The British Are Going!

You see, I've been here long enough to know that that's quite a funny title for a party invitation. (No? The British are coming? Paul Revere? Where's your American history, people?) It wasn't really meant to be a farewell party, though of course everyone knew it was that. Husband's division at work is quite a social group, and I have often felt that we haven't taken our turn at hosting a party, so I thought we'd better get on and do it, otherwise I would leave with that feeling, and live forevermore with that feeling. So we had a tea party (of course), and I think some Jubilee fever must have rubbed off on me, because I put on the invitation that people should wear "red, white, blue, or a combination thereof, in recognition of the shared interests of our two nations". 

We had a lovely time. I'd gone to World Market in honour of the party, to buy Golden Syrup, with which to make flapjack, and had loaded up with some fun British biscuits for people to try. This is what the table looked like.

Let me just talk you through the picture. We're talking red, white and blue icing on the mini buns. Behind those, we have flapjack. Behind those are strawberries - how very accommodating of them to be red! No bananas or green apples on MY festive patriotic table! Continuing round the edge in an anti-clockwise direction, we have a plate of Jammie Dodgers and Hobnobs pretending to be Oreos (ie two mini Hobnobs stuck together with some kind of filling, abhorrent to the Hobnob purist, but I thought more interesting for the American palate), then a little heap of Penguins, a plate of Toffeepops and Viscount biscuits (oh dear, green foil wrappers out of place there, but I'd tolerate almost anything in a Viscount biscuit - my childhood favourites), a pile of cucumber sandwiches, and Chocolate Fingers.

I mean, could it get any more British than that? Oh yes it could. In the kitchen it did.

I was very impressed that many of the guests did drink tea, and didn't just opt for the cold drinks that we'd also provided. Most of them even tried it with milk. Most of them added sugar too. One or two made themselves sweetened iced tea (yuk).

It was very mellow. A couple of families who we've got to know well stayed on after everyone else left (I'd sent them sneaky texts beforehand saying "you will stay on when everyone else has gone, won't you?"). Then we had a power outtage, which was symbolic, somehow. Perhaps I'd just overloaded the local bit of the national grid with my intense use of the kettle. So as it got darker and hotter in the house, we moved a table and chairs outside, where it was a little bit lighter and cooler. Husband was despatched to get Chinese take-away, and we sat in the dusk, making that beautiful transition from tea to wine, and sharing the evening with the fireflies. I love fireflies. 

It's an odd time at the moment. Not much daily routine. All the time there is an overwhelming amount of things to do, but we're also having parties and meals with friends, and fitting in family special times. Everything feels more mellow, more vivid, more fun, more its essential nature, in these days. There is an intensity in finality. We haven't quite got down to last goodbyes yet. No. Let's be honest. We have. We just haven't admitted it. "I'm sure I'll see you again before we go" is my staple way of avoiding a farewell. Only just over two weeks to go now, though, so who am I kidding?

“You must come round for coffee”: Part l

I recently enjoyed this post by Michelloui, who blogs at The American Resident. She says “when I came to Britain where hot drinks are so common they’ve invented a quick source for boiling water (the electric kettle, woo hoo!), I gradually came to understand that when people offered you a cup of tea they would be uncomfortable if you didn’t accept”.

It has spurred me on to write a post that I’ve been meaning to write for ages. Since I read quite a few blogs written by Americans in Britain, I know that the practice of being offered a hot drink when you arrive at someone’s house seems an oddity, so I thought I’d try and explain.

If you meet another mother at a toddler or school event in America, and you want to get to know her (let’s just suppose you’ve moved to the area from another continent and you don’t know a soul and you’re going absolutely bonkers in your isolation… for example…), the key phrase is “let’s get the kids together”. In Britain, the same invitation would be “you must come round for coffee some time”. If you take the British woman up on her offer, you will find that you are offered coffee or tea, but no-one says “you must come round for tea some time”. I’m guessing this is because tea is both a drink, and a meal. It’s too confusing to invite someone for tea, because they won’t know whether you mean them to arrive at 10.30 in the morning, for an hour and a half of chat while the children play, or to pitch up in the evening with an empty stomach. (To further complicate it, the Brits can’t even agree on what the meal ‘tea’ is. To some, it’s a post-school snack; to others it’s a full evening meal.) So to avoid confusion, we just stick to “come round for coffee”. Either way, the clue is in the phrase. The event will involve a hot drink.

A word of warning. If when you get there, you say you’d like coffee, this will most likely be what you call Nescafe. Don’t expect anything with a taste that you recognise as real coffee. At this point, I’d like to apologise, on behalf of the British nation, for instant coffee. It is, I now see, an abomination, and should have been outlawed by the Geneva Convention. So, assuming you want to avoid the coffee, you’ll go for tea. This will be what you know as ‘black tea’ (we don’t really do green tea in Britain), and unless you ask otherwise, it will be served with a small amount of milk in it.

So much for the beverage details. Now on to the more important issues. It will help you if you know you are not really being offered a drink. When your hostess asks if you’d prefer tea or coffee, please don’t say you won’t have either. You have to understand that she’s not worried about your hydration levels. She’s not offering you an opportunity to quench your thirst; she’s offering you her hospitality. Making you a cup of tea is code for making you welcome. She’s not really saying “would you like a drink?” She’s saying “this is my home, and I’ve invited you into it, and I want to make you feel comfortable here”. So just say yes. Then she’ll be in a familiar pattern of what to do next. If you say no, the ritual goes awry. What to do? It doesn’t feel quite right to go and make herself a drink if you’re not having one, but it feels even worse to sit down and converse without a drink. More about that in my next post.

I’ve been trying to think what a comparable situation would be for an American woman. It’s not a direct equivalent, but the best I can come up with is this. When you are invited round to someone’s house for dinner, you always take a dish with you. If it’s a potluck dinner, you do. If it’s not a potluck dinner, you still do. Imagine a scenario in which you turn up to dinner with your side dish, and take it into the kitchen, and your hostess says “oh, we don’t need an extra side. I’ve made a bunch of food for everyone. You can just leave it here on the counter top, and take it home with you when you go” (and yes, oh British readers, an American hostess might well talk about “a bunch of food”). See what I mean? There’s no logic to these things. You didn’t really think that you and the other guests would go hungry if you didn’t take a side dish with you. It’s just what you do. It’s a cultural norm. Just as you would feel that it was odd of your hostess not to accept your food, so we feel it’s peculiar for a guest not to accept a hot drink. Does that help explain?

Thanksgiving

We've been to Colorado again, for a week. So there's lots of stuff I could be sorting out, and there's a mountain of laundry, but... I'm going to write a blog post instead.

There is something about mountains. You always feel better for having been in them. We had a week of idyllic weather, with blue, blue skies and temperatures in the 60s, and even the 70s. Of course if it had been freezing cold and snowing a blizzard, that would have been fine too. It was win-win, really, and actually, part of us had hoped for weather so bad that we'd get snowed in and be forced to lengthen our stay.

It was, as far as I can remember, my best birthday ever. We started the day with a couple of hours of sledding. Where we were, at 7,500 ft, there wasn't any snow to speak of, but half an hour away, at 10,500 ft, there was enough. No broken limbs, just a few grazes, and glorious moments of speed and adventure. Then we soaked in the local hot springs, and emerged smelling of sulphur, but relaxed and invigorated. I successfully negotiated the changing rooms, which is a bit different in this post-surgery era of my life, but I managed ok, and even got to hold a 6-month old baby for a mother who didn't have enough hands to get herself and her two children dry and dressed (been there, know that feeling). Holding a baby: a nice thing to do on your birthday. We went out for dinner in a Chinese restaurant (new departure, having children old enough and adventurous enough to manage a Chinese menu), and ended up snuggling under a cosy blanket on the sofa watching the film Father of the Bride together. It's always a challenge to find a dvd that can be enjoyed by everyone in the family, but that seemed to hit the spot. There was a bottle of champagne in there too, somewhere along the line.

Apart from birthday frivolities, there was, of course, Thanksgiving. I have much to be thankful for this year, so for me, it was more about that, than about turkeys and pilgrims. Not that I'm knocking turkeys and pilgrims. Anyway, we got scooped up for a Thanksgiving meal by a local couple, who take it upon themselves to cook dinner for about 25, and then open their home to people who aren't celebrating with their own families. This seemed to include friends, friends of friends, and stray British wanderers. The food was totally delicious, the kids had fun, the company was relaxed, and it all took place in a perfect setting - a large house right on the shores of a beautiful lake. Going out on the deck (remember, it was sunny and warm, with blue skies), margarita in hand, I had one of those "I feel like I'm in a film" moments. How did life bring me to be enjoying Thanksgiving Dinner with all these people who I don't know, in a lake house, in Colorado, and drinking tequila? I don't even like tequila. Life is a puzzle.

I have to make a brief aside here, and reveal to you all - and I know many of you will find this hard to believe - that the green bean casserole was completely delectable. I'm a convert. It's a worrying sign that I might have been in America too long. Actually, I think it's more that I got to sample what a green bean casserole CAN be like, which is as different from what I've experienced before under that title as a unicorn is from a horse (ie not really all that different in substance, but very rare and exotic, and a whole new beautiful experience).

Americans, I have to tell you, are very good at the whole 'being nice to strangers' thing. I don't mean to knock the British, but really, we're in a very minor league when it comes to this. It's humbling to be on the receiving end. We have now stayed in Colorado for three separate weeks, each time in accommodation for which we have not paid a dime, and via a connection of two removes. And this time, we were welcomed into a Thanksgiving celebration as if we were old friends. As we left, the hostess gave me a big hug, and insisted that if we ever wanted to come to Colorado and didn't have anywhere to stay, then we must come and stay with her. She has met us once. This generous hospitality really is America at its finest. I think it's a lovely quality.

.