American in Bath

Happy Christmas

2011-12-25T11:01:00.003Z

Badly Followed Patterns

2011-12-15T17:48:00.001Z

The making for Christmas is well underway; though, I'd intended to be finished before 1st December. With nine days or so before the big event, I am finding myself running out of time quickly. I've completely missed the send by date to the States, so the nieces and nephews won't be getting their gifts until at least January. Believe it or not it isn't the insanity that surrounds gift-giving that I hate about Christmas. I love giving gifts. I like that we're all reminded to give during, at least, this season of the year. Of course I'm avoiding Bath proper like the plague this year. You could call that painting the lenses of my glasses rose.

This year I've found myself in the strange situation of having to insist to people that I really do have plans for Christmas. It wouldn't be beyond me to assure people that I had plans for the day in order to spend the day on my couch watching films. So I can see how friends are reasonably convinced that that is my intention for this year too. As for boxing day, I may well spend that checking to see how my knee feels about going up hills.

Now back to the crocheting. Does anyone know what I did with the button? or the 3.75 hook?

Winter, Again, Apparently

2011-12-07T18:31:00.001Z

Bath is never ugly. Even on days when it is tipping with rain and the temperature has dropped well below freezing, Bath remains the second most beautiful place I have ever lived.

A few of you asked what I meant by the alternate version of "We Three Kings." I so wanted to provide you with a video, but it seems that few people have been inclined toward recording it. And as much as I like you all, I'm not singing to you.

We three kings of Orient are trying to smoke a rubber cigar

It was loaded, it exploded

We two kings of Orient areTrying to smoke a rubber cigar.

It was loaded, it exploded/I one king of Orient am Tring to smoke a rubber cigar

Silent night, holy night

All is calm, All is bright.

Bah Humbug, Again?

2011-12-04T08:00:00.000Z

Right, so folks who are better at this Christmas gig than I am are:

Zosia from Polonica: Home Again made an Advent Calendar that would make me dance more than teeny tiny candy canes.

And Belle from A Belle Abroad has some seriously exciting news to go along with her Christmas preparations in her new country.

The Christmas tree has arrived in Auvergne, France.

Robynne from Robynne's Nest has been wandering around under London's lights. Oooh and Giant Red Barn!

And Annie at Sew Graceful has been making mittens.

And there are still a few days left to see The Nutcracker in Fairbanks, with Cindy.

Smoking on a Rubber Cigar: Teeny Tiny Candy Canes!

2011-12-03T19:07:00.001Z


That is A1 steak sauce, in England!

Maybe one of the reasons I'm feel less bah-humbug about the holidays this year is that I spend some time near this display every week. It doesn't really seem like enough reason to be singing the version of "We Three Kings" that involves a rubber cigar, but it is certainly helping. They also do Sweet Potato Fries with maple syrup. So, you know, a place with a full English and the best bits of America all at once. And yes, those are Bread and Butter Pickles. Yum, Bread and Butter Pickles. So, you know, go eat Here*. And pick up some Jolly Ranchers for your in-laws.

A friend swears this is the best ever sandwich

*As it turns out, this is not a sponsored post. The owners of the cafe have been extraordinarily good to me this year. But even they think my can't concentrate on anything else, look teeny tiny candy canes, excitement may be a bit over the top.** Of course if any of you want to sponsor my incredible spiced gumdrop habit or my Twizzlers habit or my Fritos habit or my Ez Cheese habit, I'll joyfully share with you. Unless it's Ez Cheese. Then I won't share at all.

**Should I talk about my general frustration with blind requests for sponsored links? Or should I just hurry up and finish talking about religion?***

***Did you see the teeny tiny candy canes?

Naturally forty-eight degrees Fahrenheit

2011-12-02T07:00:00.000Z

14.5 tog duvet over fleece blanket.

It was 9 degrees C yesterday. That would be almost 50 degrees F. The heat did not get turned on. I went to bed with my hot-water bottle on Wednesday night and found it thrown across the room on Thursday morning. This is a good thing, really. Afterall my duvet over my fleece blanket over me is far better than watching the gas meter tick by. And I am so glad we are not having the cold winter than was predicted. At this time last year, we had the heat on five hours a day (with both of us working 30-50 hours) and were still sitting on the couches trying to remain warm under several layers of blankets and clothing.

And so it is true--I had wondered in my heavy heart as I left Alaska six years ago--it is true that there comes a time, when as much as the far North draws me toward it, that I realize that I could not live through another arctic winter. The trappings of that life are now largely gone. I no longer have a heavy parka. My winter shoes met with the recycling bin a year or two ago. My gloves are still in nearly new condition. It's simply too warm here to wear them for more than a few minutes. The knit in my fleece hat is coming apart now, and I simply can't imagine a place so cold that an afternoon walk alone will not warm my feet.

I'll whinge at the cold at work this afternoon as I pile the wood high into the fireplace. This despite my total gratitude for the warmth of my current sanctuary in England.

And on Came the Gas

2011-11-30T20:48:00.001Z

Among the few girlie items I own.

Every year the housemate and I compete to see who can wait the longest before turning the heat on. The heat comes on December first, provided we have both lasted that long. Last year it was cold enough in mid-November that we couldn't really justify leaving the heat off in our rental. There is being thrifty, and there is being irresponsible.

For the last few years, downstairs guy has heated with wood, and I've spent those winters mentally begging him to turn on his heat for the sake of our frigid flooring. This year he's returned to the land of radiators, and maybe that's why the housemate and I will be calling this year's competition a tie. The heat comes on tomorrow, provided, of course, that we don't see another wave of mild weather.

This doesn't mean we've been freezing. It's been heavy blankets and hot-water bottles most days. The key to hot-water bottles is to avoid using boiling water. Melting rubber reeks rather a lot, and it's a smell that you don't really want to sleep with.

The Tradition of Felt Elves and Penguins

2011-11-23T23:35:00.001Z

One of those Fairbanks' Thanksgivings, I had the biggest house. I had, by graduate student standards, a huge house. I didn't want to attend Thanksgiving, much less host it. Steph agreed to sleepover and make the turkey. And when she heard that I was going to serve canned cranberry, Marie asked me to make it by hand. By 6:30 in the morning Steph, Joe, and I were drinking champagne and making felt elves and penguins. Steph followed the directions perfectly; I free-handed mine. You must see why it was so important that I not be in charge of the turkey; I'd have free-handed that too.

By the time the sun rose that morning at ten. By the time it had set at three, folks had begun to pile coats and hats and boots in the cold room, and we'd settled into the holiday, as it should be, shared by friends and a handful of strangers. All that I remember of that year, though, is the early morning hours and the solace of a gathering of friends on the backdrop of an arctic winter.

I hope that you are all well gathered, American or not, with those who love you in the coming weeks. That you'll open your doors to strangers, and that you'll offer comfort where it is needed. I will do my best to do the same.

And more pumpkin and more pumpkin

2011-11-23T20:59:00.001Z

I have no idea what the pies taste like. The puree was a bit chunky, so they could resemble stringy sweet-potato pie. I hope not. And I braved a handmade crust for the first time. The slivers came out tasting awfully salty. Hopefully, that won't be too much of a problem. And I accidentally bought whole cloves, so ummm glad I knew where the hammer was.

If I lived in the States, the pie would have come from the frozen aisle. Can someone remind me to look at this post next year?

I cannot think which of my English friends likes pumpkin pie. It won't hurt my feelings if it all comes home from dinner with me tomorrow. I've even picked up some double cream for just that eventuality.

I had half a pumpkin leftover,so pumpkin bread and muffins have also been made to avoid unnecessary wastage.

A few weeks ago, I made a fabulous lasagne. This one is for this week's dinner. A few weeks ago, I made a perfect white sauce, my first white sauce ever. This week's dinner is pretty lumpy. I'm trying not to spend hours on the internet to figure out why.

I miss the Thanksgivings after university, when it was no longer even possible to contemplate returning home for a four-day weekend. Those years when we'd gather as friends at the person who had the largest home's house. I do not miss those days enough to return, but I am grateful for the happy memories.

We're twenty-eight days from winter solstice. It is, for me, the most joyful of the sun's phases. We are on the verge of hope; that must be hope in itself. And for that I am thankful.

To Clarify, and Pie!

2011-11-23T07:30:00.000Z

The thing is that I'm content. And that's not despite a hard year, nor because of it. It just is. I am certain that that is what we mean when we talk about a state of grace--that state of contentment despite what the future is likely to hold. I recall this feeling, six years old now, during my last autumn in Fairbanks. Maybe it is really the feeling of living a last season in a place. Maybe last seasons are, by definition, a state of grace.

One of the things you learn to do in a new country is to cook from scratch the foods of the country you've left. Mostly the English do not eat pumpkin pie; though, slowly the idea does seem to be catching on. And so there isn't really a quick option down the freezer aisle for Thanksgiving puddding. So I learned to make pie from a pumpkin. Last year, Waitrose carried tinned pumpkin. This year, those tins are 100% pumpkin. Still, I've started again with the whole gourd.

Preachin' to the Choir

2011-11-20T07:00:00.000Z

This year the gifts will be handmade out of necessity rather than by choice. That is to say, the gifts from me are often hand made. This year though they must be. There will be no hurried last minute Christmas shopping or splurges for the little ones. Six-year-old girls want knitted muffs for Christmas, right? Right? And little boys are desperate for dinosaur hats in acrylic? And who doesn't want a pumpkin pie rather than some nice hand cream? Clearly that last one doesn't include the English.

And I am blessed, and I am grateful, and I am certain that I am enjoying more than my share of grace in this lifetime.

At this time last year, I was working for a large company. My schedule frequently changed three or four times in a week. I was told to work later than the last bus home, and the company wouldn't pay for the two-mile taxi ride--the one that cost more than an hour's wages. I was asked to slide the company's advertising through my neighbors' doors during one of the coldest Decembers on record. All because the company in question was 'struggling.' Never mind the numerous new stores they were opening or the shareholder payouts or upper management that was making more than 20 times that of underlings like me. And I kept the job because I wasn't making enough as an hourly-paid lecturer to make ends meet. And then I felt lucky, because the company didn't hire full-time. I was working with folks who were subsisisiting on beans on toast. I told a friend at the time that I had no idea how I could possibly live any closer to the edge.

I didn't leave the job until I had another lined up. The new company went into administration two days before I was supposed to start. Two months later I lost my teaching position in a mass layoff with two weeks notice.

It turns out that it is really easy to live closer to that edge. It wouldn't be if I had children or dependent parents. It wouldn't be, if I weren't so close to so many people who are using boots and nectar points to feed their families and themselves. It wouldn't be, if I didn't love my job, exactly the job I got a PhD to avoid. I am blessed. I am grateful. And I am experiencing more grace than I should. And by accident of life, I am learning to be a short-order cook.

It's lovely to be surrounded by wool again, to be digging in boxes for forgotten notions, to be searching patterns for just the right sort of muff, and to be fantasizing about the wool I'll buy in end of season sale. And wondering if the children will remember their dinosaur hats. There is a miracle in yarn unfolding around me.

I hate the holidays, and I'm not looking forward to them. This year I'm willing to give them a try even though I know my Christmas wishes are unlikely to be fulfilled.

Maybe you'll join me in wishing that all the children around the world will find their forever homes (and the courts get through a backlog of confirmations of such homes) this Christmas. It's a selfish request. A little boy who is dear to me is among them.

And you should totally go read this: a PK mate of mine in Spain. This Christmas, in all of the wealthiest countries in the world, there are still street children.

Cider, Cider, and Cloudy Apple Juice. Also Eww!

2011-11-17T07:30:00.000Z

I still think cider should be spelled 'cidar.' I can't find any explanation for it, except that I also pronounce 'bag' with a long 'a,' resulting in a word, I'm told, that is better spelled 'beg.' A friend here tells the story of attending a hayride somewhere in the US Bible Belt. She was horrified, and more than a little confused, to learn that there were plans to give the children cider. Certainly, more than a few young Americans have woken to an unexpected hangover, thanks to too many glasses of cider in Europe, or I'm told reliably, most any place outside the United States.

Cider's fine as far as it goes. I'm partial to local scrumpies. Still the best I've ever had was in St. Ives at New Year. Where local scrumpy isn't available, and it rarely is, I'd far prefer dark beer. I'm not a connoisseur of American cider any more than I am of the British versions. But when the leaves have truly fallen from the trees, I find myself thinking a lot about, what is ultimately, mulled apple juice. And like most sanguine moments of homesickness, this one propelled me into making a rather embarrassing purchase.

It turns out that the Apple and Cinnamon tea, new to the UK, tastes exactly like I remember it tasting. I had forgotten that the stuff is rank. And so I will be avoiding the satchets of powder that look suspiciously like what we used to beg for at the end of hayrides. *

*I've never actually been on a hayride.

So Too Comes the Winter.

2011-11-15T19:55:00.001Z

I have no idea what happened to September. I know what happened in it. I learned to make cooked breakfasts or full Englishes or all day breakfasts depending on your localisms. I stopped being terrified of the fryer. I crossed the one year mark before my visa lapses. I watched season five of As Time Goes By. I realized that I am that waitress in Mad about You. Mad about You didn't translate to this side of the pond. Sweet potato fries have begun to make an appearance here--If you want some, I can totally hook you up.

Knee surgery happened to October. It was long awaited knee surgery. I'd been completely ready to get caught up--on the blogging, on the blanket making, on the book revisions, on cooking, on the mildew, on the reading, on letter writing and emailing, the postcard sending, the wedding gifting. I'd forgotten that two-weeks off work generally implies that one won't be doing much catching up. Still I don't hurt every time I put my foot down. And oh the gratitude. And now, I am so glad that I've been allowed back to work.

And with the evenings drawing in well before five o'clock, I am relearning the art of Christmas gift making. I rather loathe the holidays, but I really really like the present giving. Thank goodness for Aunty Mo for making sure I learned to wield a hook last year. I don't have enough weeks left before Christmas to be fooling with knits and purls.

As for me and my house, tonight it's hot toddies and pjs well before nine. I hope you are well.

August is the Rainiest Month

2011-08-29T23:36:00.000+01:00

They sky over Bath: 25 August 2011

The rain came in the hour-long deluges that are infrequent visitors to this part of England. I'm inclined to tell you that the rain and cool weather are all part of a typical English August. But those who chart these things remind me that August isn't much more inclined to rain than any other summer month. And though the pace of the rain strikes me as untypical, I am glad for the occasional washout of a day.

The week has been too eventful on the other side of the ocean. I've written before about the difficulty of not being able to snap my fingers and return to support my family and friends. For most of my adult life, I've lived too far away to turn up --it is not simply a function of choosing life here. I could not have changed or even mitigated this week's events for my sister and her family any more than I could have changed or mitigated the events of past Augusts for any of my sisters. There are times when it seems that it would be easier, if only I were there.

My east-coast sister and her family are safe and warm in their own home tonight. They have electricity and have returned to work. As the photos begin to come in from Vermont, from the Outer Banks, I am saddened for all of the people who were not so lucky.

I am reminded that I could live in the same block as all of my sisters, and I still could not wrap them in enough cotton wool to keep them out of harm's way. I am not ready for this early autumn, followed as it will be by winter, but I am done with August.

Happy Anniversary, 2001

2011-08-25T22:53:00.000+01:00


Some Highway in Alaska

The sun is fully set by 9pm here. That's 21:00 for those of you functioning on a twenty-four hour clock. I'm told that it's dark by 11pm in Alaska. There's part of me that is desperate for the nights to stop drawing in. It inevitably leads to a time change. I don't cope well with the time change and think the one in the fall is particularly viscous, stealing, as it does, an hour of evening daylight.

The new neighbors had a party this weekend. Mostly, I'm grateful that this didn't involve burning the treated wood from the kitchen they've just pulled out. Mostly, I'm grateful that they're using a recycling skip rather than giving the local asthmatics a vision of what it must be like to run a marathon without an inhaler. Mostly, the smell of wood burning reminded me that autumn is well and truly on its way.

It made me want to reach for an ax and build a wood pile. Our house is heated with gas. There is no need for a wood pile. Though one of our neighbors heats with wood, and I'm fairly certain isn't terribly good with wielding an ax. I'm inclined toward pulling out my thermals and washing the winter coat. But I no longer live in a place where any of this is necessary before the end of September. I wonder, when I leave this place, what olfactory memories will drive sudden and senseless behavior.

As for the bread, I swear it came out of the oven smelling like acetone. The housemate insists otherwise.The starter smelled of beer, like it should. I suspect that I am now imagining odors that do not exist. Perhaps tomorrow it will be nasturtiums and golden honey. Either way, I'll be eating rye bread and butter for breakfast in the morning.

Here the job search continues. And the work I do have remains strangely fulfilling. Mostly, I look forward to kneading bread dough and the day when a day off doesn't mean the work of finding a job. I wonder what that will feel like. Will I, when the sun is set at five pm, find it easy to settle into the making of baby blankets and watching films on tv? Will I think of planning a holiday to Budapest--the holiday I've been promising to spend with a friend for three years now? Will I begin to drink tea again?

I remember a nearly perfect day in an Alaskan spring when we drove two hundred miles out of our way and walked a bit further. I know I was looking for a job then too, and we knew that our days in the far north were numbered by the the inevitability of one coming winter or another. I know that we had no idea that ten years on from the day we first met one of us would be beginning a job in Hawaii and the other would be mopping floors near a completely different ocean. Many of us have started families and seen the end of years long marriages. We are all lost in a world we didn't expect to find. Mostly we had no idea that it is possible for a decade to pass; though it has. Another decade seems near impossible.

Happy Anniversary. The view from here is not better, but it will do.

Yellow Leaves and Summer

2011-08-23T21:10:00.001+01:00


23 August 2011

I was cleaning a coffee machine today. Naturally that was my first mistake. I cleaned the same machine a few days ago, but I had the spray bottle that makes things shiny out. How could I possibly resist? My second mistake was in leaning over to pick a spoon up off the floor. And finally, I had my eyes open as I stood up-open wide enough to look out the window. Tomorrow we are scheduled for summer weather. But the trees are indicating a early autumn. Autumn is my favorite season, but today it seems a little soon.

Those Ain't No Texas Longhorns

2011-08-18T08:10:00.000+01:00

Not to be outdone by my fellow Americans, I finally made it up to The American Museum in Britain. It was a lovely day out with my dear friends Josh and Sarah. We ate oatmeal cookies, snickerdoodles, and some ginger cookies that were decidedly unamerican. And we sat on the grounds of Claverton Manor and talked about babies, bulk-buying flour, and life.

It's taken me five years to make it up the hill to the museum, in large part, because touring a museum of my own country's history felt a bit squidgy, or rather, felt a bit too much like being a tourist to me. One of the many things I am guilty of is being too much of a snob to embrace the city I live in. Oh and I'm really bad at museums. I don't see what's in front of me. I see the words but only skim them, and I almost always forget to look at the objects they refer to. I'm supposed to be learning patience along with gratitude. I am not patient, even with myself.

I'm told by my fellow Americans that the museum doesn't quite tell the story of American history. I'm inclined to think that we all learned our history from the same text, and I know that we all saw it through the same filter of American childhoods. Given all this, I was surprised to find myself rereading-twice, three times, four times-a small blurb about the early years of the American revolution. It took a fifth read before I finally got it. The Boston tea party is referred to as infamous. Five tries to catch the phrasing that put me off. Of course the Boston Tea Party is infamous. The museum makes little of America's split from Britain and even less of the War of 1812. And really, if a group of Americans or Britons went to their local ports and destroyed the cargo on ships what would we call that? Infamous is a perfect descriptor, even if it makes my eighth-grade spine twinge.

The museum was meant to help in "fostering historic ties between the United States and the United Kingdom." And I assumed that the decoration of the house must have had that same goal in mind. So when Sarah kindly pointed out the cornice in the entrance. I assumed that it was meant to represent Texas Long Horns. Admittedly this seemed a bit of an odd choice given the other possibilities of eagles, turkeys, or even moose.

The lovely staff, and they really are lovely, were kind enough to set me to rights. They are laureled ox skulls and are original to the house.

Banana is Not the Only Cake

2011-08-16T20:32:00.000+01:00

Oven Spring

I've spoken here about American tourists and even their likenesses to English tourists. Looking back through the archives, I haven't spent nearly as much time complaining about Americans on the blog as I do to friends here in the city. Perhaps there is a reason why some folks think I'm awfully hard on the locals.

Last year at about this time, I sat in front of my computer at my local-international-chain-coffee shop trying to get a few words down on the page before I went to my terrible country-wide-chain job. I like to sit with my back to walls and within easy view of both the doors and the tills. There is only one plug in the coffee shop that caters to this particular predilection of mine. It sits me within whispering distance of the punters. Nice British word there--punters.

Three things happen rather predicatably in the queue for coffee. There is always someone who is horrified by the price of a brownie. They're cheaper at the grocery store just up the street, and yet said person will complain to the barista about the prices before buying said brownie. Someone will complain that the location of the queue is not obvious. The location of the queue is completely obvious even to Americans who do not queue. And someone will complain that their cappuccino is mostly foam, or as those of us who make coffee like to call it--a cappuccino.

Unfortunately, sitting with my back to the cityscape that is exactly like the cityscape in your local-international-chain coffee shop makes it nearly impossible for me not to stare in disbelief. Honestly, I get the the cappuccino thing. There a plenty of places that only serve espresso, and if you don't know the lingo you may well think that cappuccino is the easiest way to obtain something white coffee like (ask for an americano with warm milk or cold). And really the prices are higher than the grocery store, but you're rather getting a different product and you're paying over the odds because you choose to. And really, I've yet to identify someone who was actually confused by the queue location rather than being unwilling to admit that they were trying to jump the queue altogether.

Tourist season is particularly interesting as every American desperate for a taste of home will drop in for the coffee that tastes the same around the world. Did I mention to anyone that my trip back to the states proved this wrong? It did. More wrong though, was hearing the following exchange:

American Tourist A: Banana Muffins? What do those taste like?

American Tourist B: It's a local cake. You can only get it in this part of England.

They taste just like your grandmother's banana bread, ladies. Just like your grandmother's banana bread in a muffin casing.

On the bread front, I've solved the oven-spring problem. I don't know why I was kneading the dough a third time before placing it in the oven. I'm learning.

About the Bread

2011-08-12T22:24:00.001+01:00

I had the day off today so I made my way to a neighboring town to see my friend and her boys. We went to egg and spoon races (hard boiled) and to a sing song. Then we read stories and played a couple of homemade games. Someone's father really likes making 'go back to start' squares. And did you know that knights will save you from dinosaurs? I got kicked by a triceratops twice. Don't fear though, it pushed me closer to the treasure.

The bread is going well. Though I have got to start remembering to cook some veg and beans. Either that or I need to invest in a giant bag of nuts and certainly look into buying flour in bulk. I still can't seem to make a perfect crust. It's a small thing, but it keeps me focused away from the news cycle.

There are several organizations collecting donations (including toothbrushes, tampons, and underwear) and organizing cleanups throughout England including Haringey council. The predictions of the demise of Britishness were clearly wrong and I am reminded again as to why I choose here.

Thank You, Again

2011-08-10T19:14:00.000+01:00

Thank you all for your concern, your thoughts, and your prayers. I am fine and safe. More importantly, I am not in long-term poverty. I have not been dispossessed. And I am not losing services while others show off their wealth all around me. Please direct your thoughts, concern, and prayers to those young men and women whose needs have been ignored through good times and who are condemned as useless in these bad times. And pray for the police who must deal with a reality that the popular narrative doesn't acknowledge. The world could use some peace.

It's not been an easy week here in the UK. If I were a rhetorician living in the US, I'd be having a field day. I'm not, and I'm also an immigrant in a time where anything I say may be misinterpreted. So instead, I want to say two things. Right, I want to say one thing, and I want to repeat another.

I have great faith in the ability of Britons to clean up their neighborhoods, to put out the fires of anger, and to allow the country to grow as a whole rather than as parts. I hope that the leadership to do so will begin to show itself in the next few days.

I've noticed several bloggers asking why those of us in the UK have not begun to speak about this week's events. I would suggest that things are very real for many of us here, especially those in the cities which have been torn by poverty and now by violence. I would suggest that there is no middle ground in the national rhetoric, though there is quite a lot of middle ground on the buses, in cafes, and on the walking paths.

"We still have a choice today: nonviolent coexistence or violent coannihilation. This may well be mankind’s last chance to choose between chaos or community." MLK Jr.

Some Cleaning and Gratitude

2011-08-07T23:27:00.002+01:00

The big writing project is finished, knock wood. I can't wait to see what our words look like up against Beth's film. I'm also pretty excited about a future in writing outside of the blog and the rewrite of the book. I will, rather joyfully, let you all know when it goes on sale.

Do you see me swooning? I am, and it's nothing to do with the heat. Redilocks over at Swoon Worthy rather kindly passed on the Liebster award to me. She says that, ". . . the Leibster Blog award is for smaller blogs (less than 300 followers) that deserve some additional attention." And like Redilocks, I have well under 100 followers. So do many of the bloggers that I read. Sooo, I want to share a few of them with you.

Redlissa has been cracking me for eons now, but she just started blogging this year. You should check out this post if you're ever tempted to click on those google weight loss ads or if you wonder who does.
A Belle Abroad did this expat thing long before I got around to it. Her family is still on the move, and you should read here, if you liked studying vikings.

Finger Rolls and Folding Chairs expated from the UK first to Canada and then to the US. Now they're heading homewards. She's quickly becoming a hero of mine, not least because of how she named her blog.

The last batch of sourdough started rancified and grew black mold. So starter #3 managed to make good bread today. It wasn't sour at all. My sister has assured me that it is perfectly safe to eat whole loaves of bread and butter as long as I have no other calorific intake. Have I told you how much I love real butter?

About the Cats

2011-08-05T22:55:00.001+01:00

The housemate and I have both reached an age where we're inheriting inanimate objects. It started as furniture from her family as they down sized to bungalows (think ranch style houses). There is a lovely chair in my living room that I am terrified of sitting on, but also a fantastic table that tends to hold the mail. Then it was the entirety of someone's cat collection. Not the live ones. Not the dead ones either. These are statuettes and pillows and coffee mugs, a pie bird, and salt and pepper shakers. The housemate thinned out the collection. And from the experience, I learned to never ever buy anyone something that they are perceived as collecting. Unless its wool (yarn). I can always use more of that.

Last summer I finally managed to follow a crochet book--ok it was two crochet books with the help of the internet--and one of my nephews became the first recipient of a baby blanket that wasn't knitted. Midway through buying the wool for a blanket for my grandmother, she up and died. She lived in Florida and really didn't need a blanket so that's all right. When she was downsizing, she wanted me to take the plastic mushrooms that had adorned her wall during my childhood and dump them in her condo's shared skip. I stuffed them into my suitcase and carried them first to Baltimore, then to Alaska, and finally to the UK. I have other more important of my grandmother's things. I still can't figure out how to give up the mushrooms.

I'm a week behind on a writing project for a friend. It's an important project for her and for me. I'm not just embarrassed but rather annoyed at myself about the whole thing. But I find it impossible to turn away two-year-old kisses even when they carry with plague. There will be a post, sometime in the future, about something of import to the larger world. In the mean time, please don't leave me.

Fabulous Things About England #35: Midges

2011-08-02T21:55:00.001+01:00

Midge

The last time I had a mosquito bite was in May. Before that I hadn't been bitten by the loathsome creatures since July of 2007. On neither occasion was I in England. I should be overjoyed about this. In fact, my friends who still live in Alaska will now refer to me as a big whingy pants. I am a big whingy pants. England does produce mosquitoes but not on the scale of any state that I've ever stupidly bared skin in.

The other thing that English doesn't produce and seems to actively eschew--window screens. Soo late night writing combined with open windows (it's too warm to close the windows) results in ceilings full of midges. Or if you're really smart and have closed the bathroom door on an open window and bare bulb, a floor full of midges.

These don't bite; some do. Probably someone is going to come across and tell me that these are mayflies or some rather better defined grouping of insect. I do rather prefer noseeums for their better name. Still these are pretty, green bodies on white wings.

No, I Do Not Want the 98p Stamp

2011-07-30T23:11:00.001+01:00

Not Built in the 19th Century

So I owe you one more post on religion in England. This is not that post. While Bath Abbey is a fantastic building, and on most days, has actual services that people, many of them Christains, attend, it is also one of the major tourist attractions here in Bath. There is also, The Jane Austin Museum, The Roman Baths, The Museum of Costume, Victoria Park, the Post Office Museum, and a half-ton truck of other bits and pieces to see in Bath. (If anyone wants to go to the American Museum or the Museum of Bath at Work with me, I'm totally up for it).

It's tourist season. This means several things for me. First, I should know better than moving to places that are tourist attractions. Second, no matter how much I may now look Englishy, my accent gives me away as someone who must be looking for my tour bus. Third, I am reminded that I know bus routes and times in BANES and the surrounding area off by heart. Fourth, that locals will lie to tourists for the fun of it. And most importantly that I cannot possibly want anything other than a 98p stamp.

Throughout most of the year, I can order cider without being told it isn't apple juice, ask for the very last bus stop in the outermost zone without being told that surely I mean to go on to the next town, and purchase signed-for postage (registered mail) at the post office. But between May and the middle of August, I become by accent alone, incapable of navigating my life in Bath. And while I am grateful to the English and longstayers among Bathonians for their kindnesses to my countrymen, there are days when I need a pint of cider (hard cider) to overcome my frustration at having to repeat those fine words. No really, I live here. I need to know that those documents reached there.

If by some chance, you were in the tour group above, I feel I must tell you that your tour guide was misinformed. The Abbey wasn't built in the 19th century and Lucifer is on the left, not the right.

And as it is Sunday and the End of the Month, you should trot on over to visit Laura and link up to the Post of the Month Club. Go on, click the link.

Sometimes I Remember to Stop and Look

2011-07-26T21:43:00.000+01:00

Sometimes I remember to stop and look

The housemate will probably kill me if I manage to get, and leave, bread dough on another surface in the house. It is rather following me. How did it get on the shower head, the light switch, the window key? I know precisely how I managed to get it on the keyboard, the refrigerator door, and the aloe plant. I mentioned that I accidentally threw the first (and successful) batch of sourdough starter into the washing-up bowl. The second batch went rancid or was rancid or got rancified. I switched to rye flour and managed a perfect loaf of sourdough rye. I ate the whole loaf in a day. Today I managed to make my third rye brick.

I have very little short term memory. I can't remember where I went right with those two good loaves. Tomorrow morning I will try rye starter with white flour. I'll try to manage to pick up milk and maybe some actual food at the store. It seems likely that I'll forget to top up. Mostly, it is time to go to sleep. I remember the sweet exhaustion after a day of chopping wood. Can kneading bread emulate that, I wonder.

Purple Clouds, Grey Sky

2011-07-24T22:16:00.001+01:00

In this part of England, as the earth turns further from the sun and toward autumn, the sunsets take on a purple hue. I have never been terribly good at summer. Even in those halcyon days when summer meant no school and plenty of time to get in forty hours of work a week, I always found the loose ends of my life fraying. It may well be the reason why, for so long, I have chosen academia as the backdrop of my existence--that need for a narrative--beginning, rising action, crisis, falling action, denouement--a lack of knowlege, gain of knowledge, proof of knowledge, rest. It's the resting that I'm no good at, the moments of taking stalk and planning a new year leave me wondering how to continue, what path to take, where to go next. I find my life without students rather exhausting. August is closing in. Next august will mark the end of my current visa. I do not know what else it will mark the close of. I am uncomfortable living a life without a formal narrative arch.

Like so many of the people around me, I am trying to learn gratitude--not joy, or optimism, or certainty, but gratitude. It's easy enough to count my blessings. It's easy enough to count my grief. Gratefulness is harder to come by.

On Saturday, a year after I completed my PhD, I walked across the stage in that final symbol of a hard earned achievement. I'm sure that I was not the only graduate to find that walk tinted by grief. My mother wasn't there to see me any more than she had been there when I finished high school, or college, or my master's degree. This is no blessing. It is also an odd sort of grief that pops its head into the life I've grown used to over the sixteen years since her death.

It is a tradition in my family that at moments of great achievement we wear my mother's pearls. Early on Saturday morning, I toyed with the idea of leaving them in the jewelry box. I don't miss my mother anymore. It's difficult to miss someone who has been gone so long. I never knew her as an adult. And this fall, I will have lived more of my life without her than I lived with her. There was part of me that thought that I don't want to spend the rest of my life knowing she is missing. I don't want every achievement to be overlaid with her absence. I put her pearls on anyway and wrapped my grandmother's bracelet around my wrist, even though I credit neither of them with my survival of the PhD--and it was a question of survival. I miss them. I loved them, but I did this thing on my own. Part of me deeply resents the fact that the only choice I had was to do this thing on my own.

And this is what I mean about gratefulness. Friends joined me for graduation. They took seats in the front row despite being made uncomfortable by the focus that put on them. They smiled for and clapped the entirety of a graduating class in anticipation of the final two of us to cross the stage. Though they knew that that walk would be a lonely one for me, they chose to be present so that I wouldn't feel so far from the life I imagined rather than the one I have now. And when I left the tent, before I could find my friends, it was another friend who gathered me in her arms and let me cry that sixteen-year-old unchangeable loss. And this is what I mean about gratitude. Nothing can change my mother's death and nothing, most certainly not me, can change my father's absence from the handful of joyous days in my life. I am trying to learn gratitude for the multitude who have attempted to mitigate that grief and who have reminded me, even at its hardest, that I am allowed my joy.

Nearly Perfect Cafe Days

2011-07-22T11:50:00.002+01:00

The humidity yesterday weighed just heavily enough to slow the clocks.To stop what the papers say from mattering and the evening news from its stilted importance. It slowed pace of joy and grief. Folks hovered over their lunches without much thought towards the hour's passing and the brief respite of a single ray of sunshine.

Religion in England and America Part 3: Like Folks Were Up There Dying

2011-07-18T21:43:00.001+01:00

Manver's Street Baptist Church

I promised Gram that I'd say a prayer for her at St. Patrick's. Steph and I had caught a New Year's Day flight to Dublin. Her pristine sense of direction failed on account of the curving streets and my organizational skills had flown out of me during the terrible year. Two things: Never use churches as landmarks in Dublin and always travel with someone who will think walking in circles for hours is hilarious. We stayed up and out well into the night because I had managed to book us into the world's worst hostel and got up early because there is only so much time you can spend on top of blankets worrying about previous tenants. Steph tried to get me to talk, something I had forgotten how to do. I tried to make sure her hands didn't freeze, something they do easily. And between us, we made a nearly perfect weekend.

And when we made the necessary trip to St. Patrick's, we separated and made our necessary pilgrimages alone. I pulled my lighter from my pocket and lit a candle before sinking to my knees in front of the Virgin Mary. I hadn't prayed in years, tried to take up a conversation with God in such a way that I might expect to be heard. I envy the high churches their saints, their priests, their numerous beings who might intervene. I grew up in low church protestantism, my conversations were, by necessity of doctrine, with God.

My path out of first organized religion, then Christianity, and finally into Agnosticism was so typical that it hardly bears the telling. First there was the great event that made me cling to the Church and its teaching. Second I began to question the church's reaction to that crisis. And then I wondered at the Church's teachings. I stopped participating in the parts of services I didn't believe in.I remember too well the moment I realized that I could sit through an entire service without standing or speaking or sitting. I kept God and rejected the church before asking the question: What kind of God...?Certainly not the one I was raised to believe in. God and I talked a lot in the intervening years, until I found I was simply talking to myself.

When I was young and still believed, I did not so much converse with God as write long letters to him in my head. So began on that kneeler in Dublin. Dear God and excuse me entity for talking to you when I don't believe in you, but I made this promise to my grandmother. Her soul, it could use a little help. You know just in case I'm wrong and she's right. I wonder if perhaps you'd bring her some comfort even if the request came from a giant hypocrite who thinks this is a pretty amazing piece of art standing in front of me. Um, the end.

I didn't leave my religion is a giant kerfuffle. And your faith, your belief, your ability to comfort with the promise of a prayer, I envy. As I hold hymns and the psalms as sacred, so too I hold hard physical work and grief. So too I hold I love yous and goodbyes and echoing silences. As for the profane, I believe that is sacred too. But there are two things that I still cannot endure: the belief that one cannot have faith and spirituality without God or religion, and the certainty that one's own beliefs entitle them to mock the other.

And so you would think that I should be entirely comfortable living in a country where most folks hold their religion or lack of religion close to their chests. I'm not, and I'll tell you why just as soon as I get through the week.

Religion in England and America Part 2: At the Calling of Your Hearts

2011-07-15T20:54:00.005+01:00

Among my dinner party tricks here in England is the ability to produce dry humor with an American accent. If I'm having a particularly good night, I follow it up with a bit of irony. My world is getting awfully small, feel free to invite me along as your spare female.

For lunch gatherings, I produce shocking information about the States and its Americans. Much like London isn't England, New York isn't America. American's do not, on the whole, sing the National Anthem at the beginning of the school day. (They do say the Pledge of Allegiance unless their families object on religious or other grounds). There are Pro-Choice Christians in America. Most American's don't really care whether or not their brethren are practicing the right kind of Christianity or any Christianity at all. And many many many Americans don't practice and do not know much about Christianity.

The thing about New York and London is just obnoxious no matter where you come from. The rest are things that many of the English find rather perplexing.

It's hard to imagine preforming the same party trick in the States. Maybe I've just kept the wrong the company in the States. More probably, I don't know the English as well as I know the Americans. Much like it is impossible to identify the characteristics of your own culture, it is very difficult to even intrinsically know the characteristics of another culture. As frustrated as I am by the assumptions the English bring to the cultural dinner table, I bring cultural assumptions of my own. Maybe you're an Australian reading this in Beijing. Maybe you're an Indian reading this in Georgia. Maybe you're an American reading this in England. Probably you'll disagree with my evaluation.

Right now I'm eating couscous with sultanas. And I, if you were an Englishwoman sitting next to me, can tell for certain that you'd have trouble wrapping your head around how it is that I react so strongly to the British Government's financial support of religious schools. Why it is that I am taken aback by the portrayal of Rector's wives on television and in the media. That I cannot fathom how it is that anyone in England could claim that it is not a Christian country. And mostly my sheer disbelief that when faced with the question of someone else's choices of spirituality and belief being office gossip--except of course when my own prejudices rise to the top.

It all sounds rather negative doesn't it? It isn't really. Here's the thing, there are many meanings of the question, 'are you a Christain.' I'll keep it to the English and the Americans. It becomes too difficult if I also include the rest of Britain or Canada.

Are you the same kind of Christian as I am?(Can I make certain assumptions about you). Asked in the UK and States.
Are you a cultural Christain or one who practice the traditions of rather than believes in the teachings of the church? (No one has ever asked me this question. I wish they had).
Are you one of those Christians? (Either the anything goes kind or the other kind depending on who is asking).
Are you a Christian? (Meaning can I judge you in both the US and the UK).
Are you a Christain? (Can I make basic assumptions about who you are and what you believe based on your practice of a religion?)
Oh are you trying to get your children into the school? (Because why else would a seemingly normal Britain attend church?)

I wonder if we can say we understand each other now? Can we safely say that every experience of organized religion and opinions of it that I have had in England have been heavily influenced by my experiences of the same in the US. Can we agree that, on Monday, I'll be talking about me and my experience of religion in the UK and not about all Americans? Can we agree that neither of these cultures have either practiced or exported the beliefs they hold dear particularly well? Oh good, phew.

Religion in England and America Part 1: Ma'am, I am tonight.

2011-07-13T23:07:00.002+01:00

Here is a secret: Very occasionally you can find me sat in the back of Bath Abbey, hymns marked with bits of paper, prayer book in hand. Very occasionally is probably an exaggeration. It has happened once in the last two years. Though four times in the past few years, I have bypassed the queues of tourists, sat down, and slipped slowly off the pew onto the dull green kneelers. It is one way to survive the funerals that are too far away to attend. The last time I sat in the Abbey it was to ask my grandmother if she understood, now that she was gone, why it is that I don't go to church. I assume omniscience of the dead. Gram knows now whether or not she needed to worry for all those years about the state of my soul. I do not believe in God. I do not believe in heaven or hell. I do not believe in an afterlife, except for when it keeps grief at bay.

Shortly before I agreed to take my first flat here in Bath, I met with my soon to be housemate to try to figure out if we were a good match. She smiled. I smiled. We determined that we had nothing in common and would rarely be in the flat at the same time. She needed a flatmate. I needed a flat, and we were both rather desperate. As I stood up to leave, she turned to me and mentioned that all of her friends had suggested she ask me if I was that kind of American. These days I'd likely turn around and ask what kind of American exactly was that kind of American. I knew exactly what she meant, and I wasn't yet wise enough to mind. No, I'm not that kind of American. I'm not that kind immigrant. I'm not that kind of Christian.

It's the difficulty of defining terms in the middle of a conversation. Or rather, it is the difficulty of defining terms while taking into account the underlying cultural assumptions about those terms. I am undoubtedly a US citizen, an American by cultural upbringing and by birth. I have friends whose children who undoubtedly US citizens, but they are English by cultural upbringing, and many of them are undoubtedly British citizens as well. I'll leave the immigrant question for another day.

I'd like to tell you that it was in the early part of this decade that, in America, the term Christianity became synonymous with a specific type of Christianity--one that is full of condemnation, vilification of the other, and a propensity for being a single issue and single party voter. The future flatmate was asking me if I was that kind of American. A question I never hear here, perhaps because I move in the wrong circles, is "What kind of Christian are you?" We don't ask that question in America either. Instead we ask, "Are you looking for a church?" or "Would you like to come to Church?" or "Are you a Christian?"

It was a relief to me, on moving to England, not to be asked any of those questions. It was a relief not to be approached by street preachers or to find comic books about revelation pushed into my hands by people I passed on the street. It was a relief not to be constantly reminded, as was the case in 2005, that references to my upbringing would cause people to assume a lot of inaccurate things about me.

This Easter three things happened in quick succession that made me awfully squidgy. A fellow blogger mentioned, somewhat uncomfortably, that her love of Easter was based in her Christian faith. I was accosted by a local missionary who was having a decidedly bad day. And, when asked what my father did for a living, I answered on the condition that I not be judged.

But to unravel those things, I think we all have to be on the same footing. I'll try to get us there in the next post.

Photos, Churchs, and Other Things

2011-07-10T21:03:00.000+01:00

It would seem that blogger is having some difficulty. Not for today then a discussion of religion in England. Instead a photo for you. Before I remain remiss, I do want to thank Lizzie's Steve for agreeing that roughage and a better exit strategy keep English toilets from clogging. I do like it when people agree with me. You can see Lizzie's full explanation in the comments on this post.

Fabulous Things About England #34: Electric Kettles

2011-07-08T05:01:00.004+01:00

When I was just about to become a teenager, my mother complained rather endlessly about the lip imprints on the full length mirrors in the living room. They clearly belonged to my sister as I mostly remembered to wipe mine off with my sleeve. Mom never would have been able to tell that the smudges had been lip marks, right?

I kiss shiny objects much less frequently than I once did. I do have the occasional run in with the rings of royalty. Otherwise the kettle is the only inanimate object of my desire, and the housemate suggests that kissing it is insanitary.

Most every home in the UK has an electric kettle. They often turn up along side the washing machine, refrigerator and oven in unfurnished rentals. You can get them in the States, but given that American's drink far fewer hot drinks, mostly wouldn't consider drinking powdered coffee, and haven't learned tea as part of first responder (first aid) courses, electric kettles are rarely seen in the US. They are different than the hotpots that you young things (ahem) might remember from your first dorm room. They boil water in at most a couple of minutes. And I do now drink a lot of freeze-dried coffee.

Hard water is rather a problem in and around Bath. The easiest way to avoid needing to descale your kettle is to only fill it with filtered water (insert discussion of water filtration jugs, bottled water, etc). It also helps if you only ever fill the kettle with as much water as you need. The more times you reboil water, the more limescale that is going to be left behind (and it is a waste of energy as well). Failure to descale your kettle can result in the early demise of your kettle (they're not cheap), hard chewy bits in your tea (they're not bad for you), and your kettle having to use more energy to boil water (have you read your electrics bill lately). We tend to boil water for cooking in the kettle as well, since boiling the kettle is cheaper than heating it on the stove.

I am head (and only) descaler at my house. This means that my housemate religiously uses the filter jug to fill the kettle and I do not. You can use the heavey duty descalers we talked about earlier this week, but honestly, I always worry about having gotten it all out. Now I descale the kettle with vinegar. Here's how it goes.

Not nearly as gross as it looks. It is really hard to photograph lime scale.

1. Empty Kettle, pop out filter.
2. Fill Kettle half full and boil.
3. Put Kettle into sink. Add vinegar to full line on kettle.
4. Go to bed.
5. Wake up. Rinse out kettle. Use toothbrush (not an old one that's been in your mouth, please) to brush away any remaining scale.
6. Fill kettle to full with water. Boil.
7. Rinse out your kettle.
8. Make a cup of tea.

Most manufacturers encourage descaling at least once a month. A kettle, they say, should last for five years when treated kindly. Ours is on year 8. It is a good thing I like it so much. If you're off to buy a kettle, go for the kind you do not have to unplug before you pour. It makes life so much easier when they simply lift off the base.

I'm hoping there is a run on electric kettles in America after this.

See you Monday.

I'm on the List. Are You?

2011-07-07T05:39:00.003+01:00

When my mother was 17 she became one of the early kidney transplants in the US. At 19, she lost her mother and received her mother's kidney on the same day. She lived well past doctors' expectations of six months and into her early forties. She had two babies. Those babies now both have terminal degrees. One of those babies has a son.

Today, in the UK, 88% of renal transplants are functioning. There are many more people still on organ waiting lists. Some of them are 17. I'm on the organ donor register here and in the US. It is transplant week here in the UK. I wonder if you might click over and consider becoming a donor in the UK , in the US,. or in your country.

Bathrooms, Showers, Toilets and Ewww Part 4: The Mixer Tap

2011-07-06T08:21:00.000+01:00

The above is a mixer tap.

The above is NOT a mixer tap.

I bet you didn't know that a lack of mixer taps are proof of everything from how backwards the English are to the idiocy of the UK's failure to join the Euro to the lack of technologial savey of the countries young people, to what huge (insert series of expletives here) the English are. It's not true. I'll explain at the bottom, with citations.

Behold: a mixer tap combines hot and cold water, shoots it out one tap, and creates warm water. Can't you just feel the controversy brewing? Aren't you just dying to know why it matters? I thought not.

Any gathering of immigrants to the UK usually results in discussions of things we don't understand about the UK. While having a moan is typically English, the purpose of these discussions is rarely just moaning. It does happen that one person will ask a question, in the form of a complaint, and another person will say, "I just found out why that is." Here is an example:

Me: I still can't get past the lack of mixer taps. Why, if you're fitting a new bathroom at the department store, would you then fail to install mixer taps.
My Friend: Mixer taps have an interesting history here. They're hard to fit into old style plumbing systems. Department Store was refitting not replumbing. There was also a period after they were introduced when there were concerns about hygiene given the way mixer taps in the UK originally worked. {Note: Hygiene is often cited for skipping over new bathroom introductions. Remember the idea of bathing was once horrifying}.

See, perfectly reasonable. Replumbing a building is much more difficult and expensive than simply putting in new taps and new basins. And honestly, I was glad to see that they had fitted watersaving toilets. If you're desperate, you can see the current in-pipes in the picture above.

Me to my friend: I hate scalding my hands while trying to wash them.
Woman next to us: Fill the sink with hot and cold water. Use that.

So actually not really a problem. It feels like a waste of water, but I've experimented and discovered that I use more water when I wash my hands under running water. {She washed her hands with scalding water}.

Do not, I mean it, fail to recognize the signs around sinks that warn of very hot water. They're not kidding. You will, trolling through comments on such stories, see that folks claim a lack of mixer taps are the reason for so many scaldings in the UK. It's important to remember that hot water can be turned on without cold water thus resulting in hot water, even in a mixer tap.

The issue of mixer taps, which are largely used throughout the continent, comes up now and again in the news. It is rare, even from UK sources, to see any sort of in-depth research into the topic. And usually the reason given is that non-mixer taps are traditional. It's lazy journalism. It's hard to see indoor plumbing as traditional. Most certainly the reasons are tied to money, old plumbing rules, habit, and ancient plumbing. Remember that my kitchen drain was attached to a Victorian down pipe.

Sine those news stories are inevitably fluff, they tend to carry with them pages and pages of comments. Go on and read them. You'll discover as I did that mixer taps are proof of the alleged failings of the mostly the English but sometimes the UK as well. A few points of view are linked below.

Other Places Mentioning Mixer Taps
BBC All 2gether Now Project
The Guardian's Nicolas Blincoe
The Offensive to Everyone, WSJ via Warwick University Blogs
And for good measure a message board with some useful if not entirely correct information

Other Parts of the Bathrooms, Showers, Toilets and Ewww series
Why English Toilets Don't Clog
How to Descale Your Shower Head
Electric Showers and Yet No Electricity.

Some Clean Up and A Small Jig

2011-07-05T05:11:00.023+01:00

Ooo, Flowers, Tourists, and Sun!

Sooo, I've gotten a handful of questions in great repition. I thought I'd answer them here. I know that you were just dying to see that I'm covered in flour and the flowers in Bath.

Yum, Flour.

Q: What happened with your bread.
A: I spent most of last week covered in flour. No really, the photo about doesn't do the flour coverage justice. My first attempt at sourdough starter went from one cup flour, one cup water to sponge in 36 hours. As for the bread, the first loaf burned on the outside and suffered extreme doughyness on the inside. It was inedible. The second loaf came up lovely, if a bit heavy.

Second Attempt at Sourdough Loaf.

I know you're just dying to comment. And then I killed the starter by washing the bowl. That's right: I picked up the starter bowl and tossed it into the dishwater. I don't think there is any way to save starter from detergents. The second attempt at starter is currently becoming a sponge. At least, I hope it is becoming a sponge. If not, I'll have to go buy bread tomorrow. That would defeat the whole point. I suspect that I'm going to be going through a lot of flour in the coming weeks.

Q: Did you really have an outhouse?
A: Yes, two in fact. I was terrible at having an outhouse. Wait, I was terrible at my first outhouse. Saving a bit of dosh by living without running water in a dry cabin in Alaska seemed like a good idea. Besides I really really wanted to prove that I could do it. The week we moved in breakup (the great melt that happens in June in Alaska) occurred, and it became clear that the outhouse hole hadn't been dug properly, I'd moved into a bog, and that my landlord was creepy. I spent most of the ensuing seven months using a honey bucket (five gallon bucket in the house) and 'flushing' that down the outhouse. My second outhouse experience was pretty fabulous (Thanks, Jennifer). Of course the local mama moose really liked the extra foliage that grows around outhouses, and she often wasn't going to let me near it. Luckily it was Alaska and I had already become a dab hand at squatting in the woods. Phew.

Q: I grew up with an outhouse and their were various creepy crawlies I couldn't stand. How did you cope?
A: I would not have coped at all any place that has snakes, spiders bigger than the palm of hand, or wasn't frozen 9 or so months a year. I do often miss my outhouse and its large expanse of wilderness. I hate cleaning the toilet, and I hate having to wait my turn. The English don't like it when you use their gardens as 'the necessary.'

Q: Wouldn't it be cheaper and easier to replace your shower head rather than descaling it?

A: It might be easier except that I don't have a car. It's a twenty-minute bus ride followed by a twenty-minute walk to the nearest place that sells shower heads. I'd have to do this approximately once a month. It's actually less time consuming to descale the shower head and more environmentally friendly. I broke our last shower head when I dropped it from a great height. The cheapest new one was 9 quid. At the time that would have been 18 dollars. Even the heavy duty chemical descaler costs about 1.50 per descale. Vinegar is of course much cheaper than that. It is a job I hate, and if I could convince people that I live in a dry cabin and need to shower at their houses, I would.

Q: What's the weather like there right now?
A: It's unseasonably warm or cold. It's probably raining and windy or muggy with no precipitation or it's blowing a gale. I suggest putting on a pair of trousers, a short-sleeve t-shirt, a long sleeved t-shirt, and a jacket. Put a skirt in your handbag (or if you prefer carrier bag). Subtract clothing as necessary. Add clothing as necessary. I'm not being sarcastic. I really do this. I works rather well.

Q: Do you celebrate July 4 there?
A: I do. Some of the English celebrate with me. They bring me gifts, usually flowers. They call it the day they finally got rid of those obnoxious Puritans. Some people find it very offensive that I continue to celebrate. Most people just want an invite to the bbq.

Tomorrow is mixer tap day. Warm water out of a tap. Who knew? I'm still debating whether or not to approach that whole religion thing. I'm trying to be brave.

Thanks so much to The Jason Show and Finger Rolls and Folding Chairs for kindly linking to me. These are both blogs I enjoy, and I hope you'll go visit them. Someone else has linked me, or shared me, or shouted about me, but I haven't been able to figure out who. Let me know if it was you, please, and I'll link you up.

PS: I'm not sure comments are working for everyone. Will you please e-mail me if you're having problems, americaninbath@gmail.com?

Bathrooms, Showers, Toilets and Ewww Part 3: Why the English Flush Better

2011-07-04T05:20:00.001+01:00

Clearly, I have nothing but your best interests at heart. I've spent the whole of the weekend trying to find out why UK toilets clog less frequently than US toilets. I'm exhausted from all of the effort. Someone should really bring me dinner and a drink.

Former residents of Chez American in Bath had much better tastes in toilets than in baths, don't you think? Not only is the toilet suite white, but the toilet has not blocked in the almost five years I have lived here. This may be why I know absolutely nothing about UK plumbing. Few midnight plumbing problems leads to lack of knowledge. In fact, I think that you should go clog you toilet immediately in order to give your children an education in plumbing.

Inside of an English Toilet

While it is easy to find diagrams of how US toilets work, it's not so easy to find the same for UK toilets. It's as though people don't find they need them. I can tell you that the basic theory is the same, but something is different. Maybe I should become a plumber?

In the interest of pretending to know what I'm talking about, I offer you the following list of reasons why maybe, just possibly, probably UK toilets don't clog as frequently as those in the US. (Oh my, it is rather unpatriotic of me on this America's birthday or as the English refer to it the day they got rid of that obnoxious colony).

5. US toilet paper is thicker and breaks down more slowly than UK toilet paper. If you live in the US buy a cheap one-ply brand.

4. The English eat more fiber thus causing fewer clogs. (Yes, I made that up.)

3. The English descale their toilets.

2. English toilets are rarely on the ground floor. Never underestimate gravity.

1. The UK exit is larger.

See: Larger exit.

Try not to judge me too harshly. I know that you don't dust the back of your toilet either!

Citations I would have used, if I knew what I was talking about.

Water Wise
EPA

Wednesday is the day that we'll talk about mixer taps. Don't know what a mixer tap is? That's because you live in a country that has them AND uses them. Friday I'm all about descaling the kettle, that or we're going to have to buy a new one. Next Monday is probably, maybe if I'm brave on the topic of religion. hmmmm.

Previous in the Series:
How to Descale Your Shower Head
Electric Showers and Yet No Electricity.

Bathrooms, Showers, Toilets and Ewww Part 2: How to Descale Your Shower Head

2011-07-01T05:20:00.011+01:00

One of the first places I lived in Bath was a shared house. We all had separate agreements with the landlord, but we shared a kitchen, a bathroom, a toilet, and a washing machine. The kettle was covered in limescale. In fact, it was virtually impossible to boil. Moreover the silver of the shower head had turned completely white. There is very little water pressure on most of this island. That shower literally dripped while spraying water out its sides. I asked one of my flatmates about both the kettle and the shower, he shrugged and told me it was a function of rentals in Britain. And we had a man who needed an attitude adjustment. In fact, it was a function of poor housekeeping. I can hear you laughing. I know you've seen all the dust in my photos.

So in today's installment of Bathrooms, Showers, Toilets and Ewwww, I bring you: How to Descale Your Shower Head.

Step 1: Boil your kettle and make yourself a cup of tea. Then refill your kettle to the top most fill line. Reboil. And follow the directions on your descaler of choice. (Descalers can be bought at the local hardware store, scalers, and most grocery stores). I know that you'd never assume that all chemicals work the same way, aren't dangerous, or that I know everything.

Make cup of tea, boil kettle, go to step two

Step 2: Put boiled water into giant bucket. Make sure giant bucket is clear of other cleaners. Bleach and everything don't mix, and I like you and your lungs. Detol and most everything don't mix, and I like your soft skin. (The boil portion of this step may be completely unnecessary depending on the product you're using. The not mixing chemicals portion of this step is absolutely necessary.)

Step 2: Put water into bucket that has no other chemical residue in it.

Step 3: Open bathroom window. Place bucket into your bathtub. Make sure you are wearing any protective equipment called for by your descaler box. Add descaler. It is very important that you do not put your bucket on your bathroom floor. There is always some chance of overspill from the chemical reaction you may be creating. Add descaler. Did I mention that you should follow the directions on your descaler? I mean that.

The white bumps are limescale. It also builds up inside the grey bits.

Step 4: Remove shower head from shower head pipe (or hose for you Americans). Put it gently into your mixture. Get out of the bathroom until enough time has elapsed. Most descaler makes one heck of a smell and makes the lungs a wee bit ouchy. I'm really not kidding about the whole follow directions on the bottle thing.

Note: My model is not wearing gloves. Do not follow her example.

Step 5: Poor bucket down the drain and rinse everything with cold water before reattaching to the shower. I always run the shower for a few minutes after descaling. If scale is still present it helps to brush with an old toothbrush (clearly marked as descaling toothbrush) after you've rinsed away the descaler.

Shiny. Note: I did not put hose into the descaler

Step Six: Consider something friendlier. Vinegar and water will descale your shower head just as well as more caustic store bought mixtures. Your shower head will have to soak much longer (I do ours overnight). You will probably have to use some elbow grease. But if you keep up with your descaling (once a month at least), it isn't so bad.

Iota mentioned that toilets rarely back up in the UK. This is true. I do not own a toilet plunger. I'll let you know why that is on Monday. If you click the Facebook Like button on the right-hand sidebar, you'll be able to see more of Bath's flower boxes.

You can read Part 1 of this series here: Fabulous Things About England #33: Baths

The first batch of sourdough failed miserably. The second is gooood.

Bread and The Post of The Month

2011-06-30T10:17:00.000+01:00

I'm trying to make sourdough bread for the first time in my rather short, if I do say so, life. The sponge came out perfectly, but the dough doesn't appear to be rising. I am told that this is to be expected with a first loaf. In fact, I had been told this with such certainty that when I set the dough to rise last night, I also made a second sponge just in case.

I am fairly certain that it is a bad idea to use bread making as a way of considering my life for no greater reason than it is a giant cliche. Instead, I'm joining Happy Homemaker Uk's post of the month club today. Hop on over and see what folks have on offer.

The Flowers, The Flowers

2011-06-29T11:29:00.000+01:00

The Guildhall, Bath

The flower boxes and hanging baskets have returned to Bath, and I am so very grateful. Summer does seem to have begun. Our first heatwave has been broken. Now cool air and patches of cloud are a welcome sight. So to will be my skirts when it is finally so warm that I'm up for wearing them.

I'll be linking up with Happy Home Maker UK tomorrow for the post of the month club. On Friday, we'll be talking some more about toilets, bathrooms, and mixer taps. Wee.

Fabulous Things About England #33: Baths, Showers, and Electricity

2011-06-26T23:22:00.000+01:00

Light switch is outside the bathroom

You were hoping I'd show you my toilet, weren't you. The light at this time of night is terrible, so you'll have to wait until another day to see how I feel about thick bleach. If you're very lucky, I'll do a week of blogs about toileting and bathing facilities.

Why yes, that is an Armitage Shanks bathroom suite in pink. You're dying of envy aren't you? Not as envious as I am of avocado green refrigerators, but it does come close. Nonetheless, the pink isn't so bad when you consider that this used to be my toilet.

Outhouse that used to be mine

The outhouse also had no light unless there happened to be sun. My fantastic pink bathroom does have light, and like every other bathroom in the UK the light switch is not on the inside wall. This is considered far too dangerous as there is so much water in a bathroom. Instead, you'll find the light switch on the outside wall of the bathroom or as a pull cord just inside the bathroom door.

Difficult to See Pull Cord

Pull cords are always white, never neon. Ah, the Americans are saying, it does rather make sense. No electricity in the bathroom means fewer accidental electrocutions. Until you add in this:

Should probably pick up some descaler

That would be an electric shower. That would be an electric shower that shares a wall with my outside the bathroom light switch. Now the English are shaking their heads and pointing out that these are usually installed by well qualified folks to keep us all safe. And they're right, but wasn't the person who installed the house's electrics also highly qualified?

Kitchens are Kitchens

2011-06-23T12:33:00.000+01:00

After making bread.

I've talked about my kitchen before. I live in a rental. When I first moved in, I didn't expect to be here more than 18 months. It'll be five years in November. Very little in the flat belongs to me. The dishes are the housemates, the table is the housemates, the kettle is the landlords. The wall colors, the cupboards, the stove are all choices of people I don't think I have ever met. Still, I like the kitchen.

Wonder Woman

When Modern Country Style asked her readers to talk about their favorite parts of their kitchens, I wanted to choose something that is mine, something that makes me smile, something that I use every day. This brought the choice down to a set of cutlery, a big pot, a skillet, a steamer, and a couple of mugs.

So I give you Wonder Woman. She, can I gender a mug, follows me around the house. Sometimes she sits on the desk in my bedroom. Mostly she is full, because I drink my coffee long after it has gone cold. In the old days, when I was writing, I wrote a paragraph, went and filled a coffee cup, smoked a cigarette, drank the coffee, and wrote another paragraph. Now that I do not smoke, I fill the coffee cup, write a paragraph, pace, drink the cold coffee and repeat. I miss smoking. I like breathing. I like hot coffee. The compromise, for me, seems to be cold coffee and lots of it. That and a new found love of style blogs.

Midsummer and Solstice

2011-06-21T20:43:00.000+01:00

Summer Solstice, Alaska 2007

When I was in Kindergarten, Mrs. Barnhill read us a book about the seasons. She informed us that regardless of the weather, spring began on March 21st, summer on June 21st, autumn on September 21st, and Winter on December 21st. I was terribly put out. I was a winter baby regardless of what Mrs. Barnhill's calendar book said.

In Alaska, regardless of religion, the solstices are days of celebration. In winter, it is an acknowledgement that there is hope and days will not be getting any shorter, that we are not spiraling into an eternal night. In summer, it is a celebration of that hope in that fruition.

Here in parts of England, the solstice is part of Midsummers' celebrations. For some, it is a religious celebration. But like most of America, many will not even note its passing.

And now I live in England where the summer solstice speaks to midsummer's day, a time of growth before the harvest,

Fabulous Things About England #32: Walking in the rain

2011-06-17T21:59:00.000+01:00

Out the London Road

We are wet here in the West Country. After last weekend's unusually long deluges and wind, the constant patter of a slow soaking rain is almost reassuring.

The path stops at the river.

What better way to spend the early evening than meandering around the edges of the the countryside?

At least I think it's elderflower

And stopping to smell the elderflower.

The leaves look like elderflower

The farmers and the plants are still desperate for rain.

The Toll Bridge at Bathampton

Sometimes I walk out this way


The countryside boarders the river and the road.

To be reminded how far the river travels.

How to capture rain drops?

or to see if there are any ducks among the reeds,

The Bathhampton Inn

And to watch the river falling.

There is no toll for walkers

Before turning toward the hill

Who lives here?

And heading home.

Brightly Colored Veg: Learning to Live with Five a Day

2011-06-16T19:52:00.000+01:00

When I was growing up, my mother made cucumber and carrot sticks, she broke off cauliflower and broccoli florets, and she cut stars into the tops of radishes before throwing the lot into old margarine tubs and covering with them with water. Mom would place these on the bottom shelf of the refrigerator, allowing my sister and I to graze our ways through the day.

It isn't a terribly practical plan here. My butter containers would fit just about two carrots. Refrigerators are small, and unlike the US, freezers tend to be on the bottom. I've tried over the years to emulate my mother, but vegetables tended to get eaten before they made it to the tubs or forgotten all together. Here I share the the refrigerator with my housemate, and she'll be the first to tell you that I forget about the food I cannot see when first glancing below the counter and into the fridge. Food was rarely wasted, just eaten well into the floppy but edible stage.

I'm terrible about making complete meals for one. I plan them, buy the food stuffs, then eat the ingredients one by one. This usually results in a lot of uncooked pasta and rice. It isn't that I don't have the time, but that I generally eat when I reach the point of starving or when I'm trying to sit down to write. I generally cook when someone might thank me for doing so. The question is one of degree. While I am happier when I am fed, I am happier still when I have fed someone else.

Years ago I stopped getting hungry. Until the point at which my eyes rang the migraine alarm bells or I simply fell over, my body gave me no reminders to eat. I wouldn't have eaten at all at University had the other women in my hall not knocked on my door and asked me when I was going to dinner, to breakfast. Mostly, I forgot lunch until after the dining hall had closed because there was no one to remind me to put food into my stomach between classes and work. When I tried to explain, men and women alike envied me my stick figure.
I still rarely get hungry; though, I have lost the stick figure.

Friends will tell you that I am never so grateful as when someone feeds me a meal they have cooked. They'll say that I eat ravenously. They may even say that they have heard me utter the words: I'm hungry. My friends are reasonably smart people. They know what I mean is that I want to break bread in their company. They know that I have likely forgotten to stop for a moment for lunch. They know I have looked toward my own kitchen and figured I'd go and make something soon. Soon is rather like the rest of the future; it rarely arrives when we most expect it to.

The night before we buried my grandmother, my sister made a roast for my brother-in-law, my father, my stepmother, and I. We ate slowly, taking our time over the thick slices of pork. We didn't talk about what the next morning would bring; though, my father slowly articulated our families life in that far off place we call a long time ago. For one short moment, we forgot the forks in our hands, the dishes to be done, the years in between that make the distances between us so necessary. There in the rental house, I sat with my father and one of my sisters, and we ate a home cooked meal as a family--something that hasn't happened in sixteen whispering years.

I am trying to learn to eat food cooked for one. It has become, rather suddenly, a necessity. After that dinner in Denver, we sent my sister and her husband on a date. My stepmother began to do the washing up, and Dad prepared for bed. I opened my laptop, typed my password, and discovered that the job that made up the bulk of my income no longer existed. Nor did the job of anyone else who was working from outside of the state in which the university's buildings sit.

And I am lucky. I have a second job with good people who are throwing as many hours as they can afford in my direction. I have friends who have been out of work for two years, who at thirty-three are living with their parents who themselves cannot afford to retire. I have friends who have been told to go back to university to retrain, despite their PhDs and decades worth of student loan debt. I have friends who dole out calories to their children, skimping on their own, in hopes that children who feel hungry are still well enough fed. But I also know how thin the line between underemployed and unemployed is. I know that the electric bill is going to be much higher than the amount the housemate and I toss into the savings account each month. I know that I may or may not have enough hours next month to make up the difference. I know that what I write as melancholy is really fear. So while I search for another job that may well be forthcoming, I'm buying what's left at the end of the day at the veg stall to avoid paying rent with the emergency plane ticket. And I am grateful that it is, for now, more than enough.

Untranslatable: Ants and Pants

2011-06-11T23:04:00.001+01:00

Part of being an immigrant to this lovely green land is learning to live in a new idiom. That is to say that you must learn to live in a new figurative language. Should you manage an invite to a barbeque, I cannot recommend highly enough asking a wiggly English child if they have ants in their pants. You will become ever popular with the under-10 set, and the adults will be forced to engage you in conversation.

For those of you who are English and would like to play the game, ants in one's pants refers to a general state of wiggling or impatience for a desired event. If you want to share your own antsyness, you'll want to announce, "I have ants in my pants, and now I've got to do a boogey dance." A boogey is, of course a bogey.

Thanks to the University of Alaska, Fairbanks for the shout out in the alumni news feed.

Other People's Nursery Rhymes

2011-06-08T20:46:00.000+01:00

The problem is, of course, leading other people's children astray. It's a question of not sending an English boy off to nursery singing "Ring around the rosies/ pocket full of posies/ ashes ashes/ we all fall down." The English sing "Ring-a-ring of roses/ pocket full of posies/ a-tishoo a-tishoo/ we all fall down."

While American toddlers learn to blow dandylion seed in hopes of making a wish come true, here in the West Country they are simply attempting to tell the time. I hear that there are places where children learn that they are trying to tell the hour at which their wish will come true.

Waiting for the Rain

2011-06-05T20:55:00.002+01:00

Summer2009 003, A rainy day during another summer

This morning I was grateful to wake up to storms typical of an English spring and late summer. Back in Indiana, we would have called it a deluge. Here we would say that it tipped, and tipped, and tipped. Since I arrived back in the country a month ago, we have had cloud but little rain. I still have difficulty making sense of drought on this Island. I shouldn't. The UK is the about the same size as Oregon. It's an island, but not a small one. I continue to be amazed by the English in Bath. While the weather was ruinous for summertime activities here in town, many people are still looking to the skies for more rain. The ground is thirsty and the farmers are struggling.

Fabulous Things About England: The Railroad Bridge, Bathampton

2011-06-02T22:30:00.001+01:00

Between Bathampton and the toll bridge

Years ago, I went to Florida to take care of my grandmother while she recovered (as far as recovery happens in the later stages) from an exacerbation of COPD. I was a year into a PhD, and I thought that it would be easy enough to write when she slept. Inexperience is a fabulous reminder of the eternal naivety of the human condition. I read a lot of blogs during those months, and I wrote a handful of rather dire personal essays, but mostly I coped with a seventy-five year old toddler. I didn't see a lot of Florida that trip; though, I let Gram dream aloud about what we would do the next time I visited. I didn't mention how much I hate Florida, but I did apply for a handful of permanent faculty positions close enough to her residence, far enough away from her residence.

We spent a lot of our time in the medical-industrial complex that runs the length and breadth of Florida. One stucco building runs into the next until you're practically eating peaches in Georgia. Most days, as tempting as it was to keep on driving, I kept an eye on the amount of oxygen left in the green tank that road shotgun attached as it was to Gram. I learned to turned us toward home before the red indicator light would frighten her.

It isn't surprising, now that I have time to ruminate, that when my great aunt relieved me I hadn't seen much of America. I headed north for my sister's wedding and began the litany of things I had forgotten: which way to look when crossing the street, how heavy nickles are, the intricacies of filling up a petrol tank, how American roses smell, the necessity of greeting people you pass in the street, and American boys. I'd forgotten their long khaki shorts and worn-out t-shirts, the way they sit in threes and fours on front stoops drinking brown bottled beer, that they shake hands, that they hug each other, that they can throw a Frisbee up and down a road for hours. I'd forgotten America boys, train horns, and wintergreen mints.

I find a certain disquiet in knowing that melancholy is little more than knowledge of a memory turning first pleasant, then fading. I like to stand on the railroad bridge out by Bathampton for no greater reason than I am finally old enough to do so for as long as I choose. There is no great adult insisting on a bath then bed, no one to tell me one more train and then we'll go. And still, until I snapped the picture, I hadn't remembered how the city rises quite suddenly on the horizon. I am grateful for pavements that are no wider than my hips, for the shadow the abbey throws in mid-afternoon, for the weight of a pound or two in my left pocket.

I am glad to be home.

Things I miss from Home: The Comics Pages

2011-05-30T21:07:00.003+01:00

When I last lived in the States, I passed my days teaching Academic Writing and Developmental English. Developmental English used to be called remedial English. I struggled with reading as a child, and I still struggle to proofread my own writing. I still look up new words. I still find new words in the comics pages.

Often my students told me that they did not see any point in reading. This often meant that they were poor readers or they didn't read material that I might consider important. It usually meant that they'd been told reading the comics pages wasn't real reading. I would tell my students the same thing that I'd once overheard a sage faculty member say to another student. "Read anything and everything that you enjoy. Most importantly, read the comics."

The comics were, ultimately, how I learned to love language and literature. Week days, in much of the US, they cover one side of a newspaper page. On Sundays, they come in color. I still cannot wrap my head around the idea that it would ever be a good idea to tell a faltering reader that this kind of reading has little value.

Why I Choose Here: Why I might Choose There

2011-05-26T23:56:00.001+01:00

One of the things you never see in England is forever. Here in Bath, it's difficult to see even a quarter of the way to infinity. I used to live in Fairbanks, a northern town also made a fortress by the quick rise of the surrounding earth. And so when one of my sisters and I landed in Denver, the first thing we showed her son were America's Great Plains.


My Grandmother, Great-Grandmother, and Great Uncle on the Great Plains

We leaned into him as the plane landed pointing out how the eastern horizon didn't change no matter how low to the ground we got. He told us about the airplanes and trucks that soon surrounded us on the tarmac. When we deboarded, he didn't want to look out the giant windows or to be lifted onto one of our hips. He wanted to say hello to every person we encountered on the long walk to baggage claim.

My nephew was born in the South. The towns of his two-year life are bordered by masses of water and what remains of once impenetrable forests. For now, he doesn't mind how far his eyes can see. When we turned the rental car west, he didn't notice the Rocky Mountains. He wanted to sing the song we'd taught him about five little ducks. When I was small and singing car songs, I thought the Rockies were the beginning of the world and heaven resided just beyond I-70 somewhere towards Kansas. I had never been to Kansas.

When people ask me, I tell them the half-truths of my own family's diaspora. I say that one June 10th, my parents packed my sister and I into a U-haul and 1975 Dodge Dart. For five days we headed, opposite our western bound ancestors, toward America's bible belt. Eighteen months later my sister left first for Paris and then for college. My mother died and the next year, my father packed up and moved north toward Chicago on the same Friday that I left for college. My grandmother followed him north and the two of them headed south before Dad went north then south again. My sister headed west, then east, and finally southeast. And I came to England via Texas, Florida, Oregon, Colorado, and Alaska.

My sister said to her son, "This is where Mommy and Auntie Rachael grew up." Except that too is a half truth. I stayed in our bible-belt state for nine years. It is as much a part of me as the Rocky Mountains, as the Alaska range, as Solsbury Hill. But it is also true, that I learned my values, my sense of place, my desire for fairness and silent fishing and clean air in the Colorado foothills. My desire to go, to travel, to live a thousand possible lives grew up in a tiny rental house just west of Denver. It's where I saw my first red fox, touched a snapping turtle, and ate icecream bars sitting on the stoop. Denver is the last place--the only place--that I remember my family being happy. It is also no longer home.

The narrative of my family's parting is the story of a false diaspora, in part because over seventeen years we've come together and separated in various permutations. It's a half truth I tell. I have two more sisters who remained in Colorado, who are raising their children there, who live very near their own mother with whom they share a huge extended family. They rarely go beyond the point where I-70 meets Kansas.

It took me too many years to realize that we are all half-truths. The academic in me names these selves we present to the world personas, but the culture of calling a thing by another name exists in England as much as it does in Indiana or Oregon or Florida. Being our 'Authentic,' 'Best,' 'Unrevealed Millionaire' selves are all personas (sold for a price too high) behind which we hide our perfect humanness. It is a mistake to think that the English or the Nigerians or the Americans are somehow more authentic than we each are in our own cultures. If I am more honest than I want to be here, I will acknowledge that in my expatriation I thought I'd find a better, more real people.

But the English are only what they are. The stoicism I so admired in them, and they in me, breaks the human body in the same way that the American propensity for back-breaking work for pay far too low breaks the human spirit. They are silent, like the Americans, when their voices should ring out. They, like the Americans, mistake pride for charity. They, like the Americans, still struggle to see past their own visions of history.

I was raised at the foot of the Rocky Mountains where I tried to say the words of the Pledge of Allegiance with more passion than any of my classmates. I prayed the same way, as though my fervor obliged God and America to make my path of gold. I know a handful of people who still believe that patriotism and religion entitle them to a blessed life. I know many, who like me, believed that heaven could be found by following I-70 east. I kept going turning northeast at the Atlantic.

My mother used to make perfectly outlined grocery lists that began at the door of the supermarket and ended in its very last aisle. In the same way, she attempted to teach me to organize my thoughts into pros and cons, into practical and impractical, into truths and fictions. Once when I was very small, we watched a very young woman marry a prince. Maybe, my mother told me, I grow up to be a princess. My sister tells another story. If I were to say that I am like my mother, it would be half of a fiction.

I could write you a laundry list of England's imperfections. Every item on it would make an academic text of cultural identity. When I teach students to write argumentative papers, I tell them that they are absolutely obliged to challenge the underlying assumptions of their theses. I find it difficult to say that, given the choice, I choose to live out my life in Britain because my underlying assumption just might be a rejection of what America is rather than what I had hoped it would be.

The Tuesday before I flew back to the States, I found a benign growth in my right breast. What I felt was annoyance. I'd been to the GP on the Monday for a referral for knee surgery. I really didn't want to spend another morning at the doctor's office. Despite the fact that I knew from experience what I was feeling, I was aware that as a matter of course the thing needed to be poked, smooshed, and ultrasounded to confirm its status as a non-threat to life. My second reaction was sheer relief that this time I wouldn't not doing this in America.

I do not want to live in a system that does not see good, timely healthcare as a human right. I reject a system which prioritizes share prices above human life. I can live without miles of branded laundry detergent. I, single and without children, want to live in a country that sees the need for a parent to be with a child in its first year. I want to support a system which sees the difficulties caring for a loved one presents and which makes that possible. I want to work in a system which requires me to rest and insists on liveable pay. I want the women who surround me to not worry about estrogen in the food chain. And I want cows and sheep roaming in my countryside. I want my neighbors to see the unfairness of the world in which they live rather than labeling their underemployed brethren as failures. I want a country in which one can do poorly in school and still grow up to be successful. I want to live in a land of opportunity, rather than one of fairy dust. I know too that Britain only almost offers my brand of heaven. I know too that Britain doesn't look like it once did.

My sister tells me that when they returned home, my nephew went to look for me in the spare bedroom. He won't remember this visit. He'll see forever after landing in Denver once or twice a year through his childhood, and he'll look at Paddington Bear each morning from his cot. Everyday that I wake up and still choose to make a life here, I will find it difficult to know that he is the choice that I am not making.

Things I Miss From Home: What They Have Done

2011-05-25T22:07:00.000+01:00

I know that I've promised you a giant BUT for two weeks now. I'm working on it. Really, it may be the longest blog post ever by the time I finish it. In the mean time, I've been thinking about how much the US has changed since my last visit. My last visit was, admittedly, well before the economy took a tumble. It was before the last presidential election cycle was in full swing. In fact, it was before my two youngest nephews were born. It was also before the wide availability of this:

It's important to note here that the term 'organic' carries different, less stringent, standards in the US than it does in the UK. Nonetheless, I wasn't sure if I should cheer or cry. Nostalgia can be a bitter pill.

There's a new Facebook like button at the top of the page. This is because I have to imitate all of the other bloggers in England; moreover, my friend Jon insists that he's the only one who reads the blog. Would you please help this woman out and click on the like button, or the follow button, or leave me a note to learn what an rss feed is and how to use one? I'm back to writing the BUT post. See you soon.

Perfect English Days

2011-05-21T21:57:00.000+01:00

On seeing these men's legs hanging from the scaffolding, I desperately hoped they'd be eating sandwiches.

Things I miss from Home: Oatmeal? Pies

2011-05-19T20:03:00.000+01:00

I didn't have any desire to consume these while in the States. I had completely forgotten they existed. Add them to the list of thins I used to miss from home.

Things I Miss From Home: Squeezy Cheese

2011-05-17T20:36:00.000+01:00

In the US cheddar is orange. It's uber-pasteurized, and in it's extra-strong (sharp in American terminology) form, it tastes rather less strong than mild English cheddar. Much of this type of 'cheddar' is a heavy processed cheese, and it is not cheddar as it is defined in Europe. This should be pretty obvious given it's plasticine texture and bland taste.

I grew up on those over-processed and plasticy cheeses. For a short period my mother worked as a child-minder (in-home daycare), and she served government cheese to the family and children in her care. That cheese tasted like cardboard, but I now have a strong affinity for it as well.

When I was growing up, the big treat of the cheese world for me was squirty cheese. Usually, it appeared in the crevasses of celery stalks at family holiday gatherings. I made it back to the UK with thee cans. I fully expected to think it was the most disgusting thing on planet. Instead, I've eaten it all.

The Secret to Creating Drooling Glassy-Eyed Americans

2011-05-16T22:38:00.000+01:00

Happy Home Maker UK asked me to take pictures of Target. For those of you in the UK, this may look like just another giant box store on an industrial estate. It is a giant box store on an industrial estate. More importantly, it is a microcosm (macrocosm) of American culture. Interesting fact: there are Target stores in Australia. they share the Target logo, a giant red target, and look rather like American target stores. The two companies are otherwise unrelated.

I think it must be virtually impossible to be an expert in one's own culture. I wandered through the store knowing that there was something different, something American, about the store, but I still cannot articulate what that difference was. Perhaps you British, Canadian, French, and Australian Americanists can enlighten me. Certainly, there is more space in between the rails (racks) and the shelves are lower than in a typical UK discounter.

There were of course the obvious differences. Hundreds of cheese poofs (cheese balls) for less than a British fiver. For that matter, there were animal crackers and animal crackers in bulk. You can see them at the very top of the above photograph.

There wasn't just soup. There were sixty kinds of Campbell's soup. The soup aisle was twice as long as my local baked bean aisle. It was all a bit overwhelming, so I skipped canned soup all together.

And the pickle aisle contained mostly olive and pickled gherkins. If you look closely you may be able to spot some things that are more at home on a British store shelf

No matter how many times I tell myself that streaky bacon is the same as American bacon, I still know that it isn't true. I remember when I left America that I thought bacon was terribly expensive. It wasn't. I think it is even cheaper now. I'm grateful to my family and friends for feeding me rashers and rashers of crispy bacon and letting me have more than my share of the maple syrup.

I have spent many a happy hour looking at the ink pens in Target's aisles, but it is very rare to find a fountain pen in such American aisles. Sarah metioned that she sensed a giant 'but' coming. There is indeed a giant 'but' coming, but there are a few more joyful things I'd like to share first. Slugs on the Refrigerator shared her own 'but' today. It's worth a read. My thoughts are wandering that way too.

Transatlantic Home

2011-05-15T22:25:00.000+01:00

I'm home now.

I was greeted by cartoon clouds, and traffic traveling on the left side of the road.

I'm settling in nicely; though, the jet lag is still slowing me down.

I have a lot to show you and to tell you just as soon as I get caught up. Here's a wee bit of a hint.

Fabulous Things About America: Mother's Day

2011-05-09T05:04:00.000+01:00

This is the seventeenth Mother's Day that I have spent without my mother.

And it is the first that my father has spent without his mother.

It is hard to imagine a greater priveledge than spending Mother's Day with my three sisters, who are now mothers themselves.

One Thursday in May

2011-05-06T05:26:00.001+01:00

Gram (1932-2010) and Grandpa Joe (1933-1990).

We interred Gram today.We laughed and told stories just as she'd wanted us too. Sweet dreams, Gram. I will carry you with me.

Fabulous Things About America: Perfect

2011-05-04T05:16:00.000+01:00

In some ways, America is perfect

Things I'd Forgotten: Blue Tortilla Chips

2011-05-03T05:11:00.001+01:00

Someone please tell me that they know exactly where to get these in England.

Fabulous Things About America: Part 2

2011-05-02T02:34:00.000+01:00

True Dimensions of an American Fridge

Among the surprising things I've learned this week is that I don't miss having an American sized refrigerator. Jet lag is confusing enough without the added bonus of having to dig for milk while trying to remember what milk looks like. The milk is in the two square containers on the top, right hand side. To give you a general idea of exactly how big the refrigerator is, each of those containers holds 3.78 liters of milk. The bottom two drawers are as big as my entire refrigerator back in the UK, and the fridge is two feet deep. I've seen bigger 'American refrigerators in England.

This particular fridge held all kinds of little miracles for me, not the least of which were pickles. The English most certainly do pickles.But cucumber tends to be called gherkin, and when pickled, it tends to be preserved in just vinegar. I'd forgotten exactly how much I love pickles. On spotting them, my legs did a fine impression of my nephew's legs when he is overcome with excitement.

On the other hand, I'd still pay a lot more in rent for an American freezer. The white box o the left hand side contains ice. Yum, ice. I've been her a week now, and I've yet to use the ice. It's been very warm here, yet it hasn't occurred to me to start popping ice cubes into every available drink. I may have a go in the morning just to see if I really missed them or if their lack in the UK is just one more faint reminder of where I come from.

I'm leaving the American South for the American West tomorrow, where I'll meet up with the rest of the extended family and continue eating my way through America. I wonder what will strike me as strange or new or simply fantastic when I get there. America isn't home any longer, but it remains where I am from.

Fabulous Things About America: Part 1

2011-04-28T18:54:00.000+01:00

I know I packed my camera cord, but I have no idea where I packed it. Perhaps, it is in with the presents for the nieces and nephews. I hope that I didn't leave it with the socks that I couldn't find and therefore did not pack. When the camera cord turns up, I'll post some photos for you.

I spent a long time last night trying to find the light switch in my sister's bathroom. Or rather I looked at the wall outside the bathroom for ages and waved my hand around in the doorway looking for a pull switch. I finally gave up and felt my way to the toilet. This morning it dawned on me that the switch was on the inside of the bathroom next to the door.

More importantly, I was greeted at the door by the smell of banana bread. I ate it with lashings of butter. No one called it cake, and it was the very best welcome to America snack ever known to woman.

I hope you are all well. What else shall I eat while I'm here?

On the Way to London

2011-04-26T18:59:00.000+01:00

I don't prepare for travel well. I'm fine for the actual traveling. It's the getting ready that knocks me for six.

The travel dreams always begin classically. The Greeks also dreamed that their Trojan horse was boarding, they'd forgotten to pack and had no idea what they'd done with their passports. For me one anxiety dream begets another. The other night I dreamed that both my parents had been murdered via the oh-so-likely vehicle of a car crash. In the dream one of my sisters and I had to set all to rights, but we couldn't figure out how given all of the hard grieving we were doing. The problem is that it sometimes takes me hours after a dream to sort out what is real from what is produced by the ether of mind. I spent the next morning trying to shake the dream. I kept reminding myself that there hadn't been a car crash, that there was no rush to sort out funeral plans, and that my parents were still alive. Except that last one isn't quite right. Mom's been dead for sixteen years now. It's that part of the travel dreams that I couldn't cope with this time around--the part where I think everything is as it should be only to remember it isn't.

I finally wrote a packing list last week and packed. It made the dreams stop; though, I've had to repack since then. It's odd what I thought I needed until I realized that I didn't really want to carry it. Fair warning to the family: I washed ten pairs of socks. I can't find them now, so my feet will probably smell.

There's An Election Acomin'

2011-04-21T20:11:00.000+01:00

Posting of Elections, Guildhall, Bath

It's election time here in the UK. Elections to the National Assembly are taking place in Wales. Northern Ireland will be electing officials to both the Northern Ireland Assembly and to local councils. Scotland will be electing members to the Scottish Parliament. Here in England the elections are local. You could think of it as elections to the city or town councils in the States. These are the people who decide such things as zoning, traffic patterns, rubbish collection, parking allocation, and rents on city-held properties. Folks here in Bath are far more aware of their local representatives than in any place I have lived in the U.S. Both the Lib Dems and the Conservatives are hoping for high turnouts across the UK because there is one more very important issue at stake.

The British are being asked if they want to change the way they elect Ministers to Parliament. That's not quite true. They're being asked if they want to go from electing Ministers in a first-past-the post-system to an alternative vote system. In the current system (fptps) the party which receives the most votes in any constituency gets that constituency's seat in Parliament. Since this is a country of three major parties and many minor ones, a party that received 30% of the vote could feasibly take the seat. Under the proposed system, each voter would be allowed to rank the parties in order of their preference. The party with the least votes in round 1 would be dropped. Then second choices would be added to the first choices until one party had made up 50% of the vote. Confused? You can read more here. I have more luck explaining these two systems to Americans than I ever had the American system to the British. There's a reason for that. The British are very smart. They value their votes. They do not understand a system in which the whole country could vote for one candidate and another candidate could still end up in office.

I did try to get a photo of a 'No' sign, but one can only point their camera at people's windows so many times before the locals get twitchy.

A bench outside Bath's Guildhall.

I'm off to the States in a few days. I wonder what I'll find there. In the meantime, I'm packing. I'll annotate my packing list for you.

Fabulous Things About England # 30: Famous Landmarks

2011-04-17T22:47:00.000+01:00

Solsbuy Hill of Peter Gabriel fame

You know that Bath is famous because of Peter Gabriel, right? His recording studio is just around the corner in Box, Wiltshire. Box is, of course, less famous for housing Box Tunnel, which housed munitions and important people in WWII. More famous than Box Tunnel is Box Hill, which features prominently in Jane Austin's Emma. As famous as Austin has made Box Hill, Peter Gabriel made Solsbury Hill even more famous.

In Which I Have To Think

2011-04-14T13:28:00.000+01:00

A View of Bathford

Sarah has suggested that it might be good if bloggers defined what they hoped their blogs achieve. That sentence construction is very British. Sarah is English, and she managed to say it more bluntly, "I thought it would be so cool to read through a post that really defines what your blog is about." Signs that you've been in British academia too long: You believe in your own brilliance. You're offended at the idea that your teaching might be more important than your research. You cannot write in anything but the passive voice.

I suppose those problems of the cultural language of British Academia are how this blog began. I wanted a space in which I could share, sometimes bluntly, my life outside of British Academia. I love this country (defined both as the UK and England) for the life it offers me. I wanted to share that with the larger world.

When I began the blog, I saw three possible goals. I was working with international students from the US and Nigeria at the time. Every term, they would come in and give me a list of things they wished they had known before arriving in the country. I hoped here to share some of those things with students and others who were coming into the country. I wanted to move beyond that to share those Fabulous Things About England that keep me here. Finally, I hoped to build a large enough reader base that might one day read a book I've written.

Local Race Horses

That last goal is no longer a way of defining this blog. Rather, the blog is one way of sharing an eclectic way of viewing the life I have here. It's a life that I love and value, and one that often frustrates me. When I began writing here, I did not tell my friends and family. Slowly I began to share it with all of the people who have joined me at important junctures in my life, and it has become a way of staying in touch with my community and making new friends.

You can pop over to Sarah's to read more about the hows and whys of people's internet spaces. Just click the button below.

The Television Screen.

2011-04-11T21:49:00.000+01:00

It's gorgeous outside. The sun has just dipped below the hills west of the house, so the fields below the are innumerable shades of green and the neighbors horses are gently grazing. I'm watching friends and thinking about everything that somehow must get done tomorrow. It isn't much really, but I'd like to finish the shawl I'm crocheting and that feels like a pleasure. As a child of protestant America, I'm not allowed to do the pleasurable until the work gets done. I'm likely to finish that shawl sometime next January--unless we're suddenly allowed crochet hooks on planes.

Sherry at Wherever She Goes in Alaska has given up her family's home internet and television. They've not done it for the same reasons that so many essayists and editorialists seem inclined to mention. It isn't about saving her daughter from the red monster, nor is it about rejecting a modern way of life. Rather Sherry and her husband would like to buy a house one day. Getting rid of the telly and the intermonster have done all of those other things for them, but it is also allowing another $100 a month to go towards that one-day home.

My current big purchase dreams are a sewing machine, a bed of my own, and dishes. It's difficult for me to remember that the Great British need to buy a home isn't part of my own experience or make-up. Culture here demands that one of a young person's goals should be to own a home. There are some good reasons for that that I may get to another day when I'm feeling brave. But it wasn't until I moved here that I ever thought that owning a home was important. I certainly didn't see renting as a problem, particularly since I didn't have children.

While I could now, given the right job in the right income bracket, afford a mortgage in the States, I carry a lot of student loan debt. Even at the height of the economic-ruination bonanza, I wouldn't have been able to get a mortgage for exactly that reason. So what money I do have to save goes in the sewing machine/new bed/dishes category. I'd happily give up the television for a sewing machine, but we don't pay for television. I can't give up the internet--I use it to do my job. And for me, there are many other negotiations involved.

When I moved into the flat, I only expected to be here for eighteen months. A year before moving in here, I'd given away or taken most of what I owned to the transfer station, left a few boxes with friends, and simply left some of it behind in the cabin. Giving those things up wasn't difficult; the reality of living out of two suitcases was. I no longer owned a bed or a chair, so I tried not think about who else had slept in the beds in my rentals. I tried to remember not to balance my coffee cups on a the couch cushions, and I was very careful not to obtain things I might want to keep. I did bring a skillet, a soup pot, cutlery, and bedding with me.

Back then, it made sense to move into a partially furnished house with a housemate who had enough kit to fill out most of it. Over time, my own belongings have begun to bulge from my room, off my bookshelf, and out of my cupboard. More than that though, I'm longing to make a home of my own. I don't want to need to apologize when I break a glass. I want to be able to put my headboard against any wall in the house rather than having to think about our shared wall, I want bowls that aren't blue. It all comes down to another desire--I want my life and decisions to stop being made on the basis of transience.

When I first moved into the flat, we didn't have a landline or internet. I did most of my work at the local or uni library, and I felt like I was allowed to watch telly when I got home. I did a three-year master's degree in the States. Inevitably, I had class on a Thursday night. For the following year and a half, I taught on a Thursday night. Those first six months of evenings in this flat were spent getting caught up on Friends two episodes at a time. I got into the habit (or back into the habit) of keeping the television on for the sake of noise and company.

It is looking increasingly like I am not going to find a job that pays enough to keep me in the country under the points based system. Still I need a job in addition to the teaching I do online to live out my UK visa days. As I said, the television isn't mine. I don't own it, and it sits in communal space. I'd like to see it gone because my own will-power isn't enough to keep me from turning it on and ignoring the things I need to be doing on the internet.