“Those pizzas I ate were for medicinal purposes.” ― Amy Neftzger
Lauren (the fabulous woman behind Aspiring Kennedy) did such a fabulous job organizing a girl’s night out in December for people who knew each other – or didn’t know anybody and just wanted to meet people – through blogging, writing, expat-ing, etc. in London. It was a great night and I met some great ladies who I’ve been hanging out with ever since. Well, Lauren decided to do it again!
A slightly more low key affair, she organized a pizza night Monday evening at Otto in Notting Hill. They do cornmeal crust pizza with funky toppings that you order by the slice. May I personally recommend the grape, brie, and balsamic? Because I inhaled that sucker!
I really appreciate when people more established in any area or community take the time to introduce new people around, so I’m really grateful to Lauren for arranging such fun, low key ways for people to just hang out and make friends. Ruth and Katie and I bonded with a couple of hilarious ladies that I can’t wait to hang out with again.
“We must have a pie. Stress cannot exist in the presence of a pie.” ― David Mamet, Boston Marriage
“Pie” means something quite different in Britain than in does in the US. Most pies Stateside are sweet concoctions of fruit and/or cream, trotted out typically in times of celebration. Pies over here are usually meat and vegetable dishes (mostly meat, let’s be honest) in some form of gravy or sauce, and totally wrapped in pastry. There are a few exceptions, such as mince pies which are small little bundles of goodness that have largely given up their meaty past, though there are a few holdouts scattered throughout the Isles.
I have nothing against meat pies, indeed I’ve inhaled not a few delicious ones in my time, but I’m afraid in this respect I will always be a Yank at heart.
My family has two pie recipes that are sacrosanct, an apple and a pumpkin. The pumpkin is the real treat and it is incredibly labor intensive, it takes months of preparation when you consider that the pumpkin puree is homemade. Courtesy of Halloween jack o’lanterns. However pumpkins never made it big here via the Columbian Exchange quite like turkeys and potatoes did. This fact, coupled with the reality that I have none of the equipment necessary to make it meant that Christmas Eve dinner this year was going to be an apple affair.
As it turns out this too was a labor of love that took two days start to finish.
I have to be blunt. British baking goods selections are dinky. Seriously small. Not just their packaging (which we’ve covered), but the actual space they take up on store shelves is tiny. Back in our old haunt the local grocery store had an entire aisle set aside for baking. Here at our nearest Tesco, we have three shelves that take up about a quarter of one side of an aisle. Finding what you need can be maddening.
I have theories about this, but my chief on is that like much of Europe, Britain has a larger number of bakeries and designated craftsmen who create their baked goods. Not that these don’t exist in America, but we also have a history of frontier dwelling which meant that for generations the well off might have a cook (and the extremely wealthy a French pastry chef), but most of us were responsible for providing our own treats and that sort of got into the culture. The French have boulangeries, the Brits have bakeshops, the Americans seem to do more DIY. Which I largely don’t mind, though I admit I do enjoy baking. And I use it constructively (I tend to make cookies when I’m angry or exceptionally bored, it’s probably kept me from using that energy less constructively. The results are pretty tasty too, rage cookies are the way to go, kids).
But I digress. Pie.
First I had to find a pie crust recipe that didn’t call for shortening (a heathen American device). I was fine with this because, butter. Then I whipped it up by hand because we have no kitchen equipment besides a mixing bowl that’s a third of the size of what we’re used to, before leaving it to chill in the fridge overnight. The next morning I rolled it out with a highball glass in lieu of a roller (see: lack of kitchen equipment).
Apple pie, no explanation required, right? Moving right along.
One of the (many) secret ingredients in this particular plate of mouth goodness is grated lemon peel. Which did not exist in that one quarter of an aisle space dedicated; believe me, I scoured that store. So I painstakingly shaved off paper thin slices of fresh lemon peel and chopped it to bits by hand. Do you know how long it takes to get a teaspoon of that stuff this way? A lot longer that I anticipated!
I admit until this point I was getting a bit stressed because we were attempting a lot of food for just two people, but in the words of Tevye, “TRADITION!”
Luckily after I tossed the seasoned and sugared mixture into that labor intensive crust, the grouchiness could simply no longer put up a fight. Even intense domestic irritation fades when confronted with this thing, it is that powerful.
We ate it for breakfast for days afterward. Regretting nothing.
Like I said, a bit of a labor of love. But in the end well worth it. However, I admit I will not be repeating this until next year, or unless I’m entertaining guests. Or until I get more and better kitchen equipment.
“Each age has deemed the new-born year The fittest time for festal cheer.” ― Sir Walter Scott
Throughout December, both of us made noises along the lines of, “We should do something for New Year’s Eve,” whereupon the other would say something to the effect of, “Indeed we should!” After which we would go back to working/munching/watching British quiz game shows/goofing off. For two usually highly organized people we largely took the holidays easy this year – with the exceptions of dinner and the service (which were both planned weeks if not months in advance).
The trouble is that in a city like London, you have to have a plan for New Year’s or the chances of you getting trampled, mobbed, or left out in the cold are pretty high. But almost everything is pricey and booked well in advance. So by New Year’s Eve, just as we were emerging from our food and nap induced sluggery and ready to go out and do something, we realized that our chances of a nice night out were slim.
Nevertheless, we both dressed up and headed to our favorite restaurant in Covent Garden, hoping against hope that most people would be waiting until later to start their festivities and/or heavy drinking and space would be available. As it happened, we got a prime spot at the bar and the universe missed its chance to teach us a lesson in responsibility. Ha ha!
I still heartily endorse the elderflower presse. Mocktail of champions.
We ate delicious and artfully prepared food.
And we got delicious deserts which were so incredible that they actually made my phone’s camera to spontaneously readjust its own lighting feature…I think. I’m not a photographer, people. Interestingly, popcorn has had a bit of a fad year here in London, so apparently I’m trendier than I realized!
Then, because we are old fogies, we walked home across Waterloo Bridge past the throngs of people already camping out for the fireworks show. This year the organizers went in for a multi-sensory experience combining flavored and scented aspects with the already well hyped, traditional exploding. It sounded intriguing, but frankly not enough to stay up in the freezing cold and inevitable bad weather when…
…we got to watch them from the comfort of our own sofa while drinking tea and cuddling.
And that was how we rang in 2014. We might do something more ambitious some other year, but this year, it was just right.
“That thing is magical, and you are never taking it off, do you understand me? – C.
This is the tale of how a navy sports coat started a chain reaction that culminated in Tom Hiddleston being mere inches away from my face. And that’s not even the most amazing part.
Jeff had been on the hunt for a jacket for a while and since January kicked off sale season, we headed down to Seven Dials for a look around a few shops that intrigued us. He found what he was looking for and on the way back to Leicester Square tube station, we literally stumbled upon a poster for a production of Shakespeare’s Coriolanus, starring Tom Hiddleston at the Donmar Warehouse.
Donmar is a small, not for profit that has a really strong reputation as a producing theatre, and can boast nearly bursting at the seams with some of the highest acclaimed actors in Britain on any given performing night. We hadn’t heard of this performance prior to coming face to face with the poster, but naturally we both were wild to go see it. In addition to Hiddleston, whom we both really like, it had Mark Gatiss (of Sherlock fame amongst a great many other things), Deborah Findlay, and the list just goes on. Seriously, read the cast bios. Everything’s represented from Restoration comedy to Game of Thrones.
We also figured we had about a snowball’s chance in hell at getting tickets (most were sold out weeks in advance), but decided to try our luck anyway. On Monday morning we doubled teamed it; Jeff stationed himself at the computer in order to try and get a couple of the few that they release online, while I got in the queue at the theatre itself in the morning to try and snag some in person.
Even arriving quite early I was at the end of the line. My hopes sank a bit, but I decided to wait it out. At one point the queue divided into those hoping for day-of tickets and those chancing their luck with the handful of tickets provided by the main sponsor, leaving me with fewer rivals but still at the end. I watched people ahead of me walking away from the booth, clearly not willing to purchase what was available, but I’d already guessed we’d be getting the “standing room only” type. By the time I trotted up to the box office window and chirruped, “What’s left?” that was indeed all that remained, and only a handful at that. I was just thrilled to get it, I actually skipped back towards the tube station texting Jeff the good news.
Gratuitous sidenote. I couldn’t tell what so many people were snapping photos of while waiting in line, until I got into the main box office and saw this. And immediately followed suit. What? I’m human!
We worked all day and then headed out to our evening at the theatre excited to see the show. The Donmar has only 250 seats, and a significant portion of those are standing room, which actually makes it feel not unlike going to see a traditional Shakespeare performance at the Globe, except that the locations are reversed. The privileged get seating on the ground floor with the stage and first level, while the cheap seaters line the narrow balconies and looked on.
The middling seats.Where we were standing.
It was mere seconds to show time when an usher tapped me on the shoulder and asked if Jeff and I were there together. I answered in the affirmative, wondering if we’d done something reprehensible without being aware of it. I actually was in the process of pulling out our tickets to prove we were there legally when she continued, “We have a pair of unclaimed seats on the main floor, would you like them?”
What sort of a question is that?! Feeling a bit dazed she led us down to the main floor and seated us on the third row corner, with a completely unimpeded view of the stage that (I later discovered) also put Tom Hiddleston’s cheekbones within touching distance. His cheekbones rank right up there in my book with Vegemite’s Bandersnatch’s and Jeff’s, so you can imagine the thrill this caused, to say nothing of having a truly marvelous vantage point of the whole play.
We sat down just as they started the whole, “Please silence your mobile phones now,” spiel when I happened to glance to my left. And saw Rufus Sewell, one of our very favorite actors, sitting ten feet away from us.
And that, kittens, is how I died.
Exiting the theatre.
The production itself was excellent, really one of the top Shakespeare performances I’ve ever seen. The set was minimal and used to superb effect, while the performances were absolutely spot on. The themes of power, populism, and politics intertwined cleverly with the creative, and the degree and type of special effects were exactly correct. Coriolanus is ruthless, dangerous, compelling, and persuasive, and you find yourself at times siding with nearly all of the characters at one point only to question your own judgement five minutes later.
An absolutely banner night that, as far as I can tell, defied every single law of probability.
“…Their old, familiar carols play, And wild and sweet The words repeat Of peace on earth, good-will to men!” ― Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Christmas day was an adventure!
We nearly got stuck in an elevator. We live on the top floor of our building and have access to two stairwells/elevators, one of which is slightly more convenient but is the one (naturally!) that has the most problems. Lately the door has been sticking a bit on the ground floor. One morning, feeling particularly grumpy, I made Jeff burst out laughing when the door only semi opened before it got stuck and I yanked it open the rest of the way with a curse.
Christmas morning we needed to get a move on since all public transportation was closed for the day, which meant we had to walk four miles and cross the river to get to Westminster Abbey, where we had reserved places for the morning service. We made a calculated decision to take the slightly sketch elevator because it put us closer to the tube station without having to circumnavigate the building. Which of course meant that this was the morning that the door slid open a crack on the ground floor… and refused to budge further. With a combined sigh, “Of course,” Jeff set his shoulder to it and I got on my knees to pull from the bottom. It took several minutes and many attempts, but eventually we freed ourselves. Teamwork.
The walk to the Abbey was gorgeous. There were almost no people about…except that I crossed paths with a history heroine. Dr. Lucy Worsley, the Chief Curator of Historic Royal Palaces was walking along the Thames with her husband. I nearly tripped over my own boots! On another day I might have accosted her, but since she’s written publicly about not liking being approached by strangers and fans – and in the spirit of the day, namely not being a jerk – I restrained myself to a bright smile and fangirling to Jeff in private.
Neither of us are High Anglican (Jeff rather cheekily rephrased the Nicene Creed to himself during its recitation), but I still really enjoyed the service and the setting – Westminster Abbey being one of the coolest places for a British History nerd to be. Do you know how many interesting dead people hang out there?!
When we emerged, the bells were ringing. We walked the four miles home again, made our traditional Christmas morning breakfast (at nearly two in the afternoon), talked to family via Skype, and watched holiday movie favorites. Not a bad Christmas on our own, I think!
“I trust Christmas brings to you its traditional mix of good food and violent stomach cramps.” – Ebenezer Blackadder (‘Blackadder’s Christmas Carol,’ 1988)
I mentioned the importance of holiday traditions, and chief among them is food. I decided to attempt the entire Rodgers Clan Christmas Dinner by myself this year, in defiance of the fact that usually we have several cooks in the kitchen to help. And that in its usual form it can feed up to 15 people. But I was not to be dissuaded!
Jeff and I went to the butchers at Borough Market to pick out a roast, lots of produce, and a staggering amount of cured meats and cheeses. Because I knew once this meal, and Christmas morning breakfast was done, I wasn’t cooking again until January. Grazing and snacking would be the order of the day, intermingled with leftovers. Which, I’m happy to report, turned out to be the case.
You would not believe how nervous I felt about this sucker, it was in every way an experimental attempt.
“I never thought it was such a bad little tree. It’s not bad at all, really. Maybe it just needs a little love.” – Linus Van Pelt, A Charlie Brown Christmas
I’m officially done being a lazy, holiday enjoying, treat gobbling, hibernating slug. Back to work, back to job apps, back to responsibility! But I want to share a bit of our holiday fun, and hear about yours. So this week I’ll be covering our first proper expat Christmas, and hoping you’ll link to or comment about your own festivities – or alternate activities if you don’t celebrate.
Basically, what have I missed in the last week and a half?
Without further ado then, ladies and gentlemen, the first proper Christmas tree we’ve ever had.
I find it absurdly cute. Normally in my family we take down our tree on Epiphany/Three Kings Day, but this guy’s already moved to the balcony. I think I’ll try to keep it alive for next year. As Jeff so lovingly put it, “Well, it’s an evergreen so maybe it will survive you.” Hope and holiday spirit springs eternal kittens!
“And my parents finally realize I’m kidnapped and they snap into action immediately: They rent out my room.” ― Woody Allen
Let me also be abundantly clear again. I love living here.
I hinted at the prices of things before, but let me make it abundantly clear.
Rent in the city is ferociously high, it’s climbing, and it’s having some significant consequences (Kerry from Planes, Trains, and Plantagenetswrote about this recently).
Rent here is (accounting for currency adjustments) three times what we paid in the States, for half the space. To put it another way, our rent now costs half of Jeff’s salary and it used to cost just a quarter of mine. That is an adjustment, kittens. It affects every other expense and calculation.
Housing standards are also different. Lots of things are considered basic in the US are considered luxuries here. Our oven is old (the rubber sealing tube actually is no longer attached, I had to get creative in order to secure it back in place), and our cooker hobs actually are old enough to have rust damage. We also don’t own a garbage disposal which means we have to be extra mindful about what goes in the sink and the rubbish.The walls are concrete which means it’s nearly impossible to hang anything on them, and (in case I haven’t mentioned it enough yet) space is limited. Our toilet runs with an echoing dripping noise constantly and our washing machine’s pipes drain through our sink – with attendant clogging issues.
Our building used to be council housing (government social housing originally built to provide decently built, affordable homes for working class people), and the council still oversees most of the maintenance, but our flat is privately owned. Britain has a long history of social housing, stretching straight back to the middle ages, but the current incarnation is largely a result of WWII when so many homes in London were destroyed by bombing that the government had to provide something. It was also a good way to get rid of and redevelop a lot of long standing slum areas – many homes got running water, indoor toilets, and heating for the first time through council housing. Of course, most council housing is fairly dated now. We’re lucky, our landlady is very lovely and very easy going (and actually accessible, which is more than can be said for our old managers). But everything in our flat is very well worn. I suspect we’re going to have to replace at least one appliance while we live here.
On the other hand, we have a washing machine – actually in our flat that we don’t have to pay to operate. This is perilously close to domestic bliss as far as I’m concerned. We also have a lot of other things to be grateful for – a storage closet in particular that holds all our luggage, a shelving unit for shoes and cold weather accessories, all of our boots, and a few clothes that need to be hung up rather than folded to store. We have a great view of some of London’s most iconic landmarks. We live three minutes away from a Tube station and 20 minutes away from Jeff’s work by foot.
All things considered, I’m very pleased at how snuggly we’ve landed. Truthfully there are some days I can hardly believe our luck at how easily we found a place to live, even though it meant completely rethinking our notions about rent. I do worry about housing long term in case we ever need to move – prices keep going up – but in the meantime, in spite of some issues, I’m more than content.
[ETA: Ha! Mere days after drafting this our washer did in fact break. Luckily a bright, shiny new one was delivered yesterday, but I find the timing uncanny. As usual, there’s more to the story…]
“The real voyage of discovery consists not in seeking new landscapes, but in having new eyes.” ― Marcel Proust
The view from Jeff’s office. Pretty much makes up for most inconveniences.
Alright, kittens! We’ve been well and truly settled for a good three months now, so it’s time to give you some updates about life in London! Expat life is a bit different from my previous international adventures growing up (less built in services and communities than in the government or military), but since both Jeff and I have lived internationally before, I do think the culture shock has been pretty minimal.
However, it has taken a couple of months for everything to settle into a routine. We’re mostly there now, so expect more posts about British living in the future. A friend recently asked me about the things I liked best and least about living in London, and I thought I’d make a regular little series on it here.
So, one of the things that I love. The food. Yes, really.
Britain once had a thriving food culture, which reached its zenith under those hedonists the Edwardians before being effectively nixed in the Great War. Food has almost always had a service component to it, and ideas about services changed and the skills associated with it got a lot rarer after a conflict in which so many workers died. The tight rationing of WWII finished the job and for most of the last century Britain has…well, I’d say enjoyed but the truth is more like dealt with…a pretty low culinary reputation.
Luckily, the times they have a changed! The days of rationing are far behind us and avocados have now been comfortable ensconced in the diet for over a decade. There’s plenty of canned beans and stale bread still lurking in desperate corners but finding good, high quality, delicious food is wonderfully easy and does not require nearly as much effort as it once did. The sheer variety of cuisines available is almost dizzying! Goodness knows bland food still exists in abundance in this country (the medieval rule of boiling everything is still in effect in some places) but in London there is frankly no excuse not to find excellent food!
We’ve eaten several varieties of Indian subcontinent food, Asian authentic, European fusion, and more street food that I care to count and almost all of it has been good. There are markets everywhere with an excellent variety goods. Between them, bodegas, and grocery stores, I’ve found I can have a nicely varied diet for what it cost me to shop and eat in the states. The key is paying attention and shopping smart. Eating out is expensive, but we solve that by limiting ourselves and thinking of it as a treat rather than a regular event.
Food is decently priced in Britain, somethings cost more and some things cost less than what I am used to, though with a couple years of bad harvests prices are expected to rise. Britain also used to grow or produce most of its own food and now imports a significantly higher percentage so the state of agriculture is in flux these days. There’s a strong history of farm production but farmers and growers are still dealing with the repercussions of industrialization, a history of laws that favored the gentry and aristocracy over the working classes, and the same financial problems that farmers stateside deal with.
Any other expats out there with food culture experience they’d like to share? Or indeed anybody who has ever moved at all!
PS – my friend Heidi is in the middle of conquering Denmark and she’s written about food and its attendant ups and downs lately as well.
Small Dog Syndrome 