Old Holiday Traditions, Made New All Over Again December 17, 2009

Christmas in London. Could anything sound more romantic? I mean really. As I sit here in the middle of the Midwest with a fake tree inside and lotsa snow outside I picture a Dickens-meets-Norman Rockwell scene of a family seated around the table wearing little paper hats and eating Christmas cookies. Not that I know what either of those things really are, or their meaning, considering I learned of the paper hats from the movie Bridget Joneses Diary and the crackers from Twitter. Not exactly your best sources of genuine information. But no bother. In a few short I days, I myself will be in audience to witness an English Christmas. Or rather an Irish-family-in-England Christmas. I’m excited to spend the holidays with my Gent and his family, eating banoffee pie or whatever it is they do around this time of year.

But that brings me around to what MY family does around this time of year. And how, though half way across the world, traditions are so important. Traditions give things a sense of roots. And when your wings have taken you so far, I can think of nothing more appealing than laying down the roots of your own family. And of course sharing it with your new loved ones. There are a few things my family does every year that I won’t be able to replicate. Like annoying my mother by putting the most hideous ornament smack-dab in the front and center of the tree and checking for it every time we come in the house. Or taking the ornaments with my brother’s picture (and him with those of my picture) and hiding them in the back of the tree. Those can’t be replicated and I will treasure them, as ridiculous as they are. What one can, and many people do, carry on with them are food traditions. Every year on Christmas Eve my family and many generations of the family before me have Meat Pie. It’s basically ground beef, mashed potatoes and sage in a pie crust, and every one of us makes it a little different, but it is so special. It’s an homage to our heritage and though it’s not something we think about every day, it’s amazing to think about all those that came before you – basically the reason you are who you are. And I can’t wait to share that with my lovely Gent and his family.

But, as the Meat Pie isn’t necessarily an homage to my American heritage (because, well, I never really had to “celebrate” that before as I was in America, surrounded by many other Americans), I’ve been thinking: time to add something new to the holiday repetoire. Something very American. Like apple pie. Or chocolate chip cookies. Something that does, and will, announce to all that the American is here (in a quiet, modest and understated way, of course). But I’m undecided. I need your help. What is the most unmistakably American (and possible to re-create in the UK) Christmas dish (preferably dessert, but I’m open to suggestion) out there?!?!

Dreaming of sugar plums,
Miss A.

PS. If you have a great recipe and you’re kind enough to share….that’s one of the many purposes of the comments box!!

How to Pack for a Transatlantic Move December 15, 2009

1. Eat chocolate. And lots of it. Consider it preventative de-stressing. (And for all of you on the American side of the pond, might I recommend Warm Delights. Delicious danger.)

2. Decide, YES, it is definitely worth $40 for a second checked bag.

3. Search desperately for bag large enough to fit all of the stuff you will soon decide you need.

4. Purchase Bisquick, Kraft mac and cheese, Sweet Baby Ray’s BBQ sauce and chocolate chips. Realize that food alone will fill second bag. Decide that’s okay because after eating it, will have to buy new and bigger clothes any way.

5. Laundry. Ugh.

6. Decide that doing just about anything would be better than packing. Make meal large enough for small country, watch Ghost Whisperer…even vacuum. Just don’t pack.

7. Distribute freshly laundered clothing into piles (folding optional), according to what type of item they are and to which season they belong. (Side note: do not bother attempting to explain this part to your man. He will not understand).

8. Roll, fold, shove items into suitcase. Repeat.

9. Eat more chocolate. Maybe curse a few times.

10. After getting friend or family member to assist you in closing the luggage, find ten more things you can’t live without.

11. Get on scale. Weigh self. Get depressed. Pick up luggage and add to body weight. Get double depressed. Subtract body weight. Not so bad after all! Figure a suitcase weighing 49.5 lbs with a 50 lb. weight limit might be a little close for comfort, but throw in an extra pair of socks anyway.

12. Repeat steps 7 -11 several times.

13. After all clothes are in, food is packed and other items strewn about, find third winter jacket that just MUST make the trip.

14. Repeat 7 – 11. AGAIN.

15. Remember that you’ve lived without these items before and promptly banish the though from re-entering your brain.

16. Attempt to pick up all fully packed luggage at the same time. Put several quarters in several easy to access places to get ready for luggage cart (er…trolley?!) at the airport.

17. Wonder to self why shipping didn’t cross mind until now.

18. At airport, simultaneously curse and praise airline for charging you for checking luggage, but then taking it off your hands.

19. Respond to boyfriend’s look of shock/horror at the amount of luggage accompanying you by reminding him:
a) it’s not my fault I can’t find chocolate chips over here.
b) Hello! I’m a woman. Options are mandatory.
c) Yes, the third winter jacket was also mandatory.
d) He loves me. And all of my baggage.

From somewhere under the piles,
Miss A.

Brit-Watch: 14 days. When you suddenly realize that from now on you will now be visiting “Home”. December 8, 2009

This one came as quite a shock to me. I mean, logically, it shouldn’t be quite such an event. Maybe the purchasing of plane tickets, visa research, PACKING should all be clues. But, somewhere deep in the subconscious it seems the fact that I am MOVING to England didn’t quite register. Until yesterday.

I was speaking with my mother, and asking if it would be okay if I stayed with her when I came back in April for a month. She obviously said yes, but then asked the simple question: where are you going after that? I must have looked a little stunned, and stammered out, well, back to England. (I apparently hadn’t made it clear that this move was of the permanent type (unlike the last trip, which was an extended visit). Or she just didn’t want to believe it. Although there is a little bit of wiggle room as I’m applying to schools in both the US and UK, I’m still guessing it’s the latter).

Somehow, that simple little question triggered the you’re-really-MOVING-to-England-and-not-just-visiting-from-now-on-you-will-be-visiting-America synapses in my brain and I’ve been a little shell shocked ever since. Am I really going to be absent for so many family holiday and events? Am I really going to have to call them trousers from now on? Who is going to look after my mother as she ages? Can I really live in a country where they don’t have canned biscuits (the savory kind, I mean. Love you Pillsbury!) And though I’ve thought of all of these questions before, and formed well-informed and reasonable responses, it’s a little different now. More tangible. More visceral.

At least I will have a very English Christmas to distract me for the first days of my arrival (because the Gent’s parents live 45 minutes away and that means we must stay there for at least three days…). After that, I’ll probably have a lot more to blog about.

Letters to No One…the I-Promise-I-Have-A-Great-Post-In-Mind-That-I’ll-Get-Around-To-Writing-Soon-Edition December 6, 2009

Dear Winter,

Ugh.

That is alll,
Miss A.

Dear Employers,

It felt so great to give you my two weeks notice. Really, truly wonderful. At least now I will be bored on my own terms.

Completely underemployed,
Miss America
P.S. It’s also what you get for giving me an office without heat and a computer set up without internet. Karma, bitches.

Dear English Travellers,

Because our Christmas destination is a 45 minute car ride away, does not mean we need to stay there for three to four days. Really. Where I come from, we drive 45 minutes for dinner. And we don’t stay overnight there. Seriously, in and out folks. That is what family and the holidays are all about.

Tired,
Miss A.

Dear Gent,
Thank you for making the trek over to the flyover states. I really had the most lovely time with you and it was so great to show you around my little slice of the world. xoxo.

Lovingly,
Miss A.

Dear Readers,
Thank you for sticking with me through this no-internet-available-at-my-fingertips-episode. It will soon be over and I will again be more than a blog ghost.

You’re the best,
Miss America

Seriously Kids, Don’t Try This At Home: A Public Service Announcement for Anyone (Even Thinking About) Attempting an English Accent December 4, 2009

I could sum this up in one short sentence: Don’t do it.

But, alas, I have an anecdote to demonstrate why this is such a horrible idea. (As if you didn’t already know it was).

While the Gent was here we met up with friends, friends of friends, friends of friends of friends. These events mainly took place in bar settings, including the following (only there was also an amazing blues show happening simultaenously). It involves a friend of a friend who lived in London for a year while working. He is a scientist of some sort. He is also a very nice guy. Anyhoo. In said bar at said blues show, we were all talking and the topic naturally revolved around London as said friend of friend (let’s call him Tom), also had a friend from London in town. She was fun too (although all the Gent had to say about her is that she was trying way too hard to be American…at least she didn’t attempt the accent is all I’m going to say). Tom and I were chatting and I’m not sure how, but we started talking about Nottingham (rather he started talking about it, because I’ve never been there).

Tom. American Tom who spoke in American English, dressed in American clothes…until he said the word Nottingham. Here in lies the problem with the internet that I cannot do a horrible rendition of it for you. But lest you imagine the worst, most off-putting sound where a really rather lovely word should be and you got it. For some reason, he dropped into an English accent every time he said the word Nottingham. He recounted the story for several groups of people. I cringed every time I heard him say it. It was SO WEIRD. Just that one word. Every time. Awful.

I might say to-may-to and you might say to-mah-to but we both know we’re talking about the big red fruit-cum-vegetable that is only tastes good in August or in latitudes much further south than the British Isles. Or the Midwest for that matter. Seriously folks. Don’t do it.

With your best interest in mind,
Miss A.