Big congrats to Mya and Jo Beaufoix for entering the competitionette. I loved both your entries. I realize that most people couldn’t cope with competing as well as registering the news that I am signing off from blogging for a while. I should know by now – one thing that requires mental attention per blog post; that’s all we bloggers can cope with.
Now, back to my Reasons to be cheerful: Part III. It goes
Hammersmith Palee, the Bolshoi Ballee,
Dijon mustard, Freddy’s Frozen Custard.
See. You’d never have guessed that, would you?
Dijon mustard is easily available here, and obviously that is a reason to be cheerful (and let’s face it, not much else rhymes with ‘custard’). I don’t need to tell you much else about Dijon mustard. But when it comes to Freddy’s Frozen Custard, well, I could blog on for hours.
“Frozen Custard” says the notice on the wall “is a frequently misunderstood product”. Now, dear Bloggy Friend, lest you be one of the many who misunderstand frozen custard, let me tell you more. According to the notice, it is like ice cream, but the recipe uses more eggs, and a time-tested process that closely replicates the hand-churning method of old. This forces air out of the mixture, minimising the formation of ice crystals. Just in case you aren’t jumping round the room with sheer cheerfulness, let me point out the significance. “This combination prevents the product from melting too quickly and allows it to be served at a higher temperature than ice cream.” Still haven’t quite got it? Do you remember how, when you were a child, you used to mix your ice cream in the bowl round and round and round, as quickly as possible, to soften it to a lovely semi-runny semi-solid consistency? Frozen custard is just that temperature and consistency, but creamier, and you don’t even get told off by your parents for making a racket with your spoon. What it means is that this is the perfect product for people who like ice cream but who have sensitive teeth. Like me. You don’t have to eat it half a teaspoon at a time, holding it carefully on your tongue in the very middle of your mouth, till your body temperature has warmed it up enough to risk allowing it past your touchy back molars. And it's very creamy. Very very creamy.
You can have frozen custard either as a sundae with a choice of toppings, or as a concrete – which means that the toppings are whizzed in, somewhat like a McFlurry (although truly, I hesitate to use that word in the same blog post as frozen custard, as the two could only be compared by the deeply unimaginative). So, you might hear a customer order “a large vanilla concrete with marshmallows and rainbow sprinkles”. It sounds like a Mafia threat, I think. My favourite order is “the Signature Turtle” – both for taste and for obscurity of title (although once you’ve had one or two, you do begin to see a small resemblance to a turtle, and the pecan nuts round the edge look a bit turtley too). Of course the portions are huge, so that even a mini concrete would be enough to point a small wall with, but experience shows there’s just no future in expecting reasonable size servings here in the US. You can’t blame Freddy’s for that.
Frozen custard is a frequently misunderstood, but totally delicious, product. It wouldn’t, however, have the same charm if it wasn’t Freddy’s. When you go to Freddy’s, you feel his presence. The décor and ambiance are nothing special, but on the walls and on each table are black and white photos of Freddy, his lovely wife Norma (sic), and their four children. Each time you go, you can sit by another little window into his life. Or if you have a blog to write, you can wander round, looking at the pictures and reading the captions, intruding rudely into the personal space of families and friends sharing intimate moments over a frozen custard. There are photos of Freddy and the family at Christmas, the children sitting by the tree in patterned sweaters, their hair smartly brushed. There are photos of Freddy and the family visiting his brother in California, standing self-consciously on the beach in waist-high swimming trunks and squinting at the camera. There are photos of Freddy as a young man, in uniform, and as an older man, visiting a veteran’s memorial in the Pacific. There are photos of Freddy on a tractor. Freddy spent most of his life as a farmer, but was always interested in frozen custard, and over the years, refined and perfected his recipe. He opened his first outlet in 2004, and celebrated his 77th birthday by opening his second soon after. There are now several across four states. What could epitomize the American dream more neatly than Freddy’s life? He served his country in wartime, spent most of his life running his farm with his wife and four children at his side, dreaming dreams of the perfect frozen dessert, and in his retirement, became an entrepreneur and melted his frozen dreams into reality. He must have a bit of help – a burgeoning army of marketing people and corporate executives. I imagine he keeps them all in line. He graduated in 1949 from Wichita University with a degree in Accountancy (there’s a photo), and I’m sure has a good head for business. I’m told that Freddy often visits his outlets, so I hope I might bump into him one day. I’ll buy him a Signature Turtle.
You must watch out for Freddy’s Frozen Custards in Britain – it can only be a matter of time before they arrive. Or you can go to the website, click on ‘Franchise’, and put in an application to open your own one. If Freddy, in his mid-70s, found the energy to launch the chain, what's your excuse for not opening a local one?
Well now, nearly time for me to go off on my blogging break. I’d just like to remind you of two things I said in my last post. First, it’s intended to be a break, not a complete departure, and I am planning to be back at some point. I’ve set up that clever RSS feed thingy so you can sign up to know when I’m writing again (actually, it's so clever, that it had set itself up already by default – amazing). Second, I’m still going to be around reading your blogs and commenting.
Thank you all for your kind comments, and for being such wonderful Bloggy Friends. I’m sure you know how much I’ve enjoyed and valued, and needed, the fun of being part of it all over the past 6 months.
Showing posts with label Reasons to be cheerful. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Reasons to be cheerful. Show all posts
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
Taking a break
I’m going to be taking a break from blogging. It goes something like this.
The usual complaint: life getting in the way. This is a good sign, though. It means that my life is busy, and that I don’t have so much time to sit and write about it. I no longer have to go to Wal-Mart to make sure that I have had at least one face-to-face adult conversation with someone who isn’t my husband in the course of the day. The week. You think I’m joking. I tell you, it was bad when I first arrived here. So the fact that I have things to do, people to talk to, balls to juggle, visitors for Christmas, is good news. Yay! (as I've learnt to say...)
I haven’t yet empirically tested the theory that my house would be tidier and cleaner if I didn’t blog, but I don’t need to. I know it is not true. However, there is a parallel theory that I think is worth testing. It says that if I didn’t blog, I might go to the gym or the pool or even just walk around the neighborhood (having changed into my sports gear and put my walkman on, to blend in a little) and be a bit fitter. It’s a theory worth testing. There’s that blog post I haven’t quite dared write yet about the American way of life and the big O. When you’re not walking briskly about in the course of your day, it does take its toll, and that gym really needs to see more of me. Obesity, by the way, if you were wondering. I’m not there yet, but something called middle age spread is doing a 360 degree job where my waist used to be, and I’m not ready to admit defeat yet. ('Middle age spread' sounds like something you buy in a jar and put on your toast, doesn’t it? If only…)
So there’s life, and then there’s children. 6-yo has said, on more than one occasion, “you tell us not to get addicted to video games, but you’re addicted to the computer”. He has a point. I mumble stuff about “important jobs”, but then there’s 10-yo who says “what, your blog you mean?” Now, before you leap to my defence and tell me not to be bullied by my children, let me thank you for your support, and tell you that I’m not, but of course they are a large part of this thing called “real life” which intrudes upon blog-writing and blog-reading time. I imagined fondly that when 3-yo started preschool, I would have 3 mornings a week to myself. What I couldn’t have foreseen (it’s really not fair being a parent, is it?) is that going out to preschool would make her more needy of proper time with me when at home. She used to potter independently and happily, but now she seems to need much more in the way of entertainment, and insists on my company, even for watching television. I don’t really mind, as being needed, though demanding, keeps your maternal mind away from such horrors as no longer being needed. The whole process of gaining time for yourself has a bittersweetness to it, I’ve always found (it's really, really not fair being a parent). For months, nay years, you have a small person attached to your breast, hip or lower leg, and dream of the day when you might nip out somewhere spontaneously without finding shoes, thinking up creative ways of making the car seat an attractive prospect, and fast forwarding through endless nursery rhymes in order to find the favourite of the day, which you do just as you arrive at your destination. Then those times come, and you’re not quite sure what to do with them. It probably takes a bit of practice. Sorry, I digress. What I was trying to tell you was that, yes, I do have three 2-hour blocks of time to myself that I didn’t used to have, but for the rest of the week, I have a small person who is deeply jealous of the computer. She worked out a long time ago that she could interrupt a blogging session by putting her shoulder against the side of our wheelie office chair, and pushing me sideways away from the desk. She has now perfected the manoeuvre, and rotates the chair through 180 degrees, so I end up a few feet to the side and facing the room with my back to the desk.
So there’s life, there’s children, and on a happy note, there’s this. I love cruising round the blogosphere, and catching up on what everyone is doing in Scotland, France, London, deepest Africa, Northumberland, other bits of the States, and everywhere else where people who know how to write darn good blogs live. I realize, however, that as the weeks have rolled by, I no longer feel quite the same urgency to do so. I’m not falling out of love with you all, honest, it’s just a sign that I like my own four walls rather more, and am not so desperate to escape them any little spare moment of the day. This is all positive stuff. Do I sniff the words “feeling more settled” in the autumn breeze? (sorry, I love that word too much to exchange it for the prosaic “fall” which to me has a glum feel to it, even if you open up that vowel to make it “fahl”). We arrived in the Midwest on December 4th last year (Iota Day, put it in your diary, send me a cheery email), and I feel that perhaps now is a good time to start looking at my life here through a different lens. It’s time, I think, for it to become not wrong, not different, just ordinary life.
Life, children, happier at home (though still reserving the right for the occasional vent), and – bear with me - one more thing. I’m just wondering, just just wondering, if perhaps, instead of regaling you with blog-sized chunks of my life, I might just keep them all together, and just see if I can write a book. Perhaps just maybe. Just. Dorothy Jones’ Diary (ooh, now there’s a big clue as to my location). I wasn’t going to confess that, but I feel I’m among friends…
I need to write one more blog post. This is partly because I must set up some clever RSS feed or something, so that you can sign up, and then when I run screaming back to the computer in few weeks’ time, unable to face a life without blogging, and begging forgiveness humbly on my knees, you will be notified and can come by to leave a comment saying “what? you think you can just walk away and then expect us to take you back?” (Actually, I'm probably going to carry on reading and commenting, and just give up the writing; I can't see the full cold turkey approach lasting.)
The other reason is that I ploughed my way through Reasons to be cheerful: Parts I and II, in order that I could get to Reasons to be cheerful: Part III, so it would be a darn shame to miss the opportunity. You remember that mad but marvelous song, by Ian Dury and the Blockheads? I’ve always found the reasons to be cheerful/count your blessings approach to life rather a good one, and I’ve relied on it much over the past year. In fact, our decision to come to the Midwest was nudged along in its early days by a 'reasons to be cheerful' moment that saw me sitting on a grass verge, holding 2-yo tighter to my chest than any 2 year old has ever been held before, looking at the wreck that was the car we’d been in, watching the trees swaying in the wind, and thinking “there are worse things than moving to the Midwest”.
But back to Ian Dury. I thought I’d run another wee competitionette while I’m incommunicado on vacation in San Diego (mmm, lovely). I was going to ask you to guess my forthcoming reasons to be cheerful, but it’s very obscure and you’d have no chance unless you lived in the Midwest, and life has enough disappointments for us all without me deliberately setting you up to endure another one, good losers though you are. So instead I’ll ask you all to think up your own reasons to be cheerful, two of them, which rhyme and scan, and if you were Ian Dury, would have made it into the song. You’ll find it easily enough on Youtube and Lyricsmania.com if you need to be reminded of lines such as my favourite which goes:
Hammersmith Palee, the Bolshoi Ballee...
You get the idea. So tell me your reasons to be cheerful. Indulge me for one more post.
The usual complaint: life getting in the way. This is a good sign, though. It means that my life is busy, and that I don’t have so much time to sit and write about it. I no longer have to go to Wal-Mart to make sure that I have had at least one face-to-face adult conversation with someone who isn’t my husband in the course of the day. The week. You think I’m joking. I tell you, it was bad when I first arrived here. So the fact that I have things to do, people to talk to, balls to juggle, visitors for Christmas, is good news. Yay! (as I've learnt to say...)
I haven’t yet empirically tested the theory that my house would be tidier and cleaner if I didn’t blog, but I don’t need to. I know it is not true. However, there is a parallel theory that I think is worth testing. It says that if I didn’t blog, I might go to the gym or the pool or even just walk around the neighborhood (having changed into my sports gear and put my walkman on, to blend in a little) and be a bit fitter. It’s a theory worth testing. There’s that blog post I haven’t quite dared write yet about the American way of life and the big O. When you’re not walking briskly about in the course of your day, it does take its toll, and that gym really needs to see more of me. Obesity, by the way, if you were wondering. I’m not there yet, but something called middle age spread is doing a 360 degree job where my waist used to be, and I’m not ready to admit defeat yet. ('Middle age spread' sounds like something you buy in a jar and put on your toast, doesn’t it? If only…)
So there’s life, and then there’s children. 6-yo has said, on more than one occasion, “you tell us not to get addicted to video games, but you’re addicted to the computer”. He has a point. I mumble stuff about “important jobs”, but then there’s 10-yo who says “what, your blog you mean?” Now, before you leap to my defence and tell me not to be bullied by my children, let me thank you for your support, and tell you that I’m not, but of course they are a large part of this thing called “real life” which intrudes upon blog-writing and blog-reading time. I imagined fondly that when 3-yo started preschool, I would have 3 mornings a week to myself. What I couldn’t have foreseen (it’s really not fair being a parent, is it?) is that going out to preschool would make her more needy of proper time with me when at home. She used to potter independently and happily, but now she seems to need much more in the way of entertainment, and insists on my company, even for watching television. I don’t really mind, as being needed, though demanding, keeps your maternal mind away from such horrors as no longer being needed. The whole process of gaining time for yourself has a bittersweetness to it, I’ve always found (it's really, really not fair being a parent). For months, nay years, you have a small person attached to your breast, hip or lower leg, and dream of the day when you might nip out somewhere spontaneously without finding shoes, thinking up creative ways of making the car seat an attractive prospect, and fast forwarding through endless nursery rhymes in order to find the favourite of the day, which you do just as you arrive at your destination. Then those times come, and you’re not quite sure what to do with them. It probably takes a bit of practice. Sorry, I digress. What I was trying to tell you was that, yes, I do have three 2-hour blocks of time to myself that I didn’t used to have, but for the rest of the week, I have a small person who is deeply jealous of the computer. She worked out a long time ago that she could interrupt a blogging session by putting her shoulder against the side of our wheelie office chair, and pushing me sideways away from the desk. She has now perfected the manoeuvre, and rotates the chair through 180 degrees, so I end up a few feet to the side and facing the room with my back to the desk.
So there’s life, there’s children, and on a happy note, there’s this. I love cruising round the blogosphere, and catching up on what everyone is doing in Scotland, France, London, deepest Africa, Northumberland, other bits of the States, and everywhere else where people who know how to write darn good blogs live. I realize, however, that as the weeks have rolled by, I no longer feel quite the same urgency to do so. I’m not falling out of love with you all, honest, it’s just a sign that I like my own four walls rather more, and am not so desperate to escape them any little spare moment of the day. This is all positive stuff. Do I sniff the words “feeling more settled” in the autumn breeze? (sorry, I love that word too much to exchange it for the prosaic “fall” which to me has a glum feel to it, even if you open up that vowel to make it “fahl”). We arrived in the Midwest on December 4th last year (Iota Day, put it in your diary, send me a cheery email), and I feel that perhaps now is a good time to start looking at my life here through a different lens. It’s time, I think, for it to become not wrong, not different, just ordinary life.
Life, children, happier at home (though still reserving the right for the occasional vent), and – bear with me - one more thing. I’m just wondering, just just wondering, if perhaps, instead of regaling you with blog-sized chunks of my life, I might just keep them all together, and just see if I can write a book. Perhaps just maybe. Just. Dorothy Jones’ Diary (ooh, now there’s a big clue as to my location). I wasn’t going to confess that, but I feel I’m among friends…
I need to write one more blog post. This is partly because I must set up some clever RSS feed or something, so that you can sign up, and then when I run screaming back to the computer in few weeks’ time, unable to face a life without blogging, and begging forgiveness humbly on my knees, you will be notified and can come by to leave a comment saying “what? you think you can just walk away and then expect us to take you back?” (Actually, I'm probably going to carry on reading and commenting, and just give up the writing; I can't see the full cold turkey approach lasting.)
The other reason is that I ploughed my way through Reasons to be cheerful: Parts I and II, in order that I could get to Reasons to be cheerful: Part III, so it would be a darn shame to miss the opportunity. You remember that mad but marvelous song, by Ian Dury and the Blockheads? I’ve always found the reasons to be cheerful/count your blessings approach to life rather a good one, and I’ve relied on it much over the past year. In fact, our decision to come to the Midwest was nudged along in its early days by a 'reasons to be cheerful' moment that saw me sitting on a grass verge, holding 2-yo tighter to my chest than any 2 year old has ever been held before, looking at the wreck that was the car we’d been in, watching the trees swaying in the wind, and thinking “there are worse things than moving to the Midwest”.
But back to Ian Dury. I thought I’d run another wee competitionette while I’m incommunicado on vacation in San Diego (mmm, lovely). I was going to ask you to guess my forthcoming reasons to be cheerful, but it’s very obscure and you’d have no chance unless you lived in the Midwest, and life has enough disappointments for us all without me deliberately setting you up to endure another one, good losers though you are. So instead I’ll ask you all to think up your own reasons to be cheerful, two of them, which rhyme and scan, and if you were Ian Dury, would have made it into the song. You’ll find it easily enough on Youtube and Lyricsmania.com if you need to be reminded of lines such as my favourite which goes:
Hammersmith Palee, the Bolshoi Ballee...
You get the idea. So tell me your reasons to be cheerful. Indulge me for one more post.
Saturday, October 27, 2007
Reasons to be cheerful: Part II
Motts Pots
They don’t call them that, which is a shame. It would be such a good name for what is such a good idea. They are little tubs of apple sauce (stewed apple or apple puree if you'd rather), which are just excellent as an alternative to a yogurt or fromage frais. Handy at home, perfect for packed lunches, top picks for picnics. Of course this all depends on your kids being the kind who like apple sauce, but for those of you who have the other kind of kid, well, you can just eat a Motts Pot yourself from time to time. You don’t even have to keep them in the fridge. They do a few variations too: apple and strawberry, cinnamon apple… in fact, here’s the whole range.
Please, if you know someone connected to the company, would you pass on to them a couple of ideas. The first is the name. They’ve got as far as Motts for Tots (ie smaller tubs for toddlers), but no-one has made the really very obvious step to Motts Pots. This would, I’m sure, put them ahead of the competition (Kroger, a rhymingly challenged company). The other idea is that they should launch into the UK market. Apple puree, formerly available only for babies, now here for children and adults. One of your five daily portions in a convenient tub. It’s really delicious stuff. Motts Pots for Brits. Don’t tell me that wouldn’t succeed.
Garage openers
These are absolutely standard here, so you have to try not to look too wide-eyed and excited as you point and click from the comfort of your car seat. Makes you feel like a bit of a celeb though. I mean, fancy me having an automatic garage opener. It was some weeks before I could do the point and click without saying “open sesame” and laughing out loud – until I caught sight of my children’s faces in the mirror. I think they’d heard the joke once too often. Most people programme the clicker into some clever gadget or other just above the driving mirror, so they don’t even have to fumble around in a door pocket, but can just reach up in one elegant movement. When we were test-driving our car, this feature was pointed out to us. I asked “why are there three buttons?” The reply came “some people have three garages” (duh….). Almost all houses other than the very old ones (you know, those dating back to the 20s and 30s…) have integral garages, meaning you can walk straight from the garage into the house. So if you have a garage opener, you don’t have to worry about rain, cold, wind, sun – you can be straight out of your climate controlled house, into your climate controlled car. Your legs need hardly be activated at all.
Of course in Britain garage openers would be next to useless, as they are designed for people who put their car in their garage. It's a strange concept, but it seems to work once you've got the hang of it.
Long summers
I know I’ve complained about the heat here in high summer. I know. The nice other side of that coin, though, is that for much of the year (at least May to early October) it is warm enough to be in flip-flops, a t-shirt and capris (not shorts, please, at my age). I can hear the envious intakes of breath from here, as I tell you that it is only last week that I have had to think of taking a cardigan when I go out. That is nice. I have become very wedded to flip-flops (except in banks).
Goo Gone
I was intrigued to find out about Goo Gone, after one occasion when I heard American women in Scotland discussing how much they missed it. So when the official at Immigration stamped our passports and said “welcome to America. Do you have any questions?”, I replied without hesitating “Can you tell me where the nearest Goo Gone retailer is?” I do see exactly why you would miss this product so much. You know how often there is an irritating problem relating to a price tag on a birthday present, or the remains of a sticker on the furniture or the window? Well, Goo Gone is the thing. One little squirt and a quick wipe, and the unsightly mess is gone. On a bad day, I have been tempted to see if it worked on the kids themselves. It’s another product ripe for the UK import market. I’ve even thought of an advertising slogan: Blair gone? Goo Gone would have got rid of him quicker.
Kitchen roll in half size strips
You know how a piece of kitchen roll is often too big for the job? The Americans have got this sussed. Here, you can buy kitchen roll in half size strips. Nifty AND environmentally sensitive (although I expect that is just a lucky side effect). “But hang on a minute” I hear you say. “What about if the spillage is too big for a half size strip? What if I need that full size square? I’d end up having to have two different rolls on the kitchen counter, and that would take up precious space.” Well, here’s the clever clever thing. When you have a roll in half size strips, if you need a big old-fashioned square, you can miss out one line of perforations and just tear off two half size pieces together! It works just the same! Brilliant. They've thought of everything.
They don’t call them that, which is a shame. It would be such a good name for what is such a good idea. They are little tubs of apple sauce (stewed apple or apple puree if you'd rather), which are just excellent as an alternative to a yogurt or fromage frais. Handy at home, perfect for packed lunches, top picks for picnics. Of course this all depends on your kids being the kind who like apple sauce, but for those of you who have the other kind of kid, well, you can just eat a Motts Pot yourself from time to time. You don’t even have to keep them in the fridge. They do a few variations too: apple and strawberry, cinnamon apple… in fact, here’s the whole range.
Please, if you know someone connected to the company, would you pass on to them a couple of ideas. The first is the name. They’ve got as far as Motts for Tots (ie smaller tubs for toddlers), but no-one has made the really very obvious step to Motts Pots. This would, I’m sure, put them ahead of the competition (Kroger, a rhymingly challenged company). The other idea is that they should launch into the UK market. Apple puree, formerly available only for babies, now here for children and adults. One of your five daily portions in a convenient tub. It’s really delicious stuff. Motts Pots for Brits. Don’t tell me that wouldn’t succeed.
Garage openers
These are absolutely standard here, so you have to try not to look too wide-eyed and excited as you point and click from the comfort of your car seat. Makes you feel like a bit of a celeb though. I mean, fancy me having an automatic garage opener. It was some weeks before I could do the point and click without saying “open sesame” and laughing out loud – until I caught sight of my children’s faces in the mirror. I think they’d heard the joke once too often. Most people programme the clicker into some clever gadget or other just above the driving mirror, so they don’t even have to fumble around in a door pocket, but can just reach up in one elegant movement. When we were test-driving our car, this feature was pointed out to us. I asked “why are there three buttons?” The reply came “some people have three garages” (duh….). Almost all houses other than the very old ones (you know, those dating back to the 20s and 30s…) have integral garages, meaning you can walk straight from the garage into the house. So if you have a garage opener, you don’t have to worry about rain, cold, wind, sun – you can be straight out of your climate controlled house, into your climate controlled car. Your legs need hardly be activated at all.
Of course in Britain garage openers would be next to useless, as they are designed for people who put their car in their garage. It's a strange concept, but it seems to work once you've got the hang of it.
Long summers
I know I’ve complained about the heat here in high summer. I know. The nice other side of that coin, though, is that for much of the year (at least May to early October) it is warm enough to be in flip-flops, a t-shirt and capris (not shorts, please, at my age). I can hear the envious intakes of breath from here, as I tell you that it is only last week that I have had to think of taking a cardigan when I go out. That is nice. I have become very wedded to flip-flops (except in banks).
Goo Gone
I was intrigued to find out about Goo Gone, after one occasion when I heard American women in Scotland discussing how much they missed it. So when the official at Immigration stamped our passports and said “welcome to America. Do you have any questions?”, I replied without hesitating “Can you tell me where the nearest Goo Gone retailer is?” I do see exactly why you would miss this product so much. You know how often there is an irritating problem relating to a price tag on a birthday present, or the remains of a sticker on the furniture or the window? Well, Goo Gone is the thing. One little squirt and a quick wipe, and the unsightly mess is gone. On a bad day, I have been tempted to see if it worked on the kids themselves. It’s another product ripe for the UK import market. I’ve even thought of an advertising slogan: Blair gone? Goo Gone would have got rid of him quicker.
Kitchen roll in half size strips
You know how a piece of kitchen roll is often too big for the job? The Americans have got this sussed. Here, you can buy kitchen roll in half size strips. Nifty AND environmentally sensitive (although I expect that is just a lucky side effect). “But hang on a minute” I hear you say. “What about if the spillage is too big for a half size strip? What if I need that full size square? I’d end up having to have two different rolls on the kitchen counter, and that would take up precious space.” Well, here’s the clever clever thing. When you have a roll in half size strips, if you need a big old-fashioned square, you can miss out one line of perforations and just tear off two half size pieces together! It works just the same! Brilliant. They've thought of everything.
Friday, October 19, 2007
Reasons to be cheerful: Part I
Now, in the interests of redressing the balance following my miserable gloom of last week-end, I’m going to tell you about something that I really like about here. Thunderstorms. We’ve had a couple of humdingers this week. The good thing is, it won’t be long before the next one. Not that they’re really frequent, but frequent is a relative thing. Think about it if you’re reading this in Britain. When was the last time you had a good thunderstorm? And the time before that? See. Hardly ever. And how long did they last? A measly 20 minutes? Here they rumble around for hours.
Thunderstorms here are magnificent. The thunder rolls and booms and cracks. The lightning flashes just like in movies, or when children fiddle with the light switch. Light, dark, light, dark, light, dark. We get that proper forked lightning too. Lots of it. Like the finger of a divine being: “You, yes, you, Iota Manhattan, this one is for YOU”. And zap! You can see it crackling its way down to the intended spot. Actually, I shouldn’t joke, as lightning strikes do account for deaths and injuries here, and it is treated with respect. I’m told you shouldn’t be on the phone or use the computer during a lightning storm, (although there are those of us who will risk personal safety for the sake of our blog readers). People feel uneasy about being outside. Outdoor pools are closed if there is a threat of lightning, and this morning’s preschool trip to the pumpkin patch was cancelled. The words ‘rain’ and ‘mud’ were mentioned, but lightning was given as the reason.
Thunderstorms can hog the stage and perform on their own, without it raining, which I find very exciting. Of course they do bring rain too. Proper rain. Torrents of the stuff, lasting for ages. You get veritable rivers running down the sides of the roads, and the drainpipes flow like taps. Proper rain. Not that drizzle that passes for precipitation in the UK. Over there on the eastern side of the Atlantic, you’re really quite pansy-ass when it comes to a good storm. Bigger and wetter, that’s the style here. Something else I like about rain here is that it doesn’t have to be cold. We’re not talking tropical conditions like the monsoons or anything, but certainly, you can have a warm day that doesn’t turn cold just because the rain has come. I like that. Why should rain always equal cold? Huh? Here, you can be out in the rain in your flip-flops (remember this detail, it becomes significant later on).
So thunderstorms are good. And today it turned out that lollies in banks are good too. Lollies in banks. Usually I hate lollies in banks. Does my child really need a sugar fix just because I’ve paid in a cheque? “Don’t waste your money” I always want to say. “Lollies are not necessary. What else are you frittering away my cash on? Stop the lollies and lower your overdraft charges.” But today, nothing to do with the very satisfying thunderstorm, at least I don’t think so, although you never know how these things tie up in some cosmic realm, I even found a purpose for lollies in banks.
I was going to the bank after school pick-up (why?), so I had three children with me. One, the smallest, was running about in a wild fashion that in Britain would have made me feel rather self-conscious, but here, doesn’t make me feel quite so bad, as they seem a bit more relaxed about noisy children (oh look, did you spot that? Another nice thing about America has sneaked in. I could run a Spot the Nice American Thing competition at this rate. By the way, did you notice the word ‘pansy-ass’ a few paragraphs ago. That’s another. I didn’t know that word a year ago.) Anyway, she was running up and down, with the Burt’s Bees lip salve (oh, there’s another one) she’d stolen out of my handbag, saying “guess where I’ve put lipstick, I’ve put it all over everywhere” and giggling hysterically. This might have embarrassed me, but I knew that (a) she was talking about her own body, as evidenced by the hoiking up of her t-shirt to display her belly button which I could imagine is a pretty tempting target for a lip salve when you are 3 years old, (b) she was laughing so raucously that I knew no-one else would be able to understand a word she was saying and (c) lip salve is clear so that if there had been some collateral damage on the furniture and fittings that I hadn’t witnessed, we’d be long gone by the time it was discovered.
It happened. She tripped over her flip-flops (hah! remember?), her pink bejeweled flip-flops, measured her length and landed on her front, the fall accompanied by a dull 'bop' sound as her little forehead hit the bank floor, since her hands were too busy clutching the lip salve and its lid to be any use in saving her. There was much yelling and sobbing, which continued for a while. Then a while longer. Then, after a pause which only the most heartless of mothers would interpret as resulting from a quick assessment of the size and interest-level of the audience (both satisfactory), a while longer. At this point, the helpful bank lady started talking about ice packs and cold water (more yelling, louder yelling), and I could feel the situation was getting out of hand. So I put aside my pride, and there on my knees in that Bank of America, I uttered some words which I never thought I would utter in a bank. I asked “Do you have any lollies here?”
I suppose I should be honest, and tell you that actually I was rather inarticulate at this point. Kneeling on the floor, arms round yelling child, hands fumbling with lip salve and lid, I was struggling for the right word. I was hesitating to say “Do you have any suckers here?” which is what kids call lollies. It didn’t seem a very appropriate turn of phrase for use in a high street bank. So I started with ‘popsicles’, which I knew was wrong as soon as I’d said it (they’re the frozen ones), and quickly diverted to ‘lollies’ (not right either), which I tried to segue into ‘lollipops’, but I fear I produced some burbling sound somewhere between the three attempts. The nice bank lady understood me though, and of course the end of the story is that they did indeed have lollies there. They had a particularly nice pink and purple stripy one (you see why I wonder about cosmic realms), and all was well. The boys managed to sneak one each too.
Thunderstorms. Lollies in banks. Reasons to be cheerful: Part I.
Thunderstorms here are magnificent. The thunder rolls and booms and cracks. The lightning flashes just like in movies, or when children fiddle with the light switch. Light, dark, light, dark, light, dark. We get that proper forked lightning too. Lots of it. Like the finger of a divine being: “You, yes, you, Iota Manhattan, this one is for YOU”. And zap! You can see it crackling its way down to the intended spot. Actually, I shouldn’t joke, as lightning strikes do account for deaths and injuries here, and it is treated with respect. I’m told you shouldn’t be on the phone or use the computer during a lightning storm, (although there are those of us who will risk personal safety for the sake of our blog readers). People feel uneasy about being outside. Outdoor pools are closed if there is a threat of lightning, and this morning’s preschool trip to the pumpkin patch was cancelled. The words ‘rain’ and ‘mud’ were mentioned, but lightning was given as the reason.
Thunderstorms can hog the stage and perform on their own, without it raining, which I find very exciting. Of course they do bring rain too. Proper rain. Torrents of the stuff, lasting for ages. You get veritable rivers running down the sides of the roads, and the drainpipes flow like taps. Proper rain. Not that drizzle that passes for precipitation in the UK. Over there on the eastern side of the Atlantic, you’re really quite pansy-ass when it comes to a good storm. Bigger and wetter, that’s the style here. Something else I like about rain here is that it doesn’t have to be cold. We’re not talking tropical conditions like the monsoons or anything, but certainly, you can have a warm day that doesn’t turn cold just because the rain has come. I like that. Why should rain always equal cold? Huh? Here, you can be out in the rain in your flip-flops (remember this detail, it becomes significant later on).
So thunderstorms are good. And today it turned out that lollies in banks are good too. Lollies in banks. Usually I hate lollies in banks. Does my child really need a sugar fix just because I’ve paid in a cheque? “Don’t waste your money” I always want to say. “Lollies are not necessary. What else are you frittering away my cash on? Stop the lollies and lower your overdraft charges.” But today, nothing to do with the very satisfying thunderstorm, at least I don’t think so, although you never know how these things tie up in some cosmic realm, I even found a purpose for lollies in banks.
I was going to the bank after school pick-up (why?), so I had three children with me. One, the smallest, was running about in a wild fashion that in Britain would have made me feel rather self-conscious, but here, doesn’t make me feel quite so bad, as they seem a bit more relaxed about noisy children (oh look, did you spot that? Another nice thing about America has sneaked in. I could run a Spot the Nice American Thing competition at this rate. By the way, did you notice the word ‘pansy-ass’ a few paragraphs ago. That’s another. I didn’t know that word a year ago.) Anyway, she was running up and down, with the Burt’s Bees lip salve (oh, there’s another one) she’d stolen out of my handbag, saying “guess where I’ve put lipstick, I’ve put it all over everywhere” and giggling hysterically. This might have embarrassed me, but I knew that (a) she was talking about her own body, as evidenced by the hoiking up of her t-shirt to display her belly button which I could imagine is a pretty tempting target for a lip salve when you are 3 years old, (b) she was laughing so raucously that I knew no-one else would be able to understand a word she was saying and (c) lip salve is clear so that if there had been some collateral damage on the furniture and fittings that I hadn’t witnessed, we’d be long gone by the time it was discovered.
It happened. She tripped over her flip-flops (hah! remember?), her pink bejeweled flip-flops, measured her length and landed on her front, the fall accompanied by a dull 'bop' sound as her little forehead hit the bank floor, since her hands were too busy clutching the lip salve and its lid to be any use in saving her. There was much yelling and sobbing, which continued for a while. Then a while longer. Then, after a pause which only the most heartless of mothers would interpret as resulting from a quick assessment of the size and interest-level of the audience (both satisfactory), a while longer. At this point, the helpful bank lady started talking about ice packs and cold water (more yelling, louder yelling), and I could feel the situation was getting out of hand. So I put aside my pride, and there on my knees in that Bank of America, I uttered some words which I never thought I would utter in a bank. I asked “Do you have any lollies here?”
I suppose I should be honest, and tell you that actually I was rather inarticulate at this point. Kneeling on the floor, arms round yelling child, hands fumbling with lip salve and lid, I was struggling for the right word. I was hesitating to say “Do you have any suckers here?” which is what kids call lollies. It didn’t seem a very appropriate turn of phrase for use in a high street bank. So I started with ‘popsicles’, which I knew was wrong as soon as I’d said it (they’re the frozen ones), and quickly diverted to ‘lollies’ (not right either), which I tried to segue into ‘lollipops’, but I fear I produced some burbling sound somewhere between the three attempts. The nice bank lady understood me though, and of course the end of the story is that they did indeed have lollies there. They had a particularly nice pink and purple stripy one (you see why I wonder about cosmic realms), and all was well. The boys managed to sneak one each too.
Thunderstorms. Lollies in banks. Reasons to be cheerful: Part I.
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