spring has finally sprung!
In London, that is, belatedly! We are all taking total credit for bringing this lovely warm weather — and sun! — home from our American Easter holiday.
On our way to cross the pond, we stopped in New Jersey to visit our beloved friends Livia and Janice, in their peaceful, unchanging oasis of a house.
Old, old friends who know us backwards and forwards, endlessly interested in the relative chaos and change of our lives.
We sit in their vast white kitchen, gossiping over single-malt Scotch, ginger ale for Avery, telling tales of our Easter fun, hearing about the insanity of Livia’s real estate business (“I have clients now who demand that visitors wear paper booties when they come in the house,” she chortles), the adventures of Livia’s niece in the cutthroat New York publishing world, their thoughts on Avery’s and my cookbook-in-the-making. Livia may have a contact for a publisher! Fingers crossed he will like our ideas.
Out for dinner to our traditional old-fashioned Italian restaurant where we dither, predictably, over the familiar choices. Flounder diavolo, or tortellini Michelangelo? Artichoke soup or a chopped salad? Everything loaded with garlic and accompanied by soft, heavy Italian bread. Traditions. Dear Livia, one of the most brilliant minds I have ever known, and every year Avery becomes more like her. What could be better?
At the first crack of dawn, off we went to Newark to go back to our real lives.
As always, after any significant time away from our English lives, I find it quite intense to re-enter, to fit into this still-foreign culture. I always find it fascinating to analyze the approach that outsiders take to “fitting in” here. I know some people who resolutely remain themselves in every way, either because they are supremely confident in themselves or because it’s just too difficult or too much trouble to be a chameleon. The sense of reserve that permeates much of English life can be a bit intimidating, and I certainly understand those expats who just don’t try to overcome it; they make only American friends, they shop at the Gap and stream CNN. If you look in their kitchen cupboards, you will see Rice Krispie Treats, Vermont maple syrup and Doritos, carefully collected from the various British shops that cater to the Americans here. These people seem perfectly content to remain entirely American, surrounded by a foreign culture.
But I do try to fit in. I’m not sure why. Take my beloved hobby: bellringing is just about as English as you can get! We rang last week in honor of St George — the patron saint of England — on a sunny, warm spring evening.
The flag, laboriously put in place on top of the tower by Howard, waved gently in the breeze, high in an intensely blue sky.
And of course there is the wonderful Dorothy L Sayers Society of which I am a fervently loyal member. Although I cannot make it to many of their events as they take place during the summer, I managed to join everyone over the weekend at a performance by one of my very favorite English actors, Edward Petherbridge, in one of the most unusual plays I have ever seen, “My Perfect Mind” at the Young Vic.
Because dear Edward was simply the definitive Lord Peter Wimsey, that iconic English detective in Dorothy L Sayers’ novels, we in the Society make an effort to turn up at any play he might appear in, and this latest was truly a tour de force.
The idea of the play came about when Edward was cast as King Lear in New Zealand, several years ago, and suffered a debilitating series of strokes on the second day of rehearsal. While in recovery, although he had lost many physical abilities, he found he had retained all of the content of the play, and “My Perfect Mind” is an exploration of his recovery, his childhood, his entire acting career, punctuated by hypnotic excerpts from “King Lear” itself, a play I’ve never seen performed. All this was told in a kaleidoscope of memory, sadness, humor and ambition, spanning his entire life. You simply MUST go. It’s been extended for a week, closing May 4. I think I’ll go again, perhaps dragging my family with me.
Believe it or not, after the matinee of this play, I sauntered over to the National Theatre to meet John and Avery for Othello! Two plays in one day: a first for me. I sat outside at the wonderfully scruffy famous skateboarding at Southbank, reading Edward’s memoirs, “Slim Chances” and waiting for Avery and John to arrive for early sushi, and the play. And while it was a very good production, lavish and dramatic, expensive kitted out and full of stars, I much preferred the far simpler staging and subtle humor of Edward’s play.
What I will NOT do in my quest to fit in in my adopted land is succumb to my bellringing teacher Howard’s pressure to pronounce certain words in the English fashion! Ready to ring at Chiswick last Sunday, gathered around the ancient baptismal font which was open ready for a ceremony, he sprinkled me with water. “Howard! That’s blasphemous in the extreme,” I said. “You’re going to find yourself in Purgatory before you know it.”
He hooted. “ ‘Purga-tory’? What’s that? You do NOT pronounce it that way, surely. Repeat after me. ‘Purga-tree.’ ”
“Purga-tory,” I insisted. “And while we’re at it, ‘ceme-tery,” ‘manda-tory’ and best of all, ‘LAB-ora-tory,’ ” I finished triumphantly.
“ ‘Ceme-tree’, ‘manda-tree’ and ‘la-BOR-atree’!” he moaned in mock distress.
No, I will not give in on those.
We’ve been playing tennis madly (too madly in fact; I have a wretched backache right now from what I think is a pulled muscle) and eating lovely salads for lunch, in an attempt to throw off some our winter weight. How about avocado, halloumi, baby leaves, tomatoes and hard-boiled eggs?
In order to eat more vegetables, I’ve had another delivery from the divine Natoora, supplier of all things deliciously Italian. I went a bit mad, I think. Got fennel?
To cope with the influx, I invented a fennel soup with Pernod, then reverted to one of John’s favorite slaws of fennel and carrot, and best of all, experimented successfully with a beautiful chicken and fennel dish.
Roast Chicken with Fennel and Lemon
(serves four with leftovers)
1 medium chicken
2 bulbs fennel, sliced thickly
2 lemons, sliced thickly
6 cloves garlic, minced
handful capers
4 fresh bay leaves
dozen baby tomatoes
drizzle olive oil
handful grated Parmesan
fresh black pepper
Place the chicken in a large roasting dish and arrange the fennel and lemon slices around it. Scatter over the garlic and capers and tomatoes and tuck the bay leaves in here and there. Drizzle olive oil over the fennel slices and top with a sprinkle of Parmesan and black pepper. Roast at 325F/160C for two hours.
Of course the new school term brings a simply horrendous but somehow fun-filled first day at Lost Property. I simply had to capture it on my phone. Twelve bags of STUFF.
Lacrosse boots covered with caked dirt, piles of textbooks, single drama shoes and sneakers, named and unnamed clothing of every description. At one point I reached blindly into an enormous bag and felt something WET. I screamed! “It could be anything, a severed head!” I said desperately. But it was only leftover leaves from the work of the School Flower Team. One of the Flower Team was just leaving, having sprinkled her fragrant magic around the school. “This stuff stinks,” she said smiling, picking her away across the LP room, strewn with dirty clothes.
And then there are the inexplicable items that just make us shake our heads. This time, I think the prize for “weirdest thing in Lost Property” had to be divided between a human-sized plywood cross and a six-foot woolly stuffed snake. Really? Really. Even odder than the snake itself was the maths teacher who came trotting over. “That snake is mine, actually.”
Go for it, mate.
Someday I’m going to buy one of those welcome mats that say “The Muck Stops Here” and put it outside the Lost Property door.
This week will bring the beloved termly luncheon, for which I must decide what to make. I’m thinking of my brother in law Joel’s delicious artichoke dip, since my Italian vegetable delivery included two dozen baby purple artichokes! Or even the frittata I made this week.
Artichoke and Iberico Ham Frittata
(serves two hungry people)
dozen baby purple artichokes
1 lemon
1 tsp olive oil
1 tsp butter
six slices Iberico ham, torn into bite-size pieces
4 eggs
3 tbsps single (light) cream
1/4 cup grated Parmesan
fresh black pepper
First, prepare the artichokes. Cut about 1/4 inch off the top of each artichoke and cut off the stem. Peel away the outer leaves until you judge that you have reached the softest leaves. This will result in an artichoke that’s about half the size it was originally. Have a bowl of water with the lemon juiced into it to one side as you do this, and cut each artichoke into four slices, top to bottom, then drop them in the lemony water to prevent discoloration. When you are ready to cook them, drain them and pat with a paper towel.
Heat the oil and butter in a frying pan and fry the artichoke slices for about four minutes. Scatter the ham bits over them. Whisk the eggs with the cream and pour the mixture over the artichokes and ham, tilting the frying pan so that the eggs cover all the surface. Sprinkle with the cheese and pepper and cook gently, not too hot, until the eggs are just nearly fully cooked. A little squidginess is fine. Do not overcook. Remove from heat, place a plate over the frittata and turn the pan upside down. Done.
This is quite simply one of the most delicious things you can eat. It’s savoury, it’s creamy, and the artichokes impart an exotic bite and an indescribable flavor. Homemade they are so far superior to the ones you find in a jar that you may never go back. I’m marinating the remaining dozen artichokes in olive oil and garlic right now, but they will require three weeks to be ready. You have to think ahead!
It’s that wonderful Sunday afternoon feeling right now, a mixture of relief that ringing is over for the week until Friday practice, lunch has been cleared away and it’s not quite time to start thinking about dinner. Another busy week beckons. And spring has sprung.
Happy Spring, Kristen! Enjoyed this post, particularly your thoughts about “fitting in”. I believe the ability to adapt has to be one of the most important life skills. Do you feel more “at home” on one side of the pond?
You know, oddly, Karen, I feel less comfortable in America these days! Part of it is political, but part is the intensity of our time there, so much packed into so few days, trying desperately to catch up. An interesting conundrum!
Is that wisteria covering that gate? Is in front of your house? Simply gorgeous!! And I imagine it IS quite a pull going from one side of the pond to another but you obviously handle it quite well. And good for you for not “mis-pronouncing” those words!! xoxo
No, Auntie L, it’s the church gate, through which I ride my bike to ring! It’s a tulip tree on the right, what we call in America a magnolia. Not sure what’s on the left, but it’s all leaf-less by now… Thanks!