the beau­ti­ful routine

Well, dear read­ers, self­ish­ly this post is going to be for me..

I’m get­ting ready to say good­bye to my beloved lit­tle neigh­bor­hood, in favor of our new, unknown place across the riv­er.  A lit­tle walk down mem­o­ry lane is in order.

Of course the rea­son we moved here to begin with was for the 8‑minute walk to Avery’s school.  Lit­tle does one know, before one has chil­dren, how prox­im­i­ty to school is para­mount.  Below the sur­face of the minute-count are all the hap­py and life-enhanc­ing things one finds along the way.  I think this par­tic­u­lar walk to school has been unusu­al­ly filled with joy­ous moments.

First there was our dear Chez Kristoff, that gor­geous deli on our cor­ner where one could pro­cure last-minute Parme­san for the risot­to, or a des­per­ate Diet Coke for lunch, a madeleine after school.  Most impor­tant, Chez Kristoff was the go-to spot for cof­fee with friends, sit­ting sur­round­ed by BBC types with their lap­tops and cell phones — now they’d be iPads, I sup­pose! — the smell of croque mon­si­uers being deliv­ered to the per­son next to you, while you and your friend ironed out all the prob­lems of the uni­verse.  And of course there were the end­less brunch­es where the inept but com­plete­ly charm­ing French wait­ress­es failed to bring your Eggs Bene­dict until the wait had been so long that you got them for free.  Ah, Chez Kristoff, we mourn you.

But last week the sad closed doors opened again, new­ly chris­tened “Raoul’s”!  And a new era is born.This week, after the exhaust­ing Lost Prop­er­ty sale, I wan­dered into Raoul’s with my pal Ser­e­na for a bite to eat.  “Bite” is just the word, as in OUCH!  £30 a kilo for grilled salmon!  That’s $21 a pound, which is painful to imag­ine.  Just grilled salmon!  And there was a raw, ordi­nary chick­en for £17.  That’s a $26 raw chick­en.  I can­not imag­ine how they’re going to make it in this most ordi­nary of lit­tle neigh­bor­hoods.  Best of luck, Raoul’s.

From there we traipse along under the Ham­mer­smith and City lines, hence our des­ig­na­tion “liv­ing on the wrong side of the tracks.”

To think that when we first moved here, this under­pass seemed a bit sin­is­ter, for an 11-year-old girl walk­ing to school.  Lit­tle did we know that we’d buy our Christ­mas trees here, and hear many a tale of der­ring-do from the day at school, as we walked hap­pi­ly along.

Thus endeth the part of the walk to school known as “A.”  Once we emerge from under the train tracks, we’re in “B,” a tiny lit­tle street that is inex­plic­a­bly two-way traf­fic, so that most of dri­vers’ time is spent pulling to one side and motion­ing polite­ly for the oncom­ing dri­ver to come ahead.  In short, behav­ior that you’d nev­er see in New York.  “Ya think ya got the righ­ta way?  Well, come on, then let’s see ya try!”

For about three weeks in spring, this polite lit­tle street is lined with these trees, a pale, frothy pink sort of tree that is a joy to see.  Then all the petals fall one day, and before the streetsweep­ers appear, you can kick them aside as you walk along, pass­ing the lit­tle pri­ma­ry school with its high, pip­ing shrieks from the playground.

Then we turn the cor­ner into part “C” of the walk, and here we encounter the big, busy road that is unfor­tu­nate­ly a thor­ough­fare for both the local hos­pi­tal and the local police con­stab­u­lary, so sirens are a part of life.  This noise does not keep us from sit­ting out­side on count­less after­noons at the Cafe of All After School Delights, chat­ting about the day while Avery con­sumes end­less straw­ber­ry smooth­ies, mil­lion­aire short­breads, lemon tarts, sausage rolls.

This cafe is adja­cent to the love­ly estate agents who han­dle our house, so although we are furi­ous at hav­ing to move away, we still find time for a nat­ter with them as Avery replen­ish­es her ener­gy.  School friends and moth­ers troop in and out.  And when­ev­er there is a chance for a ladies-who-lunch hour for me, this is where I repair.  Teriya­ki-roast­ed salmon with sesame noo­dles, a piece of toast­ed cia­bat­ta topped with a grilled mush­room, a slice of goats cheese and a fried egg… heav­en.  Here I wait­ed once while Avery had her singing exam at school, look­ing at the clock anx­ious­ly when I knew she was next on the list.

And what­ev­er will we do with­out our local branch of Oliv­er Bonas, source of all birth­day gifts, many impromp­tu pur­chas­es of a lip balm in the shape of a cup­cake, the place where Avery real­ly wants to work when she turns 16, although I guar­an­tee she would spend all her income with­in its doors.

And where would I be with­out my fish­mon­gers Tony and Mikey, who sup­plied me gra­cious­ly with crabs dur­ing my cook­ing con­test last sum­mer, who are always ready with a fist­ful of king prawns, a slab of salmon, even a lit­tle treat of sushi now and then.  I will miss them.

Then we come to the love­ly florist, where we have bought so many small con­grat­u­la­to­ry bou­quets of flow­ers for school­girls in plays, in dance com­pe­ti­tions, at Singing Teas, to greet Avery at the school gate with a lit­tle posy for her birth­day (this was in younger years of course, now I would shame her to no end if I did this).

From here I cross the scrag­gly Green with its entwined cou­ples on blan­kets, rac­ing dogs with chat­ting own­ers.  Yes­ter­day I was trans­port­ed to my child­hood when I inhaled, and there was a giant lawn­mow­er, weav­ing its way across the untidy and occa­sion­al grass, toss­ing up lit­tle scraps into the air and smelling just like sum­mer in Indiana.

And up come the ten­nis courts where we have spent so many hap­py hours try­ing to work off my din­ners!  There is dear Roc­co, the best ten­nis instruc­tor in the land, smelling strong­ly of Polo cologne, always ready with a sto­ry — told in his ele­gant South African accent — about the lat­est encounter with his Stalk­er, a for­mer girl­friend who is capa­ble of untold deeds of der­ring-do to try to get him back.

I always cross the road at the pub, so cozy at night when we pass it after school events, the loca­tion of one mem­o­rable lunch with my Aunt Mary Wayne and Uncle Ken­ny, shout­ing Ken­tucky-enthu­si­as­tic greet­ings to me across the length of the gar­den, star­tling the Eng­lish peo­ple con­sum­ing their fish and chips VERY QUI­ET­LY.  It’s a love­ly pub.

Final­ly I reach the beau­ti­ful school, take a book out of my bag, read for a moment unless a friend turns up to chat, then Avery appears, usu­al­ly smil­ing!  And I take what­ev­er heavy thing she is car­ry­ing and we head back home, pass­ing all the neigh­bors we expect to see: Hele­na walk­ing her bike, accom­pa­nied by three lit­tle gin­ger-haired chil­dren, to whom I sup­plied many “Amer­i­can” books… “They read all the typ­i­cal Eng­lish things, but they know noth­ing of Amer­i­ca, have you any sug­ges­tions?”  Lit­tle House on the Prairie, All of a Kind Fam­i­ly, Bet­sy-Tacy.  It was­n’t difficult.

And there’s my friend Ara­bel­la, mas­ter knit­ter, who is going to make a jumper for me, when we’ve had time to vis­it a knit­ting shop.  I live in awe of any­one who could do such a thing, and she can make any­thing!  I have seen them in real life, and she describes things like “cash­meri­no” and “unpick­ing” and I know I am lis­ten­ing to a for­eign lan­guage.  And I might get a wave out the win­dow of her orange Mini, should my pal Abby dri­ve by, or a hug from our gor­geous next-door neigh­bor San­dro, should he be walk­ing his daugh­ter home from the lit­tle school nearby.

Home, then.  And a com­fort din­ner, because I don’t real­ly want to leave all this behind.

Mama Nel’s Chicken

(serves four with leftovers)

1 large chicken

1 cup flour

sea­son­ings to taste: gar­lic salt, onion pow­der, dried basil, thyme, cayenne, Fox Point, cel­ery salt, what you like!

3 tbsps veg­etable oil

4 sprigs fresh rosemary

Quar­ter the chick­en by remov­ing its back­bone, then sep­a­rat­ing the breasts/wings from the legs.  Throw the back­bone in a pot with an onion and a car­rot, to make stock.

In a plas­tic bag with­out holes (!) thor­ough­ly toss togeth­er the flour and sea­son­ings.  Place the chick­en pieces in the bag, hold the top closed tight­ly, and shake gen­tly till all the chick­en pieces are coat­ed in the flour.  Pour the veg­etable oil in a large oven-proof dish, large enough to hold all the chick­en pieces in one lay­er.  Place the rose­mary sprigs in the oil and place a chick­en piece, skin side down in the veg­etable oil on top of a rose­mary sprig.  Bake at 425F/220C for 30 min­utes, then turn each piece over and bake for anoth­er 20 minutes.

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Amer­i­cans my age will rec­og­nize this as a home­made ver­sion of Shake ‘n Bake, a sta­ple of my child­hood.  And while it’s seem­ing­ly impos­si­ble to find out what’s actu­al­ly in the orig­i­nal mix, I would be will­ing to bet there’s a lot of sodi­um in one form or anoth­er, some MSG, and sug­ar.  Not in my recipe.

This is a love­ly, sim­ple recipe that my moth­er made for us all dur­ing our grow­ing-up because it was inex­pen­sive and easy, and every­one loved it.  Love­ly cold the next day for lunch, too.

I must remem­ber that near­ly 30 years ago I first left home, and I thought I would nev­er find a spot as homey, as wel­com­ing and warm as the place I was leav­ing behind.  Now, 15 moves lat­er — twice across the pond! — I know a new beloved rou­tine awaits us.  I just have to find it.