As of tomorrow, that is how long my beloved and I have been married.
I keep trying to picture myself 20 years ago, with no house (much less two, on two different continents), no PhD (however redundant these days), no child — how is that possible?
As if to punctuate this great milestone, yesterday found us all in SoHo to go shopping. SoHo, the place of our first New York home in 1993, where we could stand on our “balcony” (this is what we called our fire escape) and look to the north at the Chrysler Building and to the south at the Woolworth Building. Here we planted our adult lives, made our first New York friends, bought our first important art. And by important I mean…
I had art students. I was the youngest professor at Hunter College and my God, how I LOVED my job. Art students! Those who made art with their hot little hands and those who were training to study it all, and what fun we had. At the end of every semester, I invited my students home to my loft on Broadway to drink wine, eat shrimp butter…
Oh, a quiet day today, making turkey soup, taking a walk with Anne and little Kate across the road, watching Kate choose every dirty snowy puddle she could find. “I can’t believe it was snowy here yesterday, and today, green everywhere,” Anne marvelled. We could hear the rain thundering down all night.
The stormy night suited my mood of reluctant goodbyes to my family: my mother, father and brother: after two days of reminiscing, giggling over silly shared jokes, family-familiar quotations from movies, “But, Harlot, Scunny!” “I saw it in the window and couldn’t resist it,” discussions of old high school friends (“I swear he had a crush on you but your nose was always in a book!”), analysis of the plots (truly) of “Days of Our Lives,” watching the little girls and Avery share jokes with my mother, my brother playing a toy guitar for them all, my dad watching over all. He was a tremendous help in the kitchen on Christmas Day, quietly washing dishes, supervising Jane’s help with my cheesy spinach, listening to all the gossip.
I find if very sad that family, and family time in our lives, is such a rarity. I spent the first 18 years of my life simply cocooned with my family, close and extended, and that life provided a sense of warmth and acceptance that I feel again whenever I am with my mother and father. Why must it be for two days at a time twice a year? It is not enough time, ridiculously not enough, to make them realize what they mean to me. But it’s what we have. Perhaps this year they can make it to London, and we can have the fun of showing them our house, Avery’s school, our little world. Until then, we’ve had our Christmas.
And it was controlled INSANITY! Simply loads of packages for everyone to open, especially as I feel compelled to wrap books separately, to be appreciated on their own, each one, and of course I give mostly books! A pull-tab “Miffy” for baby Molly, which was grabbed by five-year-old Jane immediately. My sister broke in.
“No, no, Jane, don’t break that. Let Molly break it for herself.”
There were the remote-controlled helicopter races between John and Joel — John’s gift of the year to everyone he loves, and no matter my skepticism, everyone in fact loved it! Hovering near our heads, threatening to go into the dishwasher, to cut off my knees, to ascend into the double-height kitchen ceiling where no one could reach it! Engine-obsessed Jane was in heaven.
Avery retreated now and then with a favorite Sherlock Holmes book and a throw, to a remote corner, but was soon followed by Jane, and then by everyone else who wanted to be with Avery and Jane! Perhaps the most peaceful moment of the entire day: with Joel in the barn, looking up at the repair braces we’ve been paying for and receiving email photographs of all autumn. The whole project looks massively official and supportive and quite as if the Big Red Barn might well stand up for another 200 years. Joel and I took several deep breaths in the darkness of the barn and then plunged again into Kitchen Christmas Central, to manage the chaos.
Chief among whose elements was… the Raw Turkey! Slow-cooked was the goal. How long it would have had to cook, at 250 degrees F, I do not know, in order to be ready for dinner, but considerably, painfully longer than the 5 hours allotted to it. Joel, who is my ace carver, approached with carving knife. “Kristen, look at these juices…” Running red and pink. Awful. Panic. “Can we all, including the mashed potatoes and spinach, wait for another hour?” “We’ll have to!” So Joel dismembered Mr. Turkey and separated the breasts from the sternum and I turned up the heat (all I was capable of) and we simply waited.
Finally the turkey was deemed edible, the mashed potatoes had survived, the very rosemary-y gravy whisked up with cream, the stuffing out of the oven and the apple gone in. We gathered around the table. Feasting ensued, and by the time we got to the pies with whipped cream, everyone was feeling slightly mad with overeating and festivity. “Don’t lick the reindeer!” I had to warn dear Jane, who saw the ceramic centerpiece covered with stray whipped cream. At this, my mother choked into her pecan pie, she who taught us all to love phrases that we feel certain have never been uttered before. “Don’t lick the reindeer!” Classic.
So the holiday has come and gone again. Today we were tired. We took a walk up the meadow to John’s Dad’s Bench, sat to recover our breath, to remember our time with him two years ago, to be grateful, regretful, all at the same time.
And tomorrow: into New York for shopping and the Nutcracker! That’s life for you, isn’t it? Just when I think I will take a moment to wallow in nostalgia for my childhood, in my love for my too-far-away family, tomorrow appears with its own delights. A lesson, I’m sure, to be learned in the New Year…
“Whirlwind” doesn’t approach a description of the last few days here in Connecticut. Our arrival was like all arrivals: late, irritating, slowed by traffic, a bit of anxiety whetted by having Avery ill with a cold, asleep on the backseat of the car from Newark… The car filled to the gills with luggage containing every precious Christmas present I could find in London for our nearest and dearest, my mind filled with holiday prep of a magnitude I could hardly imagine, all to be accomplished in three short days.
But as always, we pulled up to the serenity of Red Gate Farm — newly painted a bright, shining white! — and crunched through the snow, staggering under our suitcases and jetlag, pushed open the front door, swollen with age. And into… perfection. Warmth because our neighbors turned on the heat, a refrigerator full of food because our neighbors thought we might arrive late and need a roasted chicken, a dozen eggs, butter, milk. And other treasures! A newly published book written by our Thanksgiving tenants, and a bag of pecans harvested from their Oklahoma summer home!
Electric blankets switched on, a Scotch poured, Avery folded into her cozy tiny bed under the eaves, in that smallest of all possible bedrooms.
Tuesday I awoke at my usual first-day hour of 7 a.m. and it was a good thing, because I never stopped moving the entire day! A massive grocery shop, brisket in Guinness and tomatoes and garlic put simmering on the stove for dinner, presents unpacked, a lightning trip to the shopping center for wrapping paper in hundreds of yards, tape, ribbons, bows. A rush to get John’s mom’s room ready and welcoming: that barn-red comforter, green glass bedside lamp glowing over the photograph of John’s dad, smiling at us from his easy chair, clean towels and the best Hello! magazines I could bring from London, fresh shampoo! And off to the airport to get her.
And as Avery and I sat at the first red light on the way, CRASH! Our heads and torsos swung back and forth like those crash dummies. “What the…?” Rear-ended, by a hapless young girl from San Francisco, driving her father’s mammoth 4x4, “I thought the light was green!” No time to call the police, just a quick exchange of phone numbers and my forestalling her “I’m SO SORRY! I’m SO SORRY!” with “Just give me your number, I have to get to the airport!” The taillight a goner, the bumper not much better, but driveable. And to White Plains we went.
Christmas isn’t Christmas until I’ve put my arms around John’s mom. An overwhelming sense of gratitude at seeing her, all in one piece, so grateful to have her safe and sound under my wing for the foreseeable future. I know she’ll leave again, but for right now, she’s safe with me.
Home to decorate the two trees, left here by Farmer Rollie in the woodshed: one in the front parlor bearing every antique glass ball and knitted doll and ceramic riding boot (thanks to my darling Christmassy mother!) that we could find in the cupboard under a bookshelf that serves as my Christmas attic. One of the leather armchairs didn’t mind being moved for the duration, to make room for the tree. And another tree in the kitchen, decorated only with white lights and the silver bells John’s mom gives us each year, engraved with something significant from the past twelve months. This year: “Hello Minnow”, for our new little grey Cinquecento!
The brisket! Heaven.
Classic Winter Brisket
3 tbsps olive oil
1 flat-cut brisket
5 cloves garlic, minced
1 white onion, sliced thin
1 bottle Guinness
2 cups chicken stock
2 large cans Italian plum tomatoes
good sprinkle dried thyme
pinch sea salt
In a very large heavy pot, heat the olive oil and sear the brisket on both sides. Then add the garlic and onions and stir until slightly cooked. Add everything else and cook until the sauce comes to a high simmer, then turn heat down to maintain a low simmer for at least three hours. After that, the cooking may be stopped at any time and restarted at any time, simply reheating when you’re ready to eat.
Serve with noodles and something crunchy like slaw. Perfect for a cold night.
Tomorrow I shall tell you in proper detail about what you do with the leftover brisket cooking juices, but for right now, one word: MINESTRONE.
Yesterday I did nothing in the morning but wrap presents, watch John’s mom wrap presents, discuss wrapping presents with Avery and John! Secrets abound: “Avery, your present isn’t really a THING at all…” and all the elaborate preparations for John’s mom’s present which isn’t a THING either… much whispering, shouts of “Don’t come in here!” “Can’t I come through to get to the bathroom? I really want to brush my teeth…” “NO!” And we concocted the traditional Christmas oyster stew, which really must rest for at least a day before serving. Fresh-shucked Maryland oysters, minced celery, onions and garlic, cream and Tabasco: you can’t go wrong.
Then in the afternoon we headed off to my sister Jill’s for the true family reunion! The delight of seeing my entire family in one room! My dad’s twinkling eyes, my mother’s crinkly, delighted smile, my brother’s shy hug. And Jill, Joel, Jane and Molly! We took a tour to see their fabulous entryway-bathroom renovation, the house truly perfect now. Heated floors! Bathroom drawers with their names burned into them! What luxury and style. Their house simply bubbles with welcome and comfort, as do they. We loaded the car with all the parcels they’ve been graciously taking in from the postman for us, in the weeks running up to Christmas. A shocking pile!
Jill set up a cookie-decorating station for the girls, and of course Jane discovered that if you put a great deal of glitter on a cookie WITHOUT icing it first… “Uh oh!” John and Joel tried in vain to resurrect our taillight… I fear that’s going to be a long, unpleasant story. “Did your neck or back hurt at all, Kristen?” someone asked, and I had to admit, “Not until I talked to the insurance agent.”
Finally I read Jane her naptime story and it was time to head home, trying to arrive before dark fell, with our plundered lights. Minestrone, more wrapping, pretending as always that there is no jetlag.
And tonight, the lighting of candles in the hydrangea tree, a fairytale moment. And not a breath of breeze, so we skipped the yearly “will they or won’t they” with the candles. Then the traditional Christmas Eve with Anne, David, Connie, Alice and now baby Katie from across the road. The child can say “bubble” and “baby” and “Avery”, renewing her love affair with my teenager, her boon companion of the trampoline over the summer. We talked, as usual, all over each other, enjoying little canapes of smoked dilled salmon on blinis with creme fraiche, watching Katie run from “mama” to “dada”, narrating her progress as she went, staring into the fire and saying dreamily, “Pretty, pretty…” Oyster stew, gingerbread men and brownies made by John’s mom, the delights of a small child up far past her bedtime who doesn’t seem to mind, goodbyes on the snowy porch. Connie said, “It’s such a joy to see this house so festive and happy, when it was dark and neglected for so long. I just wish you could be here always.” So do we, Connie. Sometimes!
When I am in London I dream of the peace of this place. Candles always flickering, family always here, friends we can never see enough of, people to cook with, gossip with, surrounded by books and old, shabby, favorite furniture and art from the 20 years of our marriage. Of course London life bubbles in its own way, revved up like a super-caffeinated drink sometimes, all fizzy, glittery and exciting. But when I take a late-night walk here, down the unpaved old road, and look back to see our little white house, perched in the moonlight, Christmas tree lights winking from inside, a blanket of stars overhead, family inside safe and sound, I think, “If only…”
The truth is, for me at least, the beauty of life is in the contrasts. The quiet of Red Gate Farm finds its charm in my knowing I’ll be back in the bustle of London very soon, and the frantic pace of London is lovely because I know I can always touch quietude here. I know how lucky I am.
Merry Christmas to you all, friends and family alike. Have a wonderful one.
Monday I awoke with a blinding headache. I’m not prone to headaches. I tried everything: John squeezing the back of my neck till my eyesight went blue, a couple of ibuprofens, finally the ultimate: two fizzy tablets of Tylenol with codeine, in a glass of water. I first discovered this sovereign remedy when we were in Moscow many years ago, minutes away from a private tour of the Kremlin, when POWEE! One of those cartoon headaches, where lightning bolts issue from the head of the Actual Sufferer. A savvy fellow traveler offered me the fizzy solution and ZAP — another cartoon moment. Lightning bolts evaporate. But not on Monday.
The Royal Albert Hall and its Annual Choral Society Christmas Concert waits for no man, however suffering, so off we went after an early supper. And for the first half I was golden. Forgot the headache in favor of “Once in Royal David’s City” with the full soprano descant, AND the Royal Grenadier Trumpeters in those fluffy furry black hats! Their trumpets came complete with the royal seal on little flags which they draped ceremoniously over the heads of the choir below when they played.
I’m sorry, American identity mine: when you’re in the RAH, full of holiday greenery, the plummy tones of the conductor telling very tame and hilarious jokes (“When I was a little boy, I visited a family who said a prayer before every meal. My family didn’t do so, because my mother was a very good cook”), and those trumpets blare at the final chorus of “Hark, the Herald Angels Sing”… you just want to be English! At least I do. And there’s something about a National Anthem that celebrates not just the country but its leader — “God Save the Queen” — that is heartwarming. Bless her! Why couldn’t we Americans sing “God Bless the President”? I’m sure we could learn. It’s very unifying.
And in the row above us was… drumroll… “Strictly Come Dancing” finalist Chris Hollins! What could be better!
And so all was well until… I suddenly became most rashly unwell, all of a moment, and had to dash out of the hall. Twice. By the second time I was well and truly ready for the end of the concert, so last verse, no encore, bob’s your uncle and we were home. Me under Avery’s puzzled scrutiny, huddling under a duvet with several hundred hot water bottles and John hovering over me. Nothing to be done.
Monday night and Tuesday were a blur. Wednesday I staggered above the surface of misery to discover that aside from fatigue, I felt quite well. That old chestnut, the 24-hour bug. “Poor Mommy,” Avery said, brushing my brow in relief.
Until Thursday morning when John said, “I have the worst headache.” Oh no.
And then that evening Avery slunk into our bedroom at precisely bedtime (as creatures like this will do, in captivity). “I’ve broken another bracket on my braces. I think it needs to be fixed tomorrow.”
Sigh. “Tomorrow” already involved a visit to school to drop off the proceeds of Monday’s Lost Property sale, a stint at the LP room itself, a trip to the post office, and, as it turned out, a horse show.
I rose from my fainting couch to accomplish all these things (broken braces brackets are really no big deal, and Avery’s ortho immediately said at the same time I did, “We must stop meeting like this; people will begin to talk”). From there a race to get a cab to Hammersmith and to take John’s place at Olympia for the Annual Horse Show, with Avery’s friend Lillie and her father, the MOST urbane, gentle, protective, elegant man I have ever met. He wore an ascot. He was the dream escort, and the two girls in complete heaven. I had prepared myself with an antihistamine, and for once did not sneeze my head off.
Four hours, one gourmet dinner, a celebrity bump-into for the girls with the Duchess of Cornwall (Camilla, to the uninitiated! “honestly, we just accidentally walked into her!” they claimed), a very nice evening of conversation and a walk home in the snow later, it was finally bedtime. Poor John was down for the count.
So this morning came that dreaded sound in my life: the ALARM CLOCK. I am the original night owl. Any one need advice, recipes, a reading list, flight schedules at midnight? I’m your man. But patient conversation at 7 a.m.? Not so much. After supplying apple tart, salami and apple juice, the banter went like this:
“Have you brushed your teeth? And your hair could use something…”
“Mommy, I have this down to a schedule. You don’t need to worry.”
“But today you need to pack for the party and sleepover after school.”
“I KNOW [elaborate patience]. Trust me!”
(five minutes later)
“Did you pack your toothbrush and toothpaste? And don’t go on Facebook until you’ve packed your bag. Did you REALLY brush your hair? It looks…”
Believe me, I’d hate me too if I were her. She maintained an elegant silence. Her lovely friend Emily could not arrive soon enough to allow her to escape from me and into the frigid snowy air, full of gossip and comparison of afternoon social plans. Double sigh.
Can I just ask? HOW ON EARTH do people with more than one child, a job, and no second parent ever survive a week when they get sick? This week I would have had to do all John did for us, plus all I did for us, plus earn a living, AND vomit. I live in complete awe and amazement at everyone who does what I do without any of the support I have.
Of course, these people are probably sensible enough not to be neurotic wrecks over mere inconsequentials, as I manage to be. For example. This morning I knew very well that Avery was going straight from school, at noon, to a birthday party with a school friend, including a movie at a cinema, on a public bus, and spending the night. But somehow, in the fog of weeklong illness and holiday must-cheer, I never ascertained some salient details. Imagine the police, if Avery didn’t turn up.
“So, Kristen [we’d be on a first-name basis], who are these parents your daughter was going to?”
No idea. Avery says they’re both doctors.
“And the birthday girl, is she a close friend?”
Couldn’t pick her out of a lineup, although I hear she is REALLY good at putting eye makeup on other girls at lunchtime.
“Where do they live?”
Well, I could tell you the address on the class list, but I later found out through assiduous (if belated) telephoning that this address is outdated by 6 months.
“Did you send your daughter with a phone, spending money or identification?”
At this point, I would simply give up and start signing adoption forms. How could I be so careless? I’ll tell you how. Because this year of Avery’s life seems to be all about how to Hold On and Let Go. Pay Attention But Don’t Interfere. Be Supportive But Not Intrusive. And I just don’t know how to go halfway. I’m very good at handling it ALL. And apparently, if today’s any example, I’m spectacularly talented at doing nothing. But the whole gradual letting-go of control? Not so much.
I finally broke down and called a friend whose daughter was going to the same party. “At the risk of sounding both a nutter and really irresponsible…” I began… when the other mother broke in. “You mean where on earth are they, and who are they with? I don’t know either.”
So John and I survived a quiet evening recuperating, with some nice simple sauteed lemon sole. He’s asleep and I’m definitely NOT worrying about Avery, who has no phone or visible means of support. She has a strong scream.
And I have my mantel full of Christmas cards. Isn’t it funny. Snail mail is nearly dead in our lives. I rarely use a stamp in normal life. I have one friend without a mobile phone or email and I do ring her at home and I write to her. But real letters? Never anymore. Until Christmas. Now the rug inside the letterbox is full of lovely white square envelopes with foreign stamps, and my heart leaps.
So even if I can’t keep down a meal on a given Monday evening, or keep track of my daughter on a given Friday night, I can keep friendships of a lifetime, marching in their green, gold and red, above my flickering fireplace. And for that moment, as I look upon them, life is safe, and good.
One a.m. after a night at the theatre and I’m perched up in bed over a plate of luscious salt beef, a dollop of mustard and a half a pickle… can you tell I passed by one of my favorite little shops on the way home from Leicester Square this evening? I am very lucky that my greedy tabby Hermione who normally snatches anything and everything off my plate has decided that Jewish foods are not to her liking, so my snack is safe as I type.
Is it January yet? I adore this time of year, as you know, and I’m certainly not complaining. But there’s no doubt that the hands of the clock start spinning around, layer after layer of party, concert, dinner, celebration of every kind piles one after another, and before you know it, you’ve scheduled three things in a row at night with a school-age child who’s completely exhausted by tonight, a lovely crisp Friday.
Wednesday began cold and fair with my little writing class meeting here for croissants, a slight dissection of my “Thanksgiving chapter,” and a long discussion of characterization and how to get it. It was a cool exercise: call to mind a real person you know, then list every quality about that person you can think of (or imagine, if you chose). We spent ten long, silent minutes at it and what we ended up with was fascinating. What happens when you clear your mind and simply LIST things about a person is that patterns begin to emerge, connections between personality traits, significance arises from little habits and preferences. I can see how this sort of exercise could build an entire novel’s worth of characters if only I could be disciplined enough to do it.
Certainly it makes solitary things like grocery shopping or waiting for the bus MUCH more interesting, as every single person you see becomes a potential collection of qualities, likes and dislikes, experiences, hopes and dreams. It was great fun. Exhausting, strangely, I think because it opens the mind, makes everything an ingredient for writing. Is there anything more fascinating than the people one knows? Yes, maybe it’s the people other people know, because all three of us in the little class came up with entirely different sorts of people.
From there to the Christmas concert at school in the evening, with a delightful afternoon of cooking in between, since I was hosting a little party after the concert. Roast ham, gorgeous bresaola, Parma ham, several luscious cheeses brought by Annie, including my hands-down favorite, Mont d’Or, slightly stinky and perfect with plenty of crunchy crackers. Just lovely. A huge salad of tiny tomatoes with cucumber and a great dressing gave some welcome color and texture to the dinner:
Tomato Cucumber Salad
2 pounds baby plum tomatoes
1/2 hydroponic cucumber, seeds removed with a spoon
1 stalk lemon grass, about 6 inches in length
1 tbsp chilli oil
zest and juice of 1/2 lemon
lots of fresh-ground black pepper
1 tsp Dijon mustard
sea salt to taste
Simply halve the tomatoes, dice the cucumber, and shake up everything else in a jar and pour over. Luscious.
The “Service of Lessons and Carols” itself was a paragon of all things Avery’s dear school represents: hard work, the pride of girls in their accomplishments, style AND substance. The concert began with the heart-breaking (to me, for various reasons) “Once in Royal David’s City”, with two beautiful girls, dressed in black, singing the first verse in candlelit darkness, the high vaulted ceiling of the Great Hall soaring overhead. Then, chillingly, the voices of many, many girls in the second verse soared from behind us, and we realized, without turning our heads, that they were singing in the great Marble entryway outside the Hall. In they filed, carrying candles, singing with that combination of innocence and slight awkwardness that makes schoolgirls so irresistibly tear-making, to me.
I was glad, perversely, that Avery had felt she had not practiced enough to take part, and so was sitting beside me where I could put my arm around her. What more does anyone want, at Christmas or any other time, than to have a daughter to hold and appreciate, while beautiful music flows all around.
Impossibly elegant and poised readings, in accents that would put the Royal Family to shame. Girls little and big, singing, reciting, praying.
It was almost a relief to have the solemnity and beauty broken by the crush of parents all leaving at the same time, so many familiar faces now that Avery has been there over a year. Lost Property mothers, familiar faces from the Parents’ Guild, from guests at our dinner parties, Thanksgiving, playdates, shopping trips, birthday parties. So lovely to feel we belong.
Of course, bad mother that I am, I hardly recognized the passing of time at dinner after the concert, and it came as quite a shock to my holiday spirit to have someone, a child, say plaintively, “You know, you guys, it’s a SCHOOL night!” Reluctant departures, cleaning up in a leisurely way and enjoying the decorations…
Thursday found us at the orthodontist for a look at Avery’s first breakage. “You know, I don’t even think we NEED this bracket,” said he airily, whereupon I wanted only to ask, “How much did that bracket cost, anyway? Put it back!” She has been such a star at getting used to these things, it was almost a pleasure to go to the appointment just to hear she was perfectly on track with the whole process.
Home to rush a bit through preparations for a dinner guest from faraway New York, an old, old friend who with his lovely wife used to grace our dinner table three, four times a week when we were all newlyweds. He took one look at Avery and said, “It’s true, you’re a teenager, I just didn’t realize…”
We feasted on Szechuan chicken with red, yellow and orange peppers, and broccoli, roasted peanuts, thick slices of fried ginger and hot chillis. The perfect antidote to too much Christmassy food. I’ve decorated my table with some really borderline glittery tealights: they’re either lovely, or they’re terribly tacky. None of us can decide.
Another late night, with gossip from New York, news of our old brunch haunt Bubby’s having turned 24-hours! Shocking! The times, the times I ran over JFK, Jr.‘s fancy business shoes with Avery’s stroller as we waited in line at Bubby’s… and real estate news (the lingerie store that replaced my art gallery is going strong, also shocking), the crowded school situation. We all felt quite tearily homesick for New York, as one does when chatting about the old days with someone who’s seen many parts of the last 20 years with us, whether in New York, London or Moscow… old friends. Life may change, and old friends with it, but it’s always good to keep the ties.
I must report on “Legally Blonde: the Musical”! But something tells me I’ll never find the time. So all I can say is that it’s a hugely enjoyable evening with passable American accents, all stereotypes cleverly underscoring everything the British already think about us, but, as Avery says, “in a good way!”
Next week, I promise, really WILL be quiet… ish.
At least, that’s what I have in mind. Last week delivered the dramas of orthodonture from hell, “to voiceover or not to voiceover,” capped off with a Friday afternoon at the skating rink closeted with (actually, if only I could have shut her up in a closet) the loudest, most obnoxious mother at the adjacent table… oooh, I could have smothered her with a roll of paper towel. Finally home in the cold rain for a truly lovely weekend appreciating the Christmas tree, a sleepover date from one of Avery’s sweetest friends, and a Sunday nap, in a shaft of gentle late-afternoon sunlight on the sofa. Bliss.
So my hopes are that the drama has been exhausted and we can hope for peace. We’ve been playing tennis doggedly in quite too-cold sprinkling rain, shivering and feeling foolish, but I figure we’ve burned off at least a tablespoon of mayo. I finished the last of the Christmas cards and popped them in the post on my rainy way to school pickup, and we are now contemplating nothing more dramatic than a carol concert at school on Wednesday. Quite, quite peaceful.
But you know me, the most peaceful thing I can think of is cooking, followed by eating and as my favorite cookery writer Laurie Colwin says, the best possible thing which is “talking about cooking while eating with friends.” That will be the story here at home after the carol concert, since my friend Annie and I have decided to bring the two families together for a smorgasbord supper. I must confess that as much as I dote on a nice meat, veg and starch dinner nearly every night, my favorite way of eating is choosing among lots of different flavors, a little of this, a little of that. Could it be my Scandinavian blood coming through? So we’ve divvied up the bits we’ll each bring, and I’m quite excited, responsible as I shall be for “meats and fish.”
Meats… I think a small gammon (ham) roasted with a mixture of minced garlic, Dijon mustard, honey and plum sauce, then sliced really thin. And a turkey breast: they are available here, wonderfully, as small as a large chicken breast in the States, so you’re not making a commitment of holiday proportions. Fish… how about hot smoked roasted salmon, cut in thick slices to serve with a dip of creme fraiche and wasabi paste? The wasabi cuts into the cream and turns it a lovely pale green, a color that seduces you into forgetting how HOT the dip will be!
Then, I will indulge in my latest food obsession, which tends to crop up every night at about midnight when the tennis-playing side of my brain is hushed up by the indulgent side. “Go on, so what if a tablespoon of this spends your entire hour of tennis? Life is short!” This obsession is just about any product from the Findlater company out of Scotland, my favorites so far being a smoked salmon pate (light and rich at the same time, creamy and not too fishy), and a duck pate with just a hint of chopped apricot rimming the dish (a blessing for John who abhors any combination of fruit and meat, so he can avoid the fruit). These pates are sinfully indulgent, perfect either on a bit of toasted baguette or that most apposite of all crackers, the Bath Oliver. Order some, do! And have that midnight snack and think of me.
If you are out and about as we were on Sunday in Marylebone, our old stomping grounds when Avery used to be in school there, I can highly recommend the Natural Kitchen for brunch. Pass up all the overpriced (shockingly so, even for London!) raw ingredients on the ground floor, don’t be tempted to sit right down in the chilly window. Head upstairs and be prepared to wait 15 minutes or so for a table in the bustling, warm, chic and delectably-smelling first-floor dining room.
We were not put off by the fact that everyone there besides us looked incredibly, how shall I put it, rich. Just like people who’ve been out Christmas shopping and to whom the word “recession” applies only to their gumlines. Such great people-watching, and –listening. Avery has a pet peeve: the new ad campaign by Patek Philippe for their watches, with the slogan, “You never actually own a Patek Philippe. You merely look after it for the next generation,” and a photo of an actual father and son, smirking into the camera. At the Natural Kitchen, Avery looked around and said, “Everyone here looks like one of those ads.” She looked down at her own clean but permanently horse-stained jodhpurs and boots and sighed.
But all that wealth around us didn’t stop the Eggs Benedict from being truly sublime, perfectly runny yolks, French ham and a faultless Hollandaise. John’s full English was equally remarkable with Lincolnshire sausages, spicy and tempting. Avery had a ham and Emmenthal croissant that was lovely too.
Sometimes, however, meat, veg and starch is the way to go, and when you’re in that sort of mood, where you want a dinner that requires nothing more challenging than scooping up something simple on a fork, you cannot do any better than:
Chicken Pojarski with Caramelized Carrots and Rice
splash of olive oil
5 cloves garlic, minced
1 shallot, minced
1 tbsp paprika (sounds a lot, but trust me)
4 chicken breast fillets, cubed in bite-size pieces
splash of Madeira
1 cup chicken stock
1 cup creme fraiche (half-fat is fine)
5 tbsps butter
1/2 cup dark brown soft sugar
4 carrots per person, sliced in rounds
1/2 cup basmati rice per person
For the chicken, saute the garlic and shallot gently in the oil, then add the chicken and cook on all sides briefly (not fully cooked). Set chicken aside and add the Madeira to the pan and raise the heat. Scrape all cooked bits into the liquid and add chicken stock. Lower heat and whisk in creme fraiche. Add chicken and its accumulated juices and poach very gently for 15 minutes. At this point you may turn off the heat and leave the dish until you are ready to eat, heating it gently just before serving.
About 40 minutes before you want to eat, melt the butter and sugar together and simmer, sizzling. Drop carrots in and cook, stirring occasionally, lowering the heat as necessary.
About 20 minutes before you want to eat, steam the rice. I’ve found that the rice sticks much less to the pan if you turn the heat off for five minutes or so before serving, keeping the lid tightly shut.
Pile the rice in the center of the plate and ladle the chicken and sauce on top, then make a nice mound of the carrots on the side. All you need is… a fork.
Eat this dinner unashamedly in front of the telly while you watch Delia Smith’s Christmas programme, or if you’re all alone, carry your laptop to the dining table and, for the next five days, you can listen to this wonderful programme on BBC Radio Four with Simon Parkes, all about “The Food Memoir.” If, like me, you’re trying to write a food memoir yourself, you can sit back and wail a bit at the genius of the writers Parkes talks to. Jealousy: it’s ugly. But then I wipe away my tears and pick up my fork, and with an unwieldy bite of creamy comfort food, all’s right with the world.
I would never have thought I had it in me.
You know Avery wants to be an actress. She spent long months on the wait list at the Sylvia Young Theatre School, which actually trains children fulltime, running as a real school, to be singers, actors, dancers, while one imagines fitting in the odd English and maths lesson now and then. All she wanted was a spot in the Saturday lesson. Finally one appeared. I was reminded of the old New Yorker cartoon, “Spots still available in domino tournament. If nowhere else.”
So three years ago she began her weekly Saturday acting lessons and has enjoyed them tremendously. “You should have seen what we did today, one girl was sent out of the room not knowing that her character had been kicked out of the apartment she shared with the rest of our characters, and then had to come back and improvise…” interspersed with Antigone, pantomime, you name it. She loves every afternoon of it. Well, associated with the school is an agency, and they agreed to take her on. Many piles of paperwork, submissions of photographs, signing over of all her life information ensued. And since then, many auditions. Even callbacks. But never a job.
I must backtrack and explain the process, for my own sanity. You must understand that when your child turns 13, many people step forward to give you advice on many things, which all boil down like a reduced veal stock, to the following issue: how to get your child to be more independent. But not [other people’s fingers raised here in admonition] to assert her own independence too much, or request independence in a disrespectful way, or achieve the independence first and THEN ask for it. The permutations are quite, quite unbelievable, and you will know I speak the truth when I say that I have heard far too much on the subject. This recalcitrance on my part is due entirely to my desire to keep Avery wrapped up in cotton wool, preferably curled up next to me with a good book and a leg chain, for the foreseeable future. This I realize I cannot attain.
So I compromise. I try to leave her in charge of decisions, details, arrangements. In general it’s working out fine (there was that incident with the taxi and an ice skate which nearly gave me a heart attack, but I’m over that now).
My phone rang last week to tell me that Avery had, not an audition, not a callback, but a REAL JOB. As a voiceover for a character on “Bob the Builder,” a very popular BBC show here in the UK and also as an import to the US. Cool! But let me tell you, the road from the job announcement to the eventual job was dark and twisty, like a character on “Grey’s Anatomy.” First there was the laconic request from the agency for a “letter of permission” for Avery to miss school on the day. So I typed up a letter to Avery’s form teacher, explaining the job and asking that she type up a letter giving Avery permission to skip school. Nothing happened. “She’s out ill,” Avery explained, “so I gave the letter to the substitute.” I promptly forgot about it for another couple of days. “Don’t forget to ask for that letter,” I mentioned once or twice. “I won’t.”
Finally it was Monday, Avery was finished having her braces put on (don’t ask) and I felt it was time to move on to the next crisis. “You know, you’ve got to produce that permission letter or you can’t go on the job,” to which she replied in a pain-hazed frenzy, ‘I know, I will, I will!” and disappeared into the school. I knew the issue was not over.
Halfway through coffee on Tuesday with my long-suffering friend Dalia, my phone rang. It was the agent, Reb. “You know, I needed that letter yesterday, so the council can apply for her permission!” he wailed (this was the first I had heard about council permission). “This is the first I’ve heard about council permission,” I wailed back, and he said, “You have to fax it to me by this afternoon, and even then I have to go to Plan B [some much more wonderful child actress, his tone implied].”
Before I could reply, another call came through. Avery on a borrowed phone, at lunch. “My teacher says there isn’t enough information about the job in the letter you sent, for anyone to sign it and in any case that’s not her job, it’s the pastoral head, and this is REALLY IMPORTANT TO ME and what a terrible week…” Understandably frantic. I ring off telling her I’ll call her back. Ring up Reb. “What more information can you give me?” “What did I give you already?” “NOTHING!” So he comes up with the name of the producer and the address of the job. I ring off and call Avery to tell her I’m emailing all the information to school, but the call goes to voice mail. Lunch is obviously over.
I sigh, feeling my stomach muscles clench. I know I can’t solve everything for her, but the day after her braces are put on, to see her face such disappointment through no fault of her own… I couldn’t bear it. So much for independence. I called the lovely school secretary and grovelled, gladder than ever that she and I had forged a little friendship over “Lost Property.” “Email me the information, and I will walk it over to the pastoral head… wait, I see her now. Send it right on.” I do so. I ring Reb to tell him the letter’s coming. He says he’ll ring when it comes.
No call comes.
I turn up at school, grovel some more to the secretary’s secretary who smiles sunnily and says, “Oh, yes, that permission letter’s been given to Avery to bring home.” OH NO! I meet Avery outside school, grab the letter, race back to the office. “Could you fax this to this number?” handing over the grubby sheet torn out of my mystery novel, given me by the dismal Reb. She goes away with it and comes back. “That fax number is not answering,” she says, sympathetic with my squirming anxiety. “My teeth hurt so much,” Avery moans almost silently. “I’m not allowed to have medicine in school, so I haven’t taken anything…” I can’t bear it. I ring Reb. “Why isn’t your fax machine turned on?” I ask through gritted teeth. “Oh, I’ll check, hang on…” Back again. “It’s on now.” B***dy hell. Finally the fax goes through. Avery swallows her nurofen, drinks water, we walk home in the gathering dusk, realizing there are no snacks she can chew, feeling slightly hard done by, steeling ourselves that the job might not now come through.
At home, I simply cannot bear another phone call, so Stage Father takes over, to be told that the council permission is missing and so she cannot do the job. After all my crazy day. I feel I can hardly bear it. Avery chokes down some soup for supper, we are all demoralized.
Then this morning, John is imbued with an extra sense of “after all that!” and rings the council himself. And voila! Job ready! Be at Sylvia Young in an hour! Done.
Long story short, she had the time of her life. “There was a room separated by glass from another room where a man was arranging all the sound, and I was all alone in the room, wearing these headphones, while one lady told me what to say, and the storyboards went up…” Sheer heaven. “I had so much FUN.” She did one version in English, and another in American, presumably for the two markets in which they’ll sell the DVDs. “I played a little girl who cheered a lot, ‘yay! yay! yay!’”
As a parent, one learns to rise above annoyances and try really hard to think what one’s learned from the situation. How about, “Never ever EVER get involved with show business”? I don’t think that will work. Avery had such fun. I suppose I learned the channels of power to go through, the fact that no one on either end cares that I don’t know what I’m doing, that everyone is supremely ready to drop a piece of paper that’s asking him or her to do something. Everyone except the school secretary, who deserves a medal. Or a plate of brownies, more likely.
Up and down, up and down. Great parent-teacher conference, awful cold, great Thanksgiving, awful braces, great acting job. As for my career as a stage mother, I think it’s over. I’m much better as a cook for someone who can’t chew.
Creamy Mushroom Soup
2 tbsps butter
1/2 white onion, chopped
4 cloves garlic, chopped
4 cups mushrooms, white or chestnut, chopped
1/2 tsp dried thyme or 1 tbsp fresh leaves
splash Madeira or white port or Calvados
2–3 cups chicken stock (just to cover mushrooms)
1/2 cup light cream
Melt butter in a heavy stockpot and fry onion, garlic and mushrooms till soft. Add thyme and Madeira and simmer high for 1 minute. Add chicken stock and simmer until mushrooms are completely cooked, about 10 minutes. Puree with hand blender, add cream. Season with sea salt and pepper.
This soup can be made with turkey stock (Thanksgiving or Christmas leftovers?), or beef stock. I made it once with stock from roast duck bones and that was lip-smackingly luscious, but rare. I don’t roast ducks very often. I bet with a rich ham stock it would be lovely too.
Turn off your phone, close down the computer, gather your long-suffering loved ones with disappointments, frustrations, sore gums, homesickness, anything, and tuck in. Pure creamy comfort. That audition can wait.
Isn’t the best part of Thanksgiving the leftovers? All the stress of getting the dinner itself ready at the same time is over, the tiny little voice in the back of your mind warning you how long washing up will take has been stilled. The guests have been fed, the candles have burned down and all that remains is to open the fridge, lift the foil lid, and… uncover pure gold.
The best sandwich! Roast turkey (thank goodness John had left a plate of the best dark meat hiding behind a poinsettia, because all the turkey we offered our guests was eaten!), a good sharp Cheddar cheese, sourdough bread lightly toasted, a mild red onion, mustard and mayo… it doesn’t get any better than that, with a little bowl of turkey soup on the side.
What I did not get leftovers of were:
Becky’s Cheesy Thanksgiving Potatoes
(serves at least 8, but more with other side dishes on offer)
3 lbs/1 ½ kilos potatoes (Maris Piper here in England is a good choice, or a Yukon Gold in the US)
3 round shallots or 1 banana shallot, minced
2 cups/ 474 ml grated or shredded Cheddar or Double Gloucester cheese
1 tsp garlic powder
sea salt and pepper
3 cups/1 pint/474 ml single cream or Half and Half
Boil potatoes until easily pierced with a fork, then peel when cool. Grate them on a coarse grater and set aside.
Lighly oil or nonstick spray a deep glass or pottery casserole dish, perhaps 9 inches in diameter and 5 inches or so high (mine is round, which is an appealing shape). Scatter a layer of grated potatoes on the bottom, then cover with a layer of cheese, a sprinkling of shallot, a sprinkle of garlic powder, and season well. Repeat layering until you have run out of ingredients, ending with cheese. Then pour the cream over the casserole.
Bake at 180C, 350F until bubbly and the cheese begins to brown, about 45 minutes, depending on the depth of the casserole.
Becky, much-missed Thanksgiving companion during our first years here in London, has always claimed that these potatoes are even better as leftovers, but as we never had any left over, I cannot verify this! Just the same this year.
These potatoes were so good that they even featured as one of my guest’s “Three Things I Am Thankful For”! Unbelievably soft and creamy, with a crisp, golden crust, they disappeared immediately. Well, with 15 guests, 8 children among them, that’s not surprising.
What was a welcome surprise was my painter friend Matthew’s unexpected contribution to the feast!
Matthew’s Apple Nut Tart
(serves 12 easily)
2 sheets puff pastry pressed together, about 18 x 12 inches, brushed with beaten egg
apple slices to cover pastry (about four apples)
handful each: pine nuts, cashews, pecans (all toasted)
dribble of honey to cover all (1/3 cup?)
dusting of cinnamon sugar
Bake at 180C, 350 F for 20 minutes.
This tart has everything, John reports, each of the perfectly simple ingredients playing its appointed role: delicate warm pastry, soft apple, crunchy nuts, slight sweetness of honey and sugar. A really nice dessert for those of your guests who don’t like pumpkin pie.
Classic Pumpkin Pie
1 unbaked pie crust (or here in London, sweet pastry shell) in pie plate
3/4 cup/150 grams granulated sugar
1/2 tsp salt
1/2 tsp ground ginger
1/2 tsp ground cloves
2 large eggs
1 can (15 ounces/425 grams pumpkin puree (in England it will be part squash, no matter)
1 can (12 ounces/340 grams) evaporated milk
whipped cream to top
Mix sugar, cinnamon, salt, ginger and cloves in a small bowl. Beat eggs in a large bowl. Add pumpkin and sugar-spice mixture, mix well. Gradually add evaporated milk.
Pour into unbaked pastry shell and baked at 210C/425F for 15 minutes. Reduce temperature to 180C/350F and bake for another 40–5– minutes, until a knife inserted in the center comes out clean. Cool for 2 hours, then serve with whipped cream.
I’ll admit it: I don’t even like pumpkin pie. But it’s completely necessary to Thanksgiving dinner, and Avery will eat all the leftovers for breakfast, as long as they last.
We had a lovely time. Every big dinner party should include a family of six, I think: just with one invitation, you get a huge group! “Thank you,” said the dad, “No one every invites us all!” The girls all made turkey placecards with their handprints on orange paper, and the littlest girl Molly plucked kernels of “Indian corn” from the cob that’s decorated our front door, so each person would have them for the “Three Things I’m Thankful For.”
Somehow I managed to get eight side dishes to come out at the right time, and I should have made more of everything, because there were almost no leftovers, sadly! Cheesy spinach, caramelized carrots, two kinds of potatoes, two kinds of beans, and stuffing, all were wolfed down with children taking second helpings of all the vegetables, to their parents’ delight. I’ve said it before: if you add enough garlic and cheese to almost anything, children will eat it.
Well, all this means only one thing: Christmas is upon us. Every day the pile in the corner of my bedroom gets a little higher: presents to pack up and take with us to Connecticut. In just three weeks we’ll be there! “Why are all the gifts we’re taking along so HEAVY?” John complains, and it’s true. Everyone in my family wants far too many books, but as I’m the worst offender, I shall say nothing. This week I must write to Farmer Rollie and his wife Judy to specify our Christmas tree needs, from their tree farm. That’s one of the best feelings of Christmas, arriving at Red Gate Farm to open up the big red barn and find trees and wreaths, breathing out their lovely resiny aroma.
Speaking of resin, or anything sticky, no such thing may enter our house as of Monday morning when Avery… gets her braces put on. I know it’s something that happens to more children than not, a rite of passage of sorts. I always told her I’d never insist on braces so that her teeth were perfect, just so that they were functional, and so it is. Her incisors are hiding rebelliously up inside her gums and so must be called to account. Wish her luck! And may tomorrow be filled with caramels for every meal.
“Drake: the Musical” has receded into the mists of time, carrying along with it the memories of such ditties as “It’s Raining Again in Greenwich” and the campaign song for Sir Francis running for Mayor of Plymouth against Lord Killigrew, whose famous refrain, “Thank you, Mother,” will live on in the minds of all of us who saw two, three or even four performances. It was such fun! Such a happy reminder of my own high-school days in musicals, that feeling of group effort, fellow support, admiration.
The play ended in triumph on Saturday night but I wasn’t even there, for two reasons: one, you couldn’t get a ticket for love or money, and two, I was sick as a dog. I hardly ever get sick, and so when I do, it’s with a vengeance. I spent Saturday, Sunday and yesterday in a lump of misery, sluggishness and tissues. Today I am beginning to feel better, which is a good thing considering… Thanksgiving is in less than 48 hours.
In any case, we’re all mourning the passing of “Drake,” and there is much Facebook activity in Avery’s life as a result. But never mind: next week she has her very first paying acting job! She’s providing a voiceover for “Bob the Builder,” a terrifically popular television series here. At least, she is if she gets permission from school. In one of those flurries of notes to school, that particular request is in a pile along with “Yes, we’ll be at the parent-teacher conferences” tomorrow night. I always get excited about these conferences, even when I know from long experience that what will happen is this: each teacher will gaze at us calmly and say something like, “Everything’s fine.”
Tonight was the Soiree Musicale at school, a lovely evening of musical feats (too much flute, not enough swing band). Avery and her “Junior Madrigal Choir” performed a hair-raisingly touching “Ave Maria,” and can I just say? I will be so pleased when, someday, I can listen to my child sing in a concert without my breaking down into hidden tears. I always have to pretend I have something in my eye, or that I must blow my nose (at least tonight I had a cold). There is something about the utter innocence, the knowledge of the effort put into the performance, the touching investment of all these girls into their achievements that makes me unbearably sentimental. I find myself thinking, “You’ll learn to sing these lovely solos and play the saxophone and write your own arrangements of ancient songs, and then what? You’ll wake up one day and YOU’RE the mother, sitting in the audience, wondering where it all went.” I am really in a mood!
Such was my funkiness last evening when, in the throes of an annoying hacking cough, I felt very blue. I think I can identify part of my sadness: I’ve been working for several weeks on a chapter for my “book” on Thanksgiving. And it turns out, Thanksgiving in England makes me sad. It’s an American holiday! No matter how lovely our guests, and they will be, they are English and as such, visitors to our holiday. The childhood feelings of family, bickering and familiar and beloved as they are, will not be present. I’ll wake up on Thanksgiving morning with that odd feeling of being in charge that never fails to amaze me, no matter how many (20 at least!) years I have been in charge. It’s meant to be my Aunt Mary Wayne and Uncle Kenny who host us and take care of it all. My dad should be driving and my mother bickering about directions to Kentucky, and my sister and brother and I squabbling about having enough room in the backseat. I haven’t spent so much time thinking about Thanksgiving in years and years, and I miss everyone quite desperately. But I imagine that I’ll come out on the other side, still feeling nostalgic for the old days, but with my mind firmly aware that it’s my house, my holiday now.
I’m making lists. Yesterday John and I picked up the huge turkey and placed him in his briney bath of sea salt, peppercorns, fresh rosemary, sage, celery and onions. So he will repose until Thanksgiving afternoon, when for the first time, I’m going to roast him upside down. So much for the Norman Rockwell photo opportunity: this year his legs will be sticking down the wrong direction, but let me tell you, that breast will be TENDER, not dried out. Then there will be the mashed potatoes, the cheesy potatoes my friend Becky has told me how to make (how we will miss her and her family on the day), green beans. John’s arguing with me over the beans. Should they be canned, with mushroom soup and fried onions on top? Yuck, but traditional. I’m not getting much support for my view that they should be steamed, with a buttery, garlicky, lemony dressing. It’s tradition versus a food someone might actually want to eat.
Then there’s stuffing made of the torn-out insides of Italian bread, sauteed sausage, celery, onions, garlic, mushrooms, fresh sage and a glug of heavy cream… and spinach with Gruyere cheese and celery salt, and pumpkin pie!
I’ll do a post-mortem after the holiday itself and give you some perfect recipes. In the meantime, let me tell you what will make any schoolgirl sit up and take notice at breakfast, when “Drake” has finished and the holidays are just beginning to beckon. It’s warm, it’s fragrant, colorful, sweet and welcoming. Just right for those dark mornings with the rain pelting down the windows.
Perfect Fruit Crumble
(serves about 4–6 breakfasts?)
6 nectarines or small peaches
2 dozen strawberries, hulled and halved
1 cup wholemeal flour
1 cup Demerera sugar
1 tsp ground cinnamon
1/2 tsp each: ground cloves, ground nutmeg
125g/1/2 cup cold butter
Cut up all the fruit and lay it in a glass dish about 9 x 5 inches. Then place flour, sugar and spices in a Cuisinart, turn it on, and gradually add, in small cubes, the cold butter. Let the mixture whizz until it has the consistency of a rough, crumbly dough.
Scatter the crumbly dough over the fruit and bake at 180C/350F for 40 minutes or until the fruit bubbles and the top is brown.
Onward and upward then, past nostalgia for musicals, past doses of Day Nurse and Night Nurse for colds, past grocery lists and table-setting strategies. It’s time to assume the mantle of adulthood and be thankful.
It’s happened at last: “Drake: the Musical” has been staged not once, but twice in the small lives we all inhabit here in our little corner of London. And contrary to our rather churlish expectation, fed by our children’s vile attitudes (which have changed remarkably since performing), the musical was FABULOUS.
Granted, I will go to my grave wondering why on earth anyone thought that Sir Francis Drake (“Frankie” to his many admirers onstage) was a compelling figure for a musical lead. He was a laddish rake of the first order, nothing more than a pirate! (“A privateer,” his 11-year-old portrayer insists). Added to that skepticism may be put the questionable wisdom of 13-year-olds putting on a musical that deals with, let’s see, rampant anti-Spanish propaganda (I’m not English, so I can frown at the laughter in the audience at all the slurs!), randy seafaring pirates, and much ado about members of the drunken aristocracy. Lines like, “If I’m Knight of the Garter, can I say whose garter it should be?” and “I’ll show you to the ladies in waiting,” followed by, “They don’t have to wait no longer!” You get my drift.
Still and all, the production managed to be completely charming. The kids have worked unexpectedly hard, it’s clear. I guess I fell into the old trap of believing a child’s description of any ongoing experience, especially when you gather a whole bunch of them together and THEN try to get a grain of truth from their tales of woe. How terrible the songs/dance/speeches were going to be (they were marvelous and almost faultless), how horrendous the makeup (pretty much standard), how perilous the sets (nothing collapsed). In general, they warned us about how embarrassing the whole experience would be, and yet, all the performers seemed happy to have us turn up, fill the house, and clap wildly. They were WONDERFUL.
“Tarry a tick, old chap!” was typical of the banter, as was, “Her Majesty’s a bit tetchy today, and who can blame her?” “Love a duck!” exclaimed one girl upon seeing a beautiful necklace, whereupon an eavesdropping Lord said, “Duck? Duck? Ah, Drake… a highly unsuitable expression, given the circumstances…” I chuckled even more at these Wodehouse-esque, outdated expressions. I do love living here.
The atmosphere of a boys’ school itself strikes amazing feelings of inadequacy in me, the average son-less American who did not grow up surrounded by children in knee britches, matching jackets, neckties and beanies. With kneesocks and little briefcase-y satchels. And loads of matching stair-step brothers. These boys are called things like Horatio and Simon, and the huge blowups of them in the passages, playing rugger and the like with concentrated expressions of aristocratic competitiveness only underscore the huge cultural gap between people like us and people who take this sort of thing for granted. Large groups of boys who go to a boys’ school are a breed apart: they really do say things like, “Jolly good!” and “I say…” They wrestle and push and shove and mock-bite like any boys in America, but they do it with perfect haircuts and gorgeous accents like David Cameron’s, and I for one am besotted. Will Avery end up with someone like that, and I’ll feel inferior for every family holiday for the rest of my life? She seems perfectly at home in the setting.
Tomorrow is an evening off. A break from the makeup removal at nearly 10 p.m., the rehashing of “Did you hear when Elizabeth’s microphone stopped working during her duet with Drake?” and whose fluffing of lines caused tears (never let them see you sweat, I advise). Then another performance on Friday night, and another on Saturday, then never to be seen again.
I’ve learned several things from the whole process of “Drake: the Musical.” One, boys at this age are nice. They’re presentable and talented and cute, and I wish Avery had more of a chance to know them. Two, I should not pay too much attention to moaning and complaining and predictions of disaster, because these children work too hard at everything for any one thing not to be done well, and this was truly a thing for them to be proud of.
Most important, I’ve learned that I will greatly miss the late-afternoon strolls across the ornamental bridge to the boys’ school as the sun sets, with one, two or three girls at my side, not quite ready to walk themselves across the Thames to rehearsal. There are so many landmark “last times” I never thought to notice: the last time I was asked to chaperone a school trip? Didn’t make a note of it. The last time Avery reached out naturally to hold my hand crossing a street? The last time I read out loud to her before she went to sleep? What WAS I paying attention to that these things passed by without a whimper?
But I will miss these walks to rehearsal, because the next time she has to go across the river for something with her friends, she’ll undoubtedly go on her own, and the delightful conversation about fashion, makeup, who likes who, even the dreaded moaning about homework, will all happen like that tree in the forest. Will any of it happen if I’m not there to listen?
The short answer is, yes. The cliche that children only get more wonderful as they get older is true, which is meant to make up for the fact that you spend more and more time without them, and the times you hold their hands are fewer and farther between. The fact is, the little versions of Avery from the past that she’s left behind in my memory are just as powerful as her present self: they’re sepia, fuzzy, little-girl versions of the bright blue, velvet Drake-costumed girl I see today. I treasure them all.
So onward and upward to final performances of “Drake.” I hope I live to see “Joe Biden: the Musical.” In the meantime, Avery has a call-back audition tomorrow afternoon for, get this, an anti-alcohol public advertisement. Talk about growing up quickly! It’s odd when your child acts for a commercial discouraging her against doing something it had not, so far, occurred to her to do. The perfect antidote to all those mugs of ale aboard the Golden Hinde with Frankie! Now I can rest easy. And we can all come home to:
Homemade Tomato Soup
2 tbsps olive oil
1 tbsp butter
6 cloves garlic, roughly chopped
1 white onion, roughly chopped
2 pounds fresh plum tomatoes, quartered
3 cups chicken stock
handful fresh rosemary stalks, leaves removed and roughly chopped
1/2 cup single (light) cream
zest of 1 lemon
1/2 cup sour cream
fresh ground black pepper
Prep is simplicity itself. Heat olive oil and butter in a large saucepan and add garlic and onion to wilt slightly. Add tomatoes and stock and rosemary, simmer for 1/2 hour or until tomatoes soft. Puree with a hand blender and put through a sieve into another saucepan. Add light cream. When serving, sprinkle each bowl with a bit of lemon zest, a dollop of sour cream and a grind of pepper. Done, dusted, PERFECT.
There is nothing more perfect than this soup. Inexpensive beyond belief, almost effortless, elegant and comforting. With a grilled-cheese sandwich, this is the perfect after-Drake supper. With a mug of ale, of course. Hip, hip, hooray!