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?

Chicken soup

Chicken soup is a big thing in America. I’ve finally got to grips with the whole “chicken soup” deal. It took me a while, but - unless I’m much mistaken – this is the gist of it. When you say “chicken soup” to an American, it’s short-hand for a whole idea of comfort, solace, tenderness, warmth, care, love. All that good stuff that your mother made you feel when you were ill as a child. I suppose chicken soup must be what American mothers give to their convalescent children. I’m trying to think what the equivalent would be for the British. (There was a post on Pond Parleys about this recently.) In Jane Austen’s day, I believe it was calves’ foot jelly. Thank goodness times have changed. My mum used to give us Marmite on toast, and either hot Ribena, or Lucozade, so for me, those conjure up the chicken soup feelings. And come to think of it, that’s almost never these days. I do have a jar of Marmite at the back of the cupboard somewhere, but we don’t buy Ribena, and I’ve gone off Lucozade.

Back to chicken soup. The idea is all good, but chicken soup has got rather out of control, like the story of the girl with the magic porridge pot. Chicken soup has taken over much of the bookselling business. If you type ‘chicken soup book’ into Amazon, it will offer you 2,624 choices. Chicken soup for the soul, seems to be the thing. (Can a soul eat soup, I wonder? That’s a whole theological digression waiting to happen.) Little hardbacks to fit in your pocket, with pithy messages of wisdom and encouragement. Glossy paperbacks, with heart-warming tales of people triumphing over adversity. Gift packages of almost any combination of items, with inspiration and comfort oozing out.

Chicken soup is very specialised these days. There’s chicken soup for every situation, and every person. Let me list you a few, to give you an idea:

Chicken Soup for the Preteen Soul
Chicken Soup for the College Soul
Chicken Soup for the Empty Nester’s Soul
Chicken Soup for the Cat Lover’s Soul
Chicken Soup for the Dog Lover’s Soul
Chicken Soup for the Cat and Dog Lover’s Soul (covering all bases, that one)
Chicken Soup for the Ocean Lover’s Soul
Chicken Soup for the Entrepreneur’s Soul
Chicken Soup for the Golfer’s Soul
Chicken Soup for the NASCAR Soul
Chicken Soup for the Shopper’s Soul
Chicken Soup for the Canadian Soul
Chicken Soup for the Dieter’s Soul
Chicken Soup for the Unsinkable Soul (would make a nice pair with the Ocean Lover’s Soul)
Chicken Soup from the Soul of Hawai’i.

See what I mean? It’s out of control. Do you think there might be a title for fans of a particular music genre, titled Chicken Soup for the Soul Lover’s Soul? I expect there is, somewhere.

I came across a title recently that really threatened to tip me over the edge. As I said, I had just about fathomed what the whole chicken soup deal was, when I walked past a book stand on which this book was displayed.



Aaaargh. I had to re-read the title a few times. I did several double-takes. I just didn’t get it. This was a crossing-over of moral universes that had my head in a spin and my internal compass in a whirl.

It begs the following question: if your friend is a tea-lover, why the dickens would you give them chicken soup? Why wouldn’t you give them a nice cup of tea?

“Oh, hello, Iota. I know you’ve been having a tough time recently, and are in need of inspiration and encouragement. I know what you really need is a good cup of tea, so here’s some chicken soup.”

Aaaargh. I can’t get my brain round this at all. There are also chicken soup books for coffee-lovers, for wine-lovers, and for chocolate-lovers, incidentally. Chocolate lovers? How much are those die-hards going to appreciate chicken soup, for heaven’s sake?

Retaliation is the only appropriate response. I’m going to publish a book called A Nice Cup of Tea for the Chicken Soup Lover’s Soul.

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“You must come round for coffee”: Part ll

I’ve just watched the film Made in Dagenham, and – perhaps I’ve been away from England too long – I was struck by just how often the people offer each other a cup of tea (except the Secretary of State for Employment, who offers sherry – I expect the film-makers were trying to make a point, though I can’t think what it is). Great film, by the way. Well worth going to see.

Here is Part ll of my attempt to make sense of this phenomenon for Americans.

When we Brits make conversation, there are some subtle differences to the way you Americans do it. You pick these up as signs of us being reserved, or unfriendly, but I don’t believe they are. Not usually, and almost certainly not, if someone has invited you into their home. You make so much more eye contact than we do when you talk. In my early days in the US, I felt mildly uncomfortable all the time in conversation, because people were holding my eyes far too much. I probably came across to them as very shifty – always moving my eyes to left or right, or dropping them. Often I still find conversation with a new person a bit intense. It feels to me not so much like a chat, as an interrogation. We British women need to let our eyes wander, and you see, if we have a cup of tea in our hands, it makes it easier. We can lose eye contact regularly, when we take a sip. Even if we’re not sipping, the cup we’re holding provides us with an easy place to divert our gaze. It just makes it more comfortable for us. Saves us having to wander our eyes round the room.

What about those embarrassing silences? We need a distraction for those. When there’s a silence, we take a sip, or we give the drink a stir, or we warm our hands round the mug, maybe clinking our wedding ring against it. It turns the awkwardness of the silence into a companionable moment.

Another reason we need a prop is this. It’s because we don’t know what to do with our hands, if they’re not holding a cup (and thank you to Michelloui for pointing this one out to me). Knowing what to do with idle hands is something you do well. We don’t. If I’m sitting talking without something to hold, I invariably fidget with my hair, or my clothes, or the chair. In a formal situation like an interview, I have to make a conscious effort to keep my hands still in my lap. You don’t seem to have this problem. I’ve observed this in your children. They are comfortable standing with their hands by their sides when they’re on stage singing, reciting, or just watching and listening. That was always something that felt so awkward to me as a child. I always wanted to clasp my hands in front of me, or behind, or put them in pockets. I’ve observed it in your teenagers too. They don’t fold their arms in that classic defensive posture that ours adopt. How do you manage to feel so at ease with your manual appendages? Have mercy on us, when we need a simple mug to occupy our awkward hands.

American ladies, I hope I’ve helped you understand the whole complicated deal behind the hot drink compulsion. It’s our equivalent of the toddler’s comfort blanket. We just feel lost without it. No doubt you could wean us off it, with a sticker chart on the fridge door, or by telling our friends and neighbours in front of us what big girls we are now. But it would be kinder just to let us continue. There are worse habits. Think of it this way: at least if a hot drink is on offer, there’ll usually be a biscuit for you too.

For more on this subject, please go to Michelloui's blog, The American Resident, where she has posted an answer to my reflections. And then for a pithy one-liner which will make you laugh, try this link here.

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“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?

Olde English Tea

I've just been to an Olde English Tea. It's an annual fundraising event, run by a local church. It was most enjoyable, and it made me realise something I hadn't fully realised before. We English have a lot to live up to. I knew that Americans like our accent, and I knew that many of the older generation are somewhat fascinated by the idea of the monarchy. But, oh my, if this event is anything to go by, the image they hold of life in England is truly refined.

The occasion was one at which Miss Marple would have felt at home. Piano music tinkled away in the background. Tea was poured from large, elegant silver teapots on silver platters. The food consisted of small sandwiches cut into dainty circles or squares, and tiny cakes, and morsels of tray bake, and little pieces of fruit precisely displayed. There were mice made out of a cherry dipped in chocolate for the body, with a chocolate head, pointy nose and all, and ears made out of flaked almonds. The cherry stalk was the tail. What imagination! Everything was beautifully presented on plates, with doilies (can't remember when I last saw a doily), and a small vase of flowers in the middle of each one. Flowers were everywhere, actually. On each table in white teapots-turned-vases, in huge arrangements down the centre of the buffet table, either side of the pathway as you walked into the building.

I have no idea how many people they serve in the four hours that it runs, but it will be several hundred. Mostly ladies, and all very smartly turned out, with many in hats. Hats! "Like an English wedding" someone told me.

You'll be pleased to hear I didn't let the side down. I tried my best to look elegant and glamorous, but in an English way. I'm going to have to digress here, and tell you about the dress I wore. I've had it for 15 years (I just worked it out) and for most of those years, it's been hanging in my closet for old times' sake because, let's face it, who can fit into a dress they wore 15 years ago after three pregnancies and the onset of middle age? But ha, there has to be some hidden positive in cancer and chemo, and guess what, I am now lighter than I was 16 years ago, and it would seem pretty much as slim. I was so excited when I tried it on and found it fit, and it kind of compensated for the black and purple toilet brush which is my head these days (I never did go back to the hairdresser; I know, I know, I should have...)

Anyway, yes, understated English elegance was the look I was going for, which involves a lot of tummy sucking in, I can tell you, and walking as if you have a book balanced on your head. I tried to talk in my finest accent, and shower little droplets of British English into the air. It was the least I could do.

You'll be glad I didn't spoil the ambiance by letting on that there were a few little wrinkles in the Englishness. The event took place between 10.00am and 2.00pm, so not actually teatime as we know it. The tea was served with a slice of lemon with a clove stuck in it. Delicious, I'm sure, but not traditionally English. There was milk and sugar available, but it wasn't milk. It was cream. (I hear your small gasps of horror from across the ocean). There was a choice of tea or coffee (coffee... I know... sacrilege). And the drinks were served in glass cups - proper teacup-shaped cups, not mugs - but without saucers. Alas.

But it's the worst kind of expat who is a pernickety spotter of faults in this way, so these things are just between you and me and a gatepost standing by a verdant green meadow somewhere deep in rural England. And let's face it, if they were really going to recreate an English tea, it wouldn't be flowers and hats and delicate food and refined chatter at all, would it now?

Iota vlogs again

Due to the resounding success of my first vlog, and yielding to the insistent clamouring from a demanding public, I thought I'd have another go at vlogging.

The Just Vlog It challenge is run by Cafe Bebe, and Notes from Lapland, who I sometimes find snuggling up next to me in lists, as a result of our alphabetic proximity. This time round, the vlog topic was to "make you something".

My thanks go to 6-yo, as sound engineer, and to 12-yo, as proof editor, for pointing out that I sound rather rude to Americans in the introduction. I've just looked back at my last vlog, and I saw that I had to apologise for being patronising to Americans in that one. It's not intentional (or does that make it worse?)

And if I made a prediction about the result of the British general election, it was inadvertent. I don't have any inside knowledge on that subject.

Thoughts of labour

Day 22 of 'The Daily Post'.

When you’re in labour, your mind does odd things.

With my first, I remember thinking, with surprise, “Mrs McConnell is right. It IS just like doing a great big poo.” So much for all that talk of ‘bearing down’, and visualizing the petals of a flower gently opening.

I should explain. I had a friend and colleague called Holly McConnell. She hadn’t been through labour herself, but had quoted her mother’s pennyworth on the subject. I didn’t have the mental capacity to think this bit through when I was giving birth, but it later dawned on me that the woman in question wasn’t Mrs McConnell at all. That’s Holly’s married name. I had no idea what her maiden name was. But Mrs McConnell was good enough for me at the time, and if that bit of wisdom ever gets passed into formal theory for antenatal instruction, it should be called ‘the Mrs McConnell approach’ now for all time.

With my second and third labours, I followed the advice of a friend, and just kept my mind focused on the tea and toast that you are served once it’s all over. It tastes like no tea and toast has ever tasted before or since. It is the tea and toast to end all tea and toast. The anticipation of that tea and toast didn’t leave any mental space for odd stray thoughts, and of course by that time, I already knew that Mrs McConnell was right.

Did you have any random thoughts in labour? What’s your Mrs McConnell moment? Did the promise of tea and toast keep you going, or was it something else for you?

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Tea

Good news, People!

Wal-Mart sells PG tips. Not cheap, I grant you: $6.77 for 80, but a significant step in the progress of the teaification of the area.

When we first came here, you could get PG tips and other brands of tea at a marvellous store called World Market, but I never saw them anywhere else. Then, our local Dillons created a small section of foods from overseas countries, and the British aisle contains PG tips, Tetleys, and a choice of ordinary or decaf. (There are probably people here who assume I'm talking about Dillons when I talk about the British Aisles. They should know better, though. There's only one aisle, and I would never wantonly misuse a plural like that.) And now Wal-Mart has PG Tips in the regular, everyday, common or garden tea and coffee section. They'll be delivering them with the mail next.

I wonder if I could plot a map, something like those moving radar maps they have on the weather forecast. We would probably still be in an area of light brown low density tea availability, but the dark brown area of high tea availability could be shown moving slowly in from the east. I could explain that this followed the high pressure consumer interest which has been mounting slowly. I would put symbols on the map to clarify: little cups on saucers, with drips falling into them - a bit like inverted clouds.

In this election season, I like to see the teaification of the area as a sign of hope for America.

Hot tea

We all have bad days. This wasn't even a bad hair day. Just a bad day.

There is just under a week left of the school holidays (and I believe I've mentioned that they are 3 months long here... read my lips... 3 months long...). I have no imagination left. I have no patience left. I do however have two children left. Don't worry, I haven't done away with any of them. One is out at a friend's (hurrah! we've finally done enough inviting round for them to be invited back, hurrah! hurrah!).

Now I know we ex-pats look at Blighty through rose-tinted spectacles. Even so, I do think certain things in my life would be easier if I were back there now. This afternoon, for one. This is what I would do if I were in Scotland. I would go out. I know, I know. It's rained all summer ("summer?" you grunt). You're all sitting there feeling very grumpy and sorry for yourselves. But I would spot that half hour of grey dampness, in between the downpours and the drizzle, and I would force them out. There would be resistance, subversion, complaining, plea bargaining, lost wellies, but I would persist. The rain would possibly have set in again by the time I'd got every one togged up (at what age do they do this themselves without badgering?), but out we would go. The park, the beach, a walk, anywhere. By car first if necessary. I have a friend whose motto for the care of children is this: if in doubt, fling them out. You need to watch her near any open windows, but I do agree with the general sentiment.

I can't do that here. Outdoors doesn't exist in the same way. The neighborhood pool is now open only after 4.00pm, since a lot of the schools have gone back - "school hours" they call it. It's somewhere between 95 and 100 degrees, so the park isn't an option. This is not just me being a wuss. The swings and slides are too hot for the backs of small legs. We've done a short stint in our nice shady garden (back yard... whatever...). That's all the options.

Plan B in the UK would be this: a soft play centre (I said I had no imagination left). They're vile places aren't they? Vile, but we love them on afternoons like this. I would be sitting in a large barn of a building, inadequately ventilated, full of screeching children. The noise level would be uncomfortable for adult ear-drums. The smell of damp socks would pervade the atmosphere. The dust would irritate the back of my throat. 3-yo would bite small chunks of dirty foam out of grubby balls, and then laugh when I told her not to. The third or fourth time, I would say "if you do that again, we'll have to go home" and then instantly regret it. She might do it again. I would be sitting at a plastic table on a wobbly plastic chair. I would have optimistically purchased a cup of tea. It would be horrid. It would be in a polystyrene cup. They would have put the milk in when the bag was still in. The bag would now be floating around, unable to turn the white water a sufficiently encouraging shade of brown. They would have filled the cup too full, so the so-called tea it would slosh over the edge at any attempt to prise a little more colour and/or flavour out of the bag. I would have scalded my tongue (I hate polystyrene cups). I might also have a nasty flabby danish pastry in a sealed plastic pocket. I might eat it to make myself feel better about the tea.

Sounds appealing, huh? Well, that's what rosy-tinted specs do for you. But let me tell you this. I live in a city of 500,000, and there is no soft play centre. Strange, but true. I'll tell you why. Several of the McDonalds and Burger Kings have very small play areas. Very small, but better than nothing. It's a poor alternative, but you can buy a coke (the food is not compulsory, I've discovered) and sit and watch your children as they burn off excess energy. Or write a blog entry. I don't have a whizzy lap-top, so it's just with plain old pen and paper for future transcription. I tell you, this could be a blockbuster about a boy at a school for wizards, if I was in a romantic coffee shop in Edinburgh and not a greasy Maccy D's in a soft-play-centre-free zone in the Midwest.

And the tea? Well, I did give it a try. This was a rather exciting moment, actually. Hot tea is rare to find. Iced tea abounds (hate the stuff), but hot tea is a rarity. So when I saw it on the board, I thought I could redeem the afternoon by discovering that McDonalds' tea is surprisingly good. That would have been a cheering moment. Would have been. If the tea had been surprisingly good. Their coffee is so surprisingly bad that, my first week here, I took mine back to the counter saying "I think there's a mistake, I didn't order a mocha", and the girl said "this isn't a mocha".

The tea thing started badly this afternoon. I asked for hot tea, and the girl simply didn't understand me. This has never happened before. After repeating "hot tea, tea, hot tea" several times, I eventually just pointed to it on the board. "Oh, haht tea", said the girl. I made the mistake of ordering a large. Of course I should know by now. Large is too large. A cup of tea the size of a bucket is not appealing. Then I asked for creamer. I know not to ask for milk, but usually when you have coffee, you get creamer in small sachets. But not in McDonalds. The girl had to go and ask her supervisor, who got a small cup of cream out of the coffee machine. They had never met anyone who liked cream in tea. I don't like cream in tea. They were doing their best though, so I just said "we do in England, or milk, sometimes". It was not looking promising at this stage. I had a bucket of dark tea (good colour though, which was something), and a small bucket half full of cream. My hopes were not high, but they were still there. That was until I discovered that the dark bucket was filled with warm water. Ah well. At least I wouldn't be scalding my mouth.

My final problem. How to dispose of the large amount of unwanted beverage I now had. I didn't like to leave it, which seemed a bit ungrateful after they'd tried so hard to overcome the accent and the milk issues. I didn't feel I should put it in the trash - all that liquid sloshing around in a plastic bin liner could cause trouble. I didn't want to be seen sneaking off to the restroom, cup in hand. In the end, I tipped it down the water fountain, holding it in front of me and hunching my back to hide it and to give the impression that I was bending to drink. Fortunately, we were the only people in the play area at this point. Oh good. I was hoping I would find a "fortunately" somewhere in this story, and there it is.