooden floors, white shelves filled with old children's books, the shades pulled down against the ancient ivy climbing up the windows.

John settled down on his own sleeping porch, a screened-in room adjoining my own bedroom, where he has always slept for the years we have descended on the family... I covered his sleeping shoulder with a silk white eiderdown, turned off his bedside lamp, lowered the shades...

And I myself kissed everyone good night and retired to my high four-poster, propped up by vintage white pillows in cases with knitted and crocheted edging, looking at the fireplace mantel with the carved wooden cat, its nose embedded in its wooden tail, a ceramic cow on a ceramic bit of lawn, on the table a pile of books, from "Cold Comfort Farm" to "Pride and Prejudice," with "Crime and Punishment" in between..."

It is a place of pure comfort, under the best and worst of circumstances, having seen life and death and fear and luxury. That is real comfort, I think, when where you are, and who you are with, have seen it all, and can still... comfort you.

Off in the morning to Red Gate Farm! A crazy afternoon settling in, unpacking our bits and pieces, looking up to see Anne, David and Kate coming across the road! John immediately races out the front door to open the gate (the RED one), which promptly falls off its hinges! "Welcome home!" Anne shouts! And there is baby Kate, a beautiful, plushy-haired, blue-eyed little-girl version of the baby we saw at Christmas, pulling herself up to Avery's knees as she sat beneath the tree holding Avery's tree swing, staring her in the eyes calmly while unleashing a ceaseless soft babble of unintelligible... language!

A slow, early evening, then everyone to sleep to awake early to the morning glories of Red Gate Farm... the chipmunks, John's birds beginning to return, and finally Becky's family, arrived to take Avery away to Greenwich for the week! We succumbed to the local brilliant fried-food joint, Denmo's, for an indulgent American lunch: can you imagine us eating all this food! Shrimps, clams, chicken, burgers, curly fries... and then ice cream if you can imagine (I could not!). It was heavenly to see Becky, to catch up on gossip, to pass Avery off with all adjurements to shop for clothes, we'll pay you back, be polite, have a fabulous time, enjoy it while you can (the unspoken undercurrent of every reunion with our old London friends)...

No wonder we feel exhausted by the first week of being back among our American ties: we haven't even described yet the joyous reunion with Jill, Jane, Joel and Molly! Much less Rollie and the horses...

More soon!

a great goodbye picnic and play

Praise me, please: for once I'm telling you about a play JUST as it opens, so you can all go to see it. "The Importance of Being Earnest," a play so dated it is timeless, is playing now at the Regent's Park Open Air Theatre, and it is pure delight. A fabulous mirrored set (so clever, with all the double identities going on in the play), a curious klesmer group that I'm not sure added anything to the evening, some hilarious mishaps with a garden full of waving roses that each had to be "planted" individually during the interval, and then were stepped on and tripped over in the second act! It was the first night, so we have to imagine they'll work out the kinks in the coming days. And there were some troubles with bits of the floor not fitting properly as the set was changed and having to be stuffed in by the admirably cool backstage crew. "I don't think you really want to have your stage crew get applause," Avery whispered. "They should be invisible, really."

But this is all churlish commentary on what was a truly charming and very fresh rendition of Avery's absolute favorite play. The girl playing Cecily was completely adorable, and there is one scene between her and Algernon that was a completely original interpretation involving a giant dollhouse: I won't spoil it for you!

The trees waved, the sun set, the fireflies and swallows circled above us. As always, a beautiful night, and we were so lucky with the weather! Take along a picnic and have yourselves a gorgeous summer evening.

Our picnic, eaten in the setting sun on the grass of Regent's Park on a funky little blue plaid rug was this: Giggly Pig Welsh Dragon sausages with Maille Dijon mustard, Pave d'Affinois cheese, cornichons, potato salad with cilantro, yogurt and red onion, egg salad with curry, Spanish cherries and English meringues for Avery, Ketel One vodka in my silver flask, Fever Tree tonic: such a European feast!

It did make me shake my head, aiming as we are today for America and for American food: beefsteak tomatoes, basil, crabmeat, lobster from Maine, sweetcorn in all forms (just off the cob, scalloped with cream and cheese, in salads with black beans and red onions and sugar snap peas), baby back ribs, rock oysters for broiling with cheese and spinach, chicken breast salad with spinach and pine nuts...

By the time we arrive, the lovely American Andy Roddick will or will not have trounced the arrogant Roger Federer with his pretentions of golden robes (in his case, waistcoats, t-shirts with gold-lined collars, sneakers with golden rackets representing the number of times he's won something or other). We'll be in New Jersey in time for fireworks, for the first time in four years! There has always been something a little... off, about spending the Fourth of July with Avery in school and NO celebrations (fair enough).

I must just set down here what a funny time I had at my pool reception duty this week. Avery's friend Merrie came by with her houseguest Jonathan, a 17-year-old boy, son of friends of her parents. He was so touching, teetering on the brink between childhood and manhood, smiling fondly on the "little" girls, shaking hands with me very charmingly, then starting visibly when he saw the lifeguard, daughter of one of my Lost Property mothers. "I met her at a PARTY last night!" he whispered in some mixture of excitement and dismay. "Well, go and say hello," I encouraged, "she's a nice responsible girl and if you fall in, she'll rescue you. What are you doing in town with Merrie's family, anyway?" "Oh, we don't have a house right now, so they're taking us in," he explained. Merrie and I said at the same time, "Don't tell her that!" "Well, we do have a house in the South of France..." he hesitated. "Tell her that!" we chorused.

So he went in and they all swam, and he spent quite a bit of time on the lifeguard's bench, chatting up his prey. I could NOT believe that as a person just a year older than he is, I was ready to choose my life's mate! And I did an awfully creditable job, to be sure. But still. Heavens.

They all came out, dripping and pulling on their going-home clothes. Merrie took one look at Jonathan, wearing a towel as a sort of sari, and said, "I'm not walking home with you looking like THAT," and he looked down. "What's wrong, because I'm wearing a towel, you mean? Let go of your self-consciousness, Mer!" he called after her as she stalked out of the building. I said, "She can't let go of it yet, she just got it, you know," and he said, "True, true," looking down at Amy, Merrie's little 8-year-old sister. Amy chimed in, "I'm not self-conscious!" "Yet," I said.

Jonathan looked suddenly quite old. "Wouldn't it be nice if they could stay that way," he said. What a dear. The future has a brighter look than I thought, with boys like that coming up. If only I could put a sort of hold on him for Avery, in ten years' time or so. Ten? Who am I kidding? It's right around the corner, with her teenage years looming in just November.

Right, we're off to Heathrow. Happy Fourth of July, everyone, and we'll see you from Connecticut!

The Roof is On

How I wish interesting things would space themselves out: in JANUARY for instance, or the more boring moments of October. But NO, it all happens at once: Lost Property Sale, visitors, bill-paying, permission-slip-filling-out, packing to go away for the summer, end of school, Wimbledon!

All made slightly more challenging by the fact that I've been sick as the proverbial dog for a week, with what my doctor immediately feared (hoped?) was a return of scary digestive things from several years ago. Days of misery, medication, worry. Then up comes a test result: a rather rare "food-borne bacteria." What, where did I eat? John and I nearly always eat the same things. A mystery. But so much better than a lifelong diagnosis of something life-changing. Still, the bug floored me for quite a while, and I still find myself longing for a chance to lie down in the middle of the day. One day finally John pushed me down on the sofa, gave me a glass of water, and left the room saying, "You just sleep," and that 45 minutes or so saved me for the rest of the day, which included having friends to dinner! Let nothing slow me down, is the motto of yours truly.

In the meantime, while I was coddling myself, it's happened, history has been made: the roof over Wimbledon Centre Court has been moved into place, Monday evening, for the historic Andy Murray win over Mr Swiss Person (I cannot remember his name). How I wish we had been there to see it, and I'm not even (yet) a huge Murray fan. But he is the Great British Hope, and for that, I'll fight for him.

The British commentators breathed deeply, "Never thought we'd see the day," the cameras returning again and again throughout the evening to the glowing, surreal lights of Centre Court surrounded by the darkness and the nursery coverings of the other courts, as well as the rest of the City of London which goes to bed with much more finality than Manhattan ever does. And I simply dote on the phraseology of the commentators. Andy Murray, was, they claimed, "asking awkward questions" of his opponent, and as the tension became quite unbearable and the cameras veered to Mrs Murray, one expert asked rhetorically, "Who would be a mother at the moment?" And there's always the laconic cut-glass designation of "Juice!" which of course we Americans pronounce "Dooce." Two people separated, as always, by a common language.

Speaking of language (or "talking of language," as the British would say!) Avery and I have decided that we a new Pet Peeve as far as expressions go, and that is "which is FINE." As in, at my recent writing seminar, "This cover letter you've written, So-and-So, is one of the worst you can write, WHICH IS FINE." Which it patently is NOT! So condescending, so annoying. "Which is fine, since everyone does it, or which is fine, because for £300 I can tell you how not to do it again, or which is fine, because I would never be stupid enough to do it in the first place, but since you DID..." Awful! I hope I've never said it.

So the Lost Property almighty Preview and Sale have come and gone under my fearless (ish) leadership, and the truly fearless help of Annie. As usual, all the expected personalities emerged: the shouting, quirky, slightly scary head of Expensive Clothing, grabbing little first-years and holding jumpers up against them saying, "Hello, little alien, this jumper looks just right for you, and YOU [to her friend standing nearby staring as if at a train wreck], little Friend of Alien, this t-shirt is perfect for YOU."

I myself came away with a cunning felted crocodile brooch! Which had sat disconsolately in the jewelry drawer, feeling inferior to the fake gold bracelets and lone earrings, for months. Now it's mine. A bright orange cashmere scarf emerged from the months-old pile of scarves, to be snatched up for a pretty penny. Cups of tea were brought to us in the sweltering heat by dining room staff, our hands grew filthier and filthier, countless girls identified items at the sale as "definitely mine" when of course they hadn't missed them for aeons. Nothing new under the sun.

Now my thoughts are turning ever more to our Connecticut paradise (or so it always seems from the vantage point of London responsibilities, schedules, obligations). I picture my old green and white quilt on my bed under a sloping ceiling, wavy glass to look through to the meadow, Avery's room strung with ribbons and all the old paper dresses she makes every summer. Laundry room humming with bathing suits (swimming costumes!), towels, khaki shorts, dishtowels that form the basis of our laundry loads at summer time. After a few days, John's beloved birds and our groundhog and wild turkeys and red foxes and blue herons will return for food, poor things, for six weeks! They do it every summer. Avery will trap crayfish, we'll haul her trampoline and seesaw from the barn, disturbing the bats who will fly at sunset for several nights, in alarm.

But until we get there, we've still got Avery's orthodontist appointment tomorrow, my reception and lifeguard-paying duty at her school pool to put in during the evening, and one more day of school, one more ice skating lesson, one more play to go to. What to take for the picnic, in Regent's Park, under the glorious summer sunset? I'm thinking chicken wings with blue cheese dressing, or slow-roasted pulled pork in wraps with sour cream and black beans. Or I could go all Indiana childhood and make a meatloaf in the morning and turn it into sandwiches? Avery votes for simplicity: egg mayonnaise sandwiches on good English white bread, crusts removed, of course. In the meantime, there's the post-pool dinner. And it's a winner. Although I must ask: can anyone tell the difference between rainbow trout and salmon? I surely could not, either in appearance or taste, and I admit guiltily that I didn't note the price difference. It went down just as happily no matter what the fish it ultimately might turn out to be. And if you lack Fox Point Seasoning, substitute another savoury salt mixture.

Grilled Rainbow Trout with Red and Savoy Cabbages and Celeriac Slaw
(serves 4)

1 side rainbow trout
1 tbsp olive oil
Fox Point seasoning

2 cups each: shredded red cabbage, Savoy cabbage
1 cup celeriac, cut into matchsticks
1/2 red onion, sliced very thin

dressing:

2 tbsps chilli-infused olive oil
3 tbsps mayonnaise
juice of 1 lemon
big dash celery salt
loads of fresh ground black pepper

Place the trout on a large platter, drizzle with olive oil and sprinkle with seasoning. Let arrive to room temperature before grilling.

Place all dressing ingredients in a jar with a tight lid, and shake till mixed thoroughly. Toss with the cabbages, celeriac and onion and refrigerate till needed.

Grill the trout skin side down for 4 minutes at high heat (210C, 425F), then on the other side for 4 minutes. Remove skin.

To serve, mound the slaw on a plate and place the serving of fish on top. A nice side of mashed potato is very good with this dish.

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You'll LOVE this slaw. If you make it right before eating, it will be quite crisp. If you refrigerate it for awhile, dressed, before eating, the fibers wilt a bit and produce more the texture of an American cole slaw. Pure nutrition, really crunchy, and beautiful to look at with the red, green and white.

Right, I'm off to begin packing. Who cares what I take? Red Gate Farm is a place where NO ONE will care what I look like (as if anyone does here, either, to be honest!) for at least six weeks. The pile of books to take is much more compelling...

Anyone for Pimms?

Well, the time is approaching to say goodbye to our London life for the summer. I walked Avery this morning up the street to meet a friend, chatting cheerfully all the way about getting to the pool in Connecticut, seeing our old friends, babies grown suddenly into little people, settling into the vacation routine. But once I'd left her and come back on my own, I could only think of all the things I will miss about London!

Part of this feeling is my love for our neighborhood, and how we've settled in like a stone in its setting. On my walk home I passed the house where a little group of elderly people sit on hard chairs in the front window, playing classical music on a whole variety of instruments, some sort of tiny chamber orchestra, the sounds spilling out the open window onto the pavement. Then I passed the garden where a lady grows rhubarb, squashes and tomatoes, with her children's toy farm animals carefully positioned among the plants! There is my beloved friend Annie's little vintage car, which makes me think of her and how we'll all miss each other over the summer months, no more sharing rides to acting class and the stable. Up to Chez Kristoff to get a latte for John and a gorgeous runny St Marcellin cheese for me, to say hello to my friend Alan behind the counter, generous as always, giving me a block of chocolate from the fridge case, saying, "Try this, it's the best ever, and how is French ham in your sandwich instead of salt beef? The beef is gone..."

And the BBC! There is nothing like its presenters and their cheerful, analytic commentary of Wimbledon! Even the zany Americans gain some stature and seriousness sitting next to their British colleagues, over a pitcher of what is probably iced tea, but I'd rather think is Pimms! And I don't even like Pimms, but it's English summertime in a glass, so I have a slight soft spot in my heart for it.

So hard to believe there are only five more days to pick Avery up at school. I have a sinking feeling that next year I may not be so very welcome at the school gates, that she might want to bring herself home from school, or even stay after to do whatever near-teenagers want to do. Next week will bring the crazy energy of the Lost Property Sale, with girls racing in on Preview day for the last chance to retrieve items they seemed perfectly willing to live without for months but NOW, the idea that some other girl might buy them the next day and wear them to school! Horrors! I have spent more hours than I can tell you, writing emails to the Form Teachers and Sports and Drama and Music teachers, wailing plaintively, "Please tell your girls to come and collect their textbooks/pencil cases/violins/tennis rackets before they are all sent to some deserving charity." And further hours on the telephone frantically trying to snag all the best mothers for next year's efforts, to replace the mothers of the girls who are graduating! They are called the "Leavers", which term for some reason cracks me up. It's so... unpoetic, for the English. So cleverly, I have found a place at school that isn't dependent on Avery's being willing to put up with me, next year.

I'll miss my beloved rocket, all summer being forced, if I just can't live without it, to buy bags of enormous leaves of something labelled "arugula," which I know purports to be the same thing, but it ISN'T. It's tough and huge, not the delicate little peppery leaves I'm so addicted to here. And I'll miss running around the corner to The Everything Store, so named because aside from fabric dye and a digital thermometer, the store has EVERYTHING. Basmati rice, Danish salami, French cheese, laundry pellets, baking powder, Orangina, birthday cards, toothpaste. Everything! And I've graduated, over the past week or so, from being treated with scrupulous respect by the lovely Pakistani family who own it, to being called "darling girl." That's when you know you've bought a LOT of everything. Or they're just nice people.

So we're slowly accumulating the piles of things to take away with us: photographs to frame and place about the Connecticut house (mostly of my niece Jane, if truth be told), boxes of Maldon salt without which I cannot cook, torn-out recipes that I'm absolutely sure I'll try once I have loads of time on my hands (but it never feels that way, once I'm there). Novels and cookbooks and biographies that have piled up on my desk and are now destined for summer reading, an English chequebook in case I've forgotten to pay some essential bill and find out only when I'm across the ocean. The vet's number, our neighborhood cat lady's number, and the cleaning lady's number, all gathered together in case something happens to a cat (heaven forfend).

So we're nearly ready. One more acting class and day with the horses for Avery, a lovely barbecue to attend at Annie's house, a dinner party to give, a picnic for the last day of school, and "The Importance of Being Earnest" to see at the Regent's Park outdoor theatre! It's the very favorite play for all of us, and I simply can't wait. One last English celebration, under the stars and wavering plane tree branches, before we're off. And one more fantastic English recipe for you before we go! This might not be the most obviously summery dish, but it is falling-off-the-bone delectable, and it cooks itself. And it makes use of that underrated cut of lamb: the shoulder, who often hangs its head before its racier and much more expensive counterparts like the rack, the chop and the leg. I've changed the recipe slightly to suit our tastes, but I wanted you to know that the version by Tom Aikens at last week's Taste of London was my inspiration. Avery is not keen on balsamic vinegar, so I've substituted chicken stock. I had no French Roscoff onions (do you?!), so I've substituted plain old white onions. And I love red lentils, so they've made a surprise appearance. You'll love it.

Tom Aikens' Eight-Hour Braised Lamb Shoulder with Lentils and Garlic
(serves 4 with lots of leftovers)

1 shoulder of lamb, room temperature
2 heads of garlic, cloves separated and peeled
2 white onions, quartered
2 tsps dried thyme or about one bunch fresh, leaves separated
3 tbsps olive oil
1 cup red lentils
1 cup chicken stock

Set your oven to 180C, 350F. Place the shoulder of lamb in a large, heavy pot with a good heavy lid, and surround it with the garlic cloves and onion. Sprinkle with the thyme, drizzle with the olive oil, and salt and pepper it well. Place it in the oven and roast for 20 minutes. The onions will have colored and the lamb, too. Turn the heat down to 110C, 220F and cook for 90 minutes. Then remove the lamb to your eventual serving platter, and remove the onions and garlic to a bowl. Pour the lentils into the pot, place the lamb over them and pour over the chicken stock. Cover the pot and cook for another 4 1/2 hours.

Remove the lid, turn the oven up to 150C, 300F and cook for a further hour. Remove lamb to your serving platter, pour off the cooking juices as best you can into a gravy separator and discard the fat on the surface. Scoop out the lentils into a bowl and then put the onions and garlic that you've set aside back into the pot. Put them over a medium heat on the stovetop and stir until nice and sticky, about 15 minutes.

The lamb will fall off the bone with the use of spoons, which is lovely. Serve with the lentils, onions and maybe a side of mashed potato.

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This dish would be absolutely gorgeous, if you're a fruit-and-meat person, with apples instead of lentils. In that case, the balsamic vinegar is probably a must. Give it a try.

Right, must produce some lunch for us and then get back to... packing. Departure beckons.

when the child's away...

Well, Monday is here again and last night saw us at Paddington Station picking up Avery from her weekend in Cornwall: how odd to have a child old enough to go somewhere with other people, to a place we've never ourselves been. We missed her pathetically, wondering all the time where she was and what she was doing. Being my child, much of her very picturesque storytelling involved the food she ate (lamb cooked to perfection, many desserts involving an ingredient I'd never even heard of, called tamarillo), the best ice cream on the face of the earth, mint fudge that she brought back in a hot little bundle providing the sorts of clear fingerprints our burglary coppers could only dream of. And her little orange spotted silk scarf, a recent present from me for no good reason, tied up around a perfect treasure trove of things found at the sea: pottery fragments, little shells and stones with one tiny hole in them, begging for a leather thong or ribbon around the neck. Sea glass, little tantalizing glimpses of the sea. What fun she had. And how we missed her. But she's back. "The AIR, you guys, you would never believe it." I think we're Cornwall-bound pretty soon.

After, that is, our approaching summer at "home." It's funny, now we've approached the summer return three times, it's beginning to take on a pattern. First is patent disbelief that such a place exists: as Avery mocks my saying each summer, "the green of the grass, the red of the barn, the white of the fence, the blue of the sky," but it's all ridiculously true. A picture-postcard snapshot of America, and yet impossibly true. Tennis courts, children on bicycles stirring up the dust on our unpaved country road, bumblebees in the hydrangea tree that every single summer seems to flower too late and I say to anyone who will listen, "Shouldn't that tree have bloomed by now?"

And crayfish in the pond, whose elusive and slightly creepy presence my neighbor Anne assures me means our water is really clean. "Crayfish won't live where the water isn't pristine," she says, which relieves Avery who nevertheless forestalls my parochial fervor with, "Do NOT ask me to drink that water, Mommy!" The tiger lilies will be stretching their random orange blossoms toward the house and road from their little bed in front of the house when we arrive, and the grass will show where it needs seeding, the wall will have lost a few more stones and a few days will pass before we implore Rollie the Farmer from up the road to see if he Knows Someone who might possibly repair the wall. So far this conversation has taken place for about six years running, to very little action.

We'll check to see if the 1967 Land Rover (just a bit younger than me and in far better nick than I am) runs at first shot, and if the VW runs at all. The neighbors will drift by to say hello and remark on how tall Avery has become (she really has), I'll run to the farm stand for tomatoes, sweet corn, peaches, and the black plums that Avery begins to eat right in the car, dripping juice all over the seats, only to swipe it up with a towel wet from the swimming pool.

Ah, so, you can see I've progressed right from the first stage of "we'll never be THERE, THERE doesn't really exist," to imagining all the precious bits of being THERE.

Right now, though, we've got the last straggling bits of the school year to get through (that pesky permission slip for next spring's trip to Pompeii, oops, nearly missed that deadline), a trip to the vet for poor itchy Wimsey, silver polish to buy so my dear cleaning lady can while away the boring day once a week when she's here seeing to our bits and pieces. Several days at Lost Property to fill in for volunteers who can't make it - today saw me dealing with no fewer than 60-ish items from irresponsible girls who strewed everything from tennis racquets (seven) to PE trousers (six pairs) to science block eyewear, lacrosse mouthguards (ick), swimming towels and German homework. Last week was the much-vaunted second-hand PE kit sale and a massive success it was! My dear friend Annie was in charge, and her combination of bright-eyed enthusiasm and subtle sales pitch ("these leggings are really nice under the games skirt on those cold days") was perfect: everything sold out that first day, while I made the rounds at the New Girls' Tea, looking for new volunteers for our esteemed Lost Property.

A singularly awful writing class on Wednesday: fully deserved derision for an old piece I'd submitted for the pure and simple reason that I have not produced anything new for at least two months. But you know what? As dismal as I may find my writing skills (I use that last term loosely) these days, I find they were even worse two years ago. Better in the end not to submit anything at all than to be in the unenviable position of defending, or even not, a piece I know to be s**te. What on earth to do to kickstart my creative impulses, put pen to paper, tap those computer keys?

My parents have successfully celebrated, at my sister's able hands, their 50th wedding anniversary, Back Home in Indiana, and a mighty celebration it was. Special photo albums, cake, flowers, all the right guests. My mother sounded high as a kite on the phone, with my dad sounding capably pleased, taking it all in his stride. We'll redouble our efforts with my mother's birthday in August, to encompass the big milestone. Happy Anniversary, you two!

John and I spent the weekend without Avery mostly with him handling insurance details for our burglary, renting a car for the duration until we leave for the summer, with my handling Avery's school details, doctor, dentist and orthodontist, emergency contact lists, all the detritus that piles up on a desk when I'm not looking! And tennis, which I called what we play, until I began watching... Wimbledon today. Oh my! It's like cooking dinner and then watching the Food Channel. As if!

Speaking of the Food Channel, we threw all our recent diet-ish restrictions (no bread, potatoes, butter) aside on Sunday and went for a lunch to end all lunches, inspired by having seen the chef at Taste of London on Friday. The Blueprint Cafe, the domain of one of my favorite celebrity cooks, Jeremy Lee, is a definite destination south of the river. His food, as he said himself in his cooking demonstration at Taste, is one where "the food looks as if it just... landed on the plate, not these little bits placed here and there." Just so! His dish at the demo was chicken fillets marinated in a GREEN paste made of parsley, thyme, rosemary, garlic, lemon, pepper and loads of mustard, in the blender, then baked. Lovely, and his banter was too, too funny. "Have you lost weight, Jeremy?" the commentator asked, and Jeremy answered without skipping a beat, "Why have a six-pack when you can have the whole keg, I always say!"

So I knew we wanted to go to his restaurant, and off we went, with no Avery to ferry to and from the stable (sob). And what a lunch. Grilled pork liver on skewers with bacon, sage and butter, which we both greedily had although we could have shared. Then John had a HUGE plateful of sweetbreads with black butter and lentils, and I had a whole little grilled mackerel (bone heaven, I'm afraid, but lovely) with a salad of cucumbers with dill and mustard. Everything swimming, rather, in butter and oil and loads of salt, which is, sadly, how I love to eat when I'm indulging myself. The side dish of steamed spinach was a revelation: a hint of garlic, and, the very knowledgeable waiter said in an aside, nutmeg. LOVELY. The table came equipped with a pair of tiny binoculars so we could spy on the boats going by just outside the window.

Why is it that conversation is so much more interesting, one makes so much more effort to be GOOD company, when one is out, eating food cooked by other people? Perhaps it's because one's husband dresses up in a specially swanky shirt, looks gorgeous, is full of funny anecdotes and I had to raise my game. In any case, we felt quite, quite swell and luxurious and happy to be out together. Too much home cooking can make Jill quite a dull girl.

That being said, I can report that the marinated halibut with wasabi and ginger that I described to you last time is quite sublime at home, and sprinkled with a little chopped chillies and lemon grass, and served with a dollop of creme fraiche and a slice of good sourdough bread, is a very good dinner for people who've indulged in a buttery lunch. And that, my friends, will count as a recipe for now, because... it's bedtime, and the vet beckons tomorrow. I've got to get my game face on.

what to do tomorrow?

I'm catching you just in time to tell you to hotfoot it to the Taste of London tomorrow, because I promise you it will be one of the most enjoyable afternoons you can spend in London, especially if the weather is decent, which I believe it is meant to be. Of course, I must be honest and confess that you won't be able to have quite as much fun as I did, because my friend Charlie was available only to me, yesterday, and his banter, wit and general English gentlemanly charm added that indefinable something to the day. But more on that later. Right now, you just need to book your ticket for the last day, Sunday. Let me tell you why.

My God, we ate. As in years past when I have gone to this event, I've felt completely exhilarated by the sheer variety and virtuosity of the cheffiest food you can imagine. Here's the concept: you buy your ticket just to get you in, and then you spend more money on little tickets called "crowns," which enable you to buy little tiny dishes (usually not more than three or four bites, which means you can share, but not with Charlie) from THE top restaurants in London. So you get a little "taste" of a dish that might set you back 30 pounds at the restaurant, and would probably be a lot more than you wanted to eat, for just about 3 pounds or so.

Charlie and I tucked into many, many dishes, sharing nearly all of them, which was quite perfect, because it doubles the different bits and pieces you can enjoy. I had, all to myself because it was tiny, dressed crab with toast at Launceston Place, home of the adorable young chef Tristan Welch, then it was onto completely delightful and inventive sushi rolls - would you believe FOIE GRAS and sweet soy - from Dinings. Then we returned to my favorite of last year's festival, the T&T sushi roll, truffle and tuna, from Sumosan, as good as I remembered. Fusion food can be brilliant when it's not tormented or random, and somehow truffle and sushi work perfectly together, the slimmest, most delicate of seaweed completing the perfection.

Then we enjoyed a dish from Nahm (the first Thai restaurant in Europe to earn a Michelin star, in case you care) , and while I cannot remember the name of the dish, it was white crab with citrus, peanuts, shredded coconut and ginger in a betel leaf, very inventive and fresh. At Tom's Kitchen, we shared an impossibly creamy and luxurious chicken parfait with grape chutney and brioche, Charlie had Daylesford Organic seven-hour braised shoulder of lamb with mash and caramelized red onions. Finally, last treat was at Le Pont de la Tour, seared Scottish salmon with fennel salad and grapefruit juice. Everything (and there were hundreds more tastes we left behind) such a pleasure.

Here's Charlie in a nut (and I use that term precisely!) shell. As we were leaving, we bought a couple of jute bags from a nice Taste employee at the gate. As we exchanged bags for money, she asked if we'd had a nice time. Yes, very much so, we assured her. But, Charlie said, "The only disappointment was that we did not see more celebrity chefs. That's always fun." "Oh, there've been loads of them here, though," she said earnestly, definitely wanting to please. "I saw Richard Corrigan today in the BA VIP tent, and of course Hugh Fearnley-Whittingsall has been demonstrating." Charlie didn't skip a beat. "How about that hot new television chef, Kristen Frederickson? Have you seen her?" "Oh, yes, indeed, she was here yesterday!" the lady enthused, grinning from ear to ear. Oh dear! Charlie, Charlie. We chortled over that all the way to the tube station.

Right, before I close, I'll tell you what to do with the rest of your day after you've feasted at Taste. Go straight to Trafalgar Square and see the BP Portrait Award show at the National Gallery. The image I've included here is the first prize winner. It's a stunning show of perhaps 100 portraits, chosen from the 1900 submissions the museum received. Some are rather abstract, some quite photographic in their realism, but all are interesting. And it's culture for you, isn't it? I went with my friend Jo last week, still in the throes of suffering over the burglary here, and it was a soothing balm to the soul, to be in the presence of so much artistic effort and loveliness.

And while you're there, check out the exhibition called "Fabiola." If you're anything like me, sheer whimsey and personal eccentricity is cheering, and wait till you see this installation. Apparently in the 5th century there was a saint called Fabiola, the patron saint of abused women, and a 19th century portrait of her became iconic: THE representation of this esteemed lady. So iconic, in fact, that a sort of cult of copying the portrait grew up all over Europe. And now, an artist has gathered over 300 of these copies and brought them all together for this show. Two rooms FILLED floor to ceiling with copies of the same portrait. Some in oil on canvas or board, some pastel, some embroidered, if you can imagine it, and some in glass. Plus a case full of cameos and ceramic boxes, and even a hat pin: all bearing the enigmatic profile of... Fabiola. Fabulous.

More soon on foodie things, because I brought home a lovely thing from Taste in the form of cured halibut. Charlie and I succumbed to a sample that was cured in wasabi and ginger, sort of like the concept of salmon cured with salt and dill. So refreshing and light! So I'll make a sort of salad of it tonight and let you know. And you can tell me how much you loved Taste. Go, there's JUST time.