Smoked haddock quiche

I have made a smoked haddock quiche tonight, which looks exactly like the picture in the recipe. That never happens, does it? Never. But it did tonight. I thought it an important fact, worthy of sharing with you. I'm not going to post a picture, because food is very hard to photograph, and it wouldn't look as nice as it looks in reality. Oh, alright then.

Those little flecks are yummy chives.

The quiche is for an indoor picnic we're going to tomorrow evening. We're on a jolly table of excellent bods, and our theme is "The Great Gatsby". Cue flapper dress, headband, feather, and shoes which were half price in Sainsbury's earlier this week and look very 1920s. I love those shoes so much I think I might have to adopt them and make them joint beneficiaries in my will with my existing three children.

Bit of a stressful evening, Bloggy Friends. Our realtor was going to closing (that's the terminology) on our house today at 10.00am Midwest time, ie 4.00pm BST. There were a couple of emails from her. One was asking where the garage openers were (clicker things, a bit like tv remotes, that you open your automatic garage door with - and just why is it, exactly, that Britain hasn't caught on to automatic garage doors? I suppose it's because we use our garages for storage and leave our cars outside them, so we're not opening the doors on a several times daily basis.) Anyway, where was I? Ah yes. Two emails from the realtor. Well, I knew where the garage openers were, so that was ok. Phew. In a kitchen drawer. The second email, however, was a little more problematic. And I quote:

"One thing that I just found out about: Last night there was some hail. They are getting a roofer to look at it. I don't believe it was large enough to cause damage but I will let you know. If there is damage we would need to possibly call your insurance. I will let you know."

Well now, if that doesn't warm the heart of anyone on the brink of selling their house, I don't know what does. Actually, I do know what does. It's another email saying that they've had a roofer out, and he has given the roof a clean bill of health. The roof, incidentally, was brand new last June, because there was a hail storm seven weeks before we were leaving the country that caused so much damage that we had to have the house completely re-roofed. No mean feat to get that little baby sorted in seven weeks, I tell you. Especially as we spent the first one or two in denial and didn't even get anyone round to assess the roof damage because we couldn't face having to deal with the consequences. Sometimes I think I should go on "The Apprentice" - piece of cake, what those young bloods have to achieve, compared to moving continents.

So who knows what is happening regarding our house sale, except the money has gone into our bank account, so I guess either (a) all is well and those fabulous buyers have themselves a new house with an undamaged roof on it, or (b) the sale has stalled, but the title company set up the bank transfer in advance of closing, and couldn't stop the money going through. (a) would be best, but I'll take (b), because who the heck needs confirmation of a house sale when they are able to cook a smoked haddock quiche which LOOKS JUST LIKE THE PICTURE IN THE RECIPE?

Amen

PS I haven't forgotten that I need to report back from last week-end's camping trip.

PPS Can you have a PS after an Amen?

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Ah! and Aaaaaah.... (that's a shout of joy, followed by a big sigh of relief)

After the funeral, the nephews and nieces went to my uncle's flat, ostensibly to sort out a few things, but also, I think, because for those of us living at a distance, we knew it would be the last opportunity. We each took a few keepsakes. Working for the British council, he'd lived in Israel, South Africa and Tanganyika (as it was then), and as a child, I'd always been intrigued by some of the items on display in his flat. Bongo drums, African statuettes, beautiful wooden boxes. I am now the proud owner of a couple of small wooden wart-hogs, who have taken up residence on my kitchen windowsill, and a few trinket boxes. And the
P G Wodehouse paperback that my uncle was reading on the morning of the day he died.

It was moving, being in his flat. I came across a board tucked down beside the writing desk, on which was the seating plan for his 90th birthday party. So many memories, and I sensed a strong feeling of him. It was almost as if he was in the next room.

While we were all milling about, I took a phone call from Husband (who hadn't been able to come). We'd been negotiating with a potential buyer for our house in America, and they'd come up with another offer. Husband wanted my go-ahead to settle, and I didn't need long to think about it. It was the very figure we'd pre-decided would be ok. It was a wonderful moment. It's been a long year, with the house on the market, then off the market, then having a lot of cosmetic work done, then on the market again... trying to sell it, trying to let it, trying to sell it again. I ended the phone call, raised my arms in the air, and said "We've sold our house!", and my siblings and cousins rejoiced with me.

Looking round my uncle's flat for the last time, and that being the moment we finally sold our house in America, it felt that my uncle's spirit must have been involved. Had he somehow made it happen for us? Or perhaps he was just able to enjoy the moment with us, from the other side. Synchronicity and coincidence always get me wondering. I don't know how these things work. Who does know?

We've sold our house!

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Please, someone, buy our house

Our house in America was on the market from April to Thanksgiving. It didn't sell.

We decided that the starting price had been too high. It was a 10 - 15% above what we'd thought the house would fetch. Our realtor thought we could aim higher. Thanks, realtor.

Of course she might have been right. Maybe we could have been lucky. It looked like the market was picking up. There were comparables.

We reduced the price, month by month, needing a quick sale. Three times. Down to below what the house is worth. People looked round, but no-one came back for a second look.

We had house-sitters living there, when we moved out. They were great. They looked after the house, kept it nice for showings. But they weren't paying rent, and we're still paying a mortgage.

We decided we should rent the house out instead. No point keeping it on the market. A year with a tenant in, and then try again. The rental agent said it should let easily. Well, she would say that, wouldn't she? The rental market is strong at the moment. A month or two, was her estimate. It's been a month or two. We've reduced the asking rent. We've said we don't mind pets. The house-sitters have moved out. The house is empty.

Then, out of the blue, came a couple who were looking to buy, and though our house wasn't technically on the market, they were showed round. They loved it but couldn't afford it. We said we were "flexible" (which sounds better than "desperate"). They put in an offer which stretched the meaning of the word "flexible" to its limit. And asked us to pay conveyancing costs. We negotiated, and accepted a midway point, which felt like a rock in a stormy sea, but better a rock than no rock.

Then we felt happy. We sighed a sigh of relief. We started to get excited about the house, the home, we could buy here. We looked at websites. Don't houses look gorgeous on websites?

And yesterday, the buyers pulled out.

It's a pathetic tale of woe, I know. I can tell myself all the answers. "In the current economic situation, what do you expect? Aren't you lucky to have a house with Husband's job! At least you're not paying rent or mortgage over here. Lots of people are worse off than you. It'll sell in time. Or rent. Just be patient."

But inwardly I'm begging "Please, someone, anyone, buy our house. Or rent it. Something. Someone."

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Leaving a home

On the way up to Edinburgh, we stayed overnight with my parents in law. It was the last time we will stay in that house. They are moving too. At the same time as we have headed east from America to Scotland, they are heading east from the Pennines to the Moors. A smaller journey geographically, but who can measure these things emotionally? They are leaving the house they moved to when Husband was 13, where they have lived for nearly 40 years.

It's never been my home, but as we drove away for the last time, going through the usual driving away ritual with a double beep on the horn and arms waving from the windows, I felt sad. That house holds 17 years of memories for me:

The first time I met my future parents in law, and we had a Chinese takeaway. It must have been an impromptu visit, I think, though I can't remember the details. If it had been arranged in advance, I'm sure they'd have cooked us dinner. Fish pie, probably.

The first week-end I stayed there, and the feedback via Husband from his mother: "She's a lovely girl, isn't she?"

Telling them we were going to get married, and hugs all round, though it had been difficult to find the right moment. We were bursting with the news, and every time we were about to start the announcement, Granny (though not Granny at the time) would get up to potter into the kitchen to see to the meal.

Those early visits with a baby and a boot full of baby equipment, nervously attending to his needs out of the comfort of our own environment. Later visits with three children, when dealing with just one baby would have seemed like a walk in the park. The cot, the highchair, the box of toys, bought for visiting grandchildren, to relieve our car boot of its burden, and to stand sentinel between our visits.

Being there for Grandad's 60th birthday, the day on which Princess Diana died.

The hatch between the kitchen and the dining room, which has entertained the children far more than any toy or game.

The trips to "the rec", the park, the canal to feed the ducks.

The traditional game of running round the house as many times as possible. The record is 150, held by 11-yo, (though we rely on self-counting, so I can't vouch for the accuracy of that figure).

The joke about how it always rains (and it usually does). There was one legendary trip when we drove up from the south in blazing sunshine, and when we were 10 minutes away from arriving, the sky clouded over and the drizzle started, as if to prove a point, or join in the joke.

Some of the memories have become stories for our children. "Granny kept saying "I must just see to the vegetables" and leaving the room, so you couldn't even tell them. Was that how it was?"

Then I think of the phone calls that have been received there. "A boy! Wonderful! How's Iota doing?" "Another boy! Is all well?" "A girl! Oh... a girl! How is everyone?" "You got the job... America... When will you leave..?" "Cancer? They're sure? What happens now?" So many moments that, like a child's dot-to-dot puzzle, join together to make a picture.

A house. It's so much more than a house. I'm homesick, and it wasn't even ever my home.
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Best Buy, or not so Best Buy...

We have not sold our house. We have reduced the price, which has generated precisely zero extra interest. We will therefore have to discuss Plan B with our realtor, which involves leaving the house empty behind us, for her to sell, and for a management company to look after, all the while paying the mortgage and utilities. That feels like the biggest waste of money since (oops, was about to make bad taste joke about the Titanic, just stopped myself). We haven't worked out Plan B yet. That's this week's job. Not the most appealing prospect, I have to say.

There is one person who I really, really want to buy the house. That would be the person who says "From the picture, I anticipated that the kitchen might be out-dated, but when I saw that fabulous brand-new Samsung range, I was won over. That was the clincher for me."

You want to know why? Well, it's because that would make worthwhile the $500, and the hassle, and the waiting in for delivery, and the 45 minutes on the phone to the Best Buy Geek Squad, which led to the conclusion that we bought a new range, which we didn't need. What we needed to do was remember that our fuse box is geriatric and moody, and that if you don't carefully love and fondle each switch before clicking it back into place, and then carefully love and fondle it again after doing so, then it won't stay, but will click out again, quietly and secretly when your back is turned.

Looking on the bright side... I now know how a range behaves when it's pulling 110 volts instead of 220, because I've seen two of them - one old, one brand spanking new - perform the trick. (I thought electricity was either on or off; I didn't know it could be on-ish.) Who knows when that could come in useful? I also know that when a Best Buy delivery man turns on four hobs, waits 5 seconds, waves his hand over the top of them and declares "yup, working fine", what he really means is "it'll probably work fine, and I'm off now". Another piece of knowledge that I've acquired in the process is that if you use the word 'cooker', Americans don't immediately know what you're referring to, and may even think you have domestic staff.

I also know that the Best Buy customer service phone line plays the most noisy, irritating and aggressive music possible. Why would they do that? Why wouldn't they have chosen something soothing and calming? Greensleeves perhaps, or Eine Kleine Nachtmusik? Or something appropriately themed, selected according to the appliance that is causing the trouble? For me it could have been Pat-a-cake Pat-a-cake Baker's Man, or Sing a Song of Sixpence (four and twenty blackbirds - remember?), or Can she bake a cherry pie, Billy Boy, Billy Boy?, or You'll always find me in the Kitchen at Parties, or Hey Good Lookin', What ya got Cookin'? Blimey, SO many possibilities.

Anyway, back to the bright side, and  (and this really has been a bit of a bright side), I haven't had to cook for a week, which maybe, on mature reflection, was actually in itself worth $500 (not counting the cost of the Chinese bistro buffet at Dillons and the pizzas). I would break that down into $250 for the joy of not having to face the "What shall I do for dinner?" question every day, and $250 for the expression on two of my children's faces when I told them "Look on it as your golden opportunity to learn to love salad".

Come on, Universe.  I bought a new oven which I didn't need, which means that some Oven-Reconditioner somewhere at the very end of the Best Buy  chain of sub-contractors is happy, because he's got a perfectly-functioning oven when he expected an old wreck. The least you can do is send me a buyer for my house.