Same language, sort of. Take Two...Three!

Before moving to London in 2011, I thumbed through a few different books that were meant to help with the transition from living in the US to living in the UK. Having already been to LDN numerous times over the past 20 years, I felt secure in the knowledge that I did know some things of value already. However, I had expected to make some horrible gaffs along the way. I only hoped that folk would find them funny and not offensive.

From Gaff to Goff

We call the artist who painted the above image ‘Van Go’. However, to those in the UK he is ‘Van Goff’. I didn’t know how many times old Van Gogh would come up in conversation while I was living in London, but I’d be ready!

Slang terms and differing vocabulary

I had read that people from the UK, in general, are not to be called ‘Brits’. That would be like calling us Americans ‘Yanks’ (although I was referred to as such while living in Blighty :D).  And, no, the Republic of Ireland is not a part of the British Isles. If you want to piss off a chick from Co. Dublin, then tell her that.

‘Panties’ are reserved for girls and not the kind of girl you’d find taking such things off for cash at, ahem, Gentlemen’s Clubs. Women in the UK wear ‘knickers’. However, when I hear that word I think of Laura Ingalls Wilder and Little House on the Prairie. 

Probably wore knickers

Nowadays, I think American women wear underwear.

In the UK, being made ‘redundant’ means you’ve lost your job. Buildings, too, can lose their job, as it were, and, all over the country, one can hoist pints in former churches!

When last visiting Douglas, granddad (not grandpa) to a friend’s child, he asked me how life was in ‘Barkley’. Knowing that he meant ‘Berkeley’ made answering fairly straightforward. Prior to moving to the UK, I had thought that his was a particularly So. London pronunciation, given that that’s where he had grown up. However, having consulted the ‘Rules Britannia’ book on English/Scottish/Welsh place name pronunciations, I then understood that when most folk over the pond say any word with ‘erk’ in it, then it sounds like ‘ark’. Easy enough. Although I was never too sure how to say ‘Berkshire’. Is it ‘Barkshu’? ‘Barksha’?

Jacko, Macca, and Madge

I much prefer the way musical celebs are named by the UK press. Michael Jackson goes from ‘MJ’ to ‘Jacko’ abroad. 'Jacko' rhymes with 'Wacko', and, when I think of Michael dangling his baby over the balcony of a German hotel, this British moniker fits.

Macca, actually, seems rather uninspired given that I had read that it’s common for those with a surname beginning with Mc/Mac to be called ‘Macca’. Maybe Paul McCartney should be called ‘Sir Macca’ in order for him to stand out just a bit?

Madonna, a one-named music making power house for the last 30 years, is taken down a notch, and made, somehow more accessible to the ‘little people’ by being called ‘Madge’ in the British press. I guess it’s meant to be a term of endearment. Whenever I hear the name, ‘Madge’, I think of the old TV advert for a dish soap called ‘Palmolive’. In it, manicurists can be seen sitting in a ladies' salon talking about Palmolive. The tag-line was: Madge, you’re soaking in it!!

Ha, I’d like to see Madonna give a mani/pedi.

Bea, Duchess of San Mateo County

In a nod to Meghan's California roots, her Coat of Arms includes our state flower: the golden poppy.  

I have to say, I dig this nod to the West Coast. Looking at her Coat of Arms, I began thinking of what my Coat of Arms might look like were I to magically have one. Mine wouldn't just have an element of our shared homestate, but would be entirely made up of elements representing my No. California coastal upbringing. 

My Coat of Arms would also include the California poppy alongside a smattering of ice-plant sprigs. Standing on the greenery would be two red-tailed hawks flanking the crest. Maybe one could have a gopher in its talon? I'd replace the quills with three crustaceans, crabs to be precise. Crowning the top of the crest would be a light blanketing of fog. 

Two sides of the same, tired coin: DIY/Bespoke

I remember my time living in London mostly fondly, but if I'd had a penny for every time that I ran across either of the above listed terms emblazoned across a storefront, headline, photo caption or bus shelter ad, then I would have had a shed-load of worthless coins and an even more sour attitude than usual.

I don't remember hand-built furniture being referred to as "bespoke", but now it's being termed as such:
http://www.thesofaandchair.co.uk/bespoke?n=n&linkfrom=bespoke_furniture&gclid=CNfJxqHdkqkCFUEb4QodPGjjkg
If those are an example of "bespoke" living room pieces, then, um, no thanks.

Would that then mean oil paintings really are just bespoke pictures and stand-up comedy is just bespoke language?

Time was when the term "bespoke" only referred to tailored clothing. And, if I'm correct, it really only referred to fancy, men's suits and such. Back in the 70s, I don't think that I could get away with saying our mom made us kids "bespoke" clothing.  We'd needed something decent and yet affordable to wear to elementary school, and that was that.

I remember my older sister had Mom make her a pair of wide-legged red pants with the Coca-Cola logo recurring all over them. They were ridiculous.  But, hey kids of the 8th grade, don't laugh, those pants are bespoke!

Bespoke coffee

Bespoke mustache

Bespoke gin

And as for DIY, don't use this term if you can't back it up. I noticed that a lot of hardware/electrical supply stores in London have "DIY" written across their awnings. Well, that was the hook to get me into the store as I had some American lamps that I wanted to re-wire.

Lured by DIY storefront signage, I had gone into a one-off hardware and appliance shop to inquire if they had electrical cords, plugs and such for re-wiring foreign lamps. "No, we don't have anything like that. Check B&Q (UK's Home Depot)." I thought: Okay, I guess I'll help you run yourself out business. Or, here's a better idea, stock items that actually pertain to the DIY bit on your signage. (And, no, light bulbs don't count. -neither do screws or nails.)

When my Dad changed the oil on his car, was that DIY?  No, it was a guy changing the oil on his car, as most people did back when I was a kid.

Don't let's label what was and for many of us still is standard behavior as something more than it is, and let's also remember that most of what we pay someone else to do for us we used to do ourselves!

DIY fruit and veg

DIY Hairsalon

DIY lunch

Cardiff trip, sort of accidentally remembered.

This shot was taken by my husband back in 2012, I think it was, when we were on a trip to Cardiff. On this particular day, we took a walk along the water starting from about the National Assembly building. I can't recall where we ended up, but our jaunt took us along lovely stretches of wildflowers. All were photo-worthy.

Walking through one of the posh areas en route to the Botanical Garden, I spied this bit of choice graffiti on someone's back gate. -hope the owners of the house didn't mind, but I thought it hilarious.

The wildflower mix avec moi & the copper pictures popped up on Google as a result of some 'remember this day?' function. I suppose the feature is meant to stimulate the viewer to post the pictures on the shared Google platform to be enjoyed by strangers and friends alike. Instead of that, I thought I'd share them, along with other Cardiff trip pics I then scrounged up, here.

Cardiff Botanical Garden

Wood inlay from the Residences at Cardiff Castle

Me with the Ood, Dr. Who Museum

Part of the castle wall (moved some meters away) featuring amazing creatures including this hyena.

View from the top floor of the Cardiff Public Library

If I could go back tomorrow, I would. Cardiff is a lovely city.

Raspberry-Lemon Cake

While perusing the blog-o-sphere I ran across a very smart-looking baking blog, Cake, Crumbs and Cooking.  The latest entry showed photos of a gorgeous blueberry cake.  Intrigued and a bit hungry, I read on and eventually clicked on the link provided showing the original tea loaf recipe made with raspberries.

I made a quick trip to the store for raspberries, lemon and ground almonds, then came back and set about baking my version of the cake.  I made two substitutions to the original recipe.  Caster sugar does not seem to exist here in CH, so I used granulated instead.  I also used quark instead of yogurt.  I had been meaning to bake with quark since moving to Switzerland a year ago, but, until now, had no inspiration to do so.

Fresh from the oven.

As C.C. and C. mentioned, the batter was so stiff and I wondered how the loaf would turn out.  Would it be too dense?  Too dry?

Removed from tin with lemon-sugar mixture drizzled on top.

Dry cake fears were unfounded.  The cake was moist and light.  The raspberries' tartness served as a good counterbalance to the sweetness of the cake.  Served with a cup of Tetley's, the loaf was a hit with the hubs.

Tea and cake!

And again for breakfast the next day!

Post-Christmas Goose

A few days after Xmas I found myself in the meat aisle of the local supermarket.  Amid the whole chickens sat a goose.  The goose was the last of its kind not having been picked to adorn anyone's holiday table.  As such the bird was on offer at 50% off.  I paid about 14 CHF for a 1.5 kilo goose.
Post-Christmas Goose was a lovely meal, but the real fun came after most of the carcass was picked over.

Inspired by a post in a food forum I follow, I decided to make jook with the remnants of the bird.  Not following an actual recipe, I winged it, no pun intended.  Two things that jook needs in order to be really good are ginger and time.  Mine simmered for just under two hours, but I probably should have let it cook longer.  I hadn't any ginger, so the flavour of the jook was less than what it should have been.  I suppose I could have added either chicken stock or water to thin the mix out a bit, but, in the end, I didn't much mind.  The jook came out thicker than a porridge, but tasted fab with fish sauce drizzled over it nonetheless!  Of course, each individual portion can be thinned with a bit of water in a sauce pan before serving, so I needn't be eating jook with cutlery!

Post Xmas Porridge!

The carcass taken care of, I then decided to focus my attention on what to do with the goose fat I had collected from my cooked bird.  Thoughts of lovely, roasted potatoes danced in my head, but I wanted to do a bit more than the norm.  Fortunately, the Life & Style section of the Guardian provided a bit of direction.  As I only had 100 grams of goose fat, I made a half-batch version of these lovely, little pies.

Here is the recipe 'copied and pasted' for your perusal:

Pork and onion pies with goose-fat pastry

The pastry is very fragile, so use plenty of flour to roll it out. Serves 3-4, makes between 6 and 8 little pies.
For the pastry:
plain flour 400g
goose fat 200g
milk 80ml
water 80ml
beaten egg for glazing

For the filling:
onion 1 medium
butter a little
butcher's herby breakfast sausages 2
cooked smoked ham 100g
flour 2 tbsp
hot stock 200ml
parsley chopped

To serve:
redcurrant jelly melted

To make the filling, peel the onion and slice thinly, then let it colour in a little butter in a nonstick frying pan over a moderate heat. Remove the skin from the sausages then add them, broken into small pieces, to the pan. Press them down with a palette knife and let them brown. Tear the ham into small pieces and add to the onion and sausage. Leave to brown lightly, add the 2 tbsp of flour and continue cooking for a minute or two, then introduce the stock and parsley.

To make the pastry, season the flour with salt and black pepper. Put the fat, milk and water into a small saucepan and bring to the boil, tip in the flour, then stir briefly and firmly with a wooden spoon until you have a soft, smooth paste. Put a cloth over the pan and set aside for 15 minutes to cool a little. The dough must not go cold.
Flour a wooden board or work surface generously (adding more as you feel the need), then knead the pastry, lightly, for a minute or two. Roll out the pastry, somewhat thicker than usual, roughly the thickness of two pound coins placed on top of one another. Using a cookie cutter or the rim of a tumbler, cut out rounds about 8cm in diameter (you will get 12-16 of them), then place half of them on a baking sheet lined with baking paper. Set the oven at 200C/gas mark 6.
Place 2 heaped tbsp of the filling on each of the pastry rounds on the baking sheet, then brush a little beaten egg around the edge of each one. Place one of the remaining rounds of pastry on top of each, pressing the edges together. Brush with some of the beaten egg, pierce a small hole or slit in the centre of each pie, then bake for 35 minutes until nut brown and softly crisp. Cool briefly, then serve warm rather than cold, with a pot of redcurrant jelly or cranberry sauce lightly warmed.

An interpretation of the above savoury pie recipe.

I have to admit that I didn't follow the recipe to a 't'.  I couldn't be bothered to go to the store for the filling ingredients, and, instead, I thought I'd just use use left-overs from the night before.  The pork and onion pie became chicken in spicy tomato sauce pie.  I think it turned out very well indeed. 

Visiting with H.

H. comes into the shop where I work every couple of months, or so.  She doesn't buy much and that's okay.  What she does do is converse quite a bit.  I listen and respond, as needed.  H. is 83 and lives alone over by the park.  She's also still recovering from a debilitating stroke that rendered her mostly without speech and forced her to walk with either a cane, or walker with wheels, when she's out shopping.  Although I understand pretty much all of what H. says, sometimes she's at a loss for words, literally.  The word won't be in her head, so another one, less suitable, will pop out, or she'll spend some time searching around for the correct thing to say before she can move on.  Her walker also doubles as a chair.  H. will wheel in, usually a bit out of breath, and then sit down.  The shop is so narrow that all spaces not taking up product displays are aisles.  So, she has a seat in one of the aisles and folk just need to go another way, or squeeze around her to get to the end of the shop.

It had been about three weeks since I last saw H. in the shop.  Today, as I was walking home from the market, I saw H. huffing and puffing her way up a small incline, walker laden heavily with shopping bags.  I stopped and asked if I could help her carry anything and she wound up insisting that I let her carry my shopping on the arms of her walker.  I later helped her carry her belongings up through two sets of front doors and a flight of stairs.  Mind you, her bags could have been weighted with bricks.  She had done a huge shop.

She invited me in for a chat.  We sat in comfy chairs in her cramped one-room flat.  She offered me raspberry sorbet, and, even though I declined wanting any, wound up holding an icy-cold pint in one hand with a silver spoon in the other for the first twenty minutes of my stay.  Eventually, I put it back in the freezer along with a tub of ice-cream H. had bought that day.

Born in 1929 to parents who weren't 'cuddly', H. remembers her mother refusing physical affection as it would have 'disheveled' her clothes.  Her father was a military man and H. remembers that she was never, ever allowed to refer to him as 'daddy'.  She and her siblings had to call their father 'sir'.  H. had been raised by a nanny to whom she felt close.  A cook prepared the family meals.   'My mother never wanted us,' H. told me.  In a few short years, she and her two siblings had been shipped off to what H. referred to as 'home school'.  I had naively assumed that the siblings had remained together.  She told me that they had been sent to three different institutions.  The 'home school', she said, was neither 'home', nor 'school.'  Her parents left for India shortly thereafter.  When the war broke out some years later, her parents sent for them.  "You're home now."  That's what her mother had said to her.  She thought, is this what home feels like?  H. had her doubts.

Years later, when H. had a husband and four children of her own, her mother would insist on staying with her for a couple of weeks at a time during the year.  H. and her husband had little money and took in lodgers to make ends meet.  With her mother in the house, H. had one more mouth to feed.  As her mother had never changed a nappy and couldn't cook, she was little help around the house.  However, that didn't prevent H's mother from telling her how to run her household.  That stopped the one time H. sent her mum upstairs with one of the babies and a nappy with the request that she change the baby.  H. said that her mum was upstairs for ages, not a sound could be heard.  Eventually, H. went to check on her and found that the baby had indeed been changed, but, instead of nappy pins, the cloth had been fastened around the baby's pelvis with two large knots, one on each hip.  'She hadn't known about nappy pins, you see', said H.  After that, H's mum never told her what to do in her own home again.

We sat in her high-ceiling front room overlooking neighbours' gardens.  Blue skies were overhead; it was a lovely view.  'Oh, that's not the park, you know.  If you want a view of the park,' she told me, 'then you'll have to go to the other side of the house'.  I went to the kitchen, looked out the window and saw the barriers and fencing erected to contain this year's Olympic equestrian events.  As I sat and, mostly, listened to her talk, I became aware of not one, but three dolls' houses set about the room.  One was a large-scale affair that I mistakenly thought was a replica of H's own building.  It was actually an 18th century re-production of a stately home from Bath.  The insides of which were filled with amazing rooms.  The butlers' quarters, the 'bachelors' room', the laundry room, the nursery, etc.  Viewing the wee bachelors' room intrigued me most.  I hadn't known that there was such a thing as a room for young, single men in which to play billiards, drink spirits, and smoke tobacco.  I guess the 'spinsters' didn't really have a room of their own, and, if they did, it certainly wouldn't have contained a billiard table.  Bummer.

Americans, the simpletons of British prose.

"How are we going to keep this up for 10 years?" I hissed.

"Ten years?" He looked stricken.

"Her cousin still believes in Santa Claus and he's 13!"

Her cousin is American.

The above snippet and many more like it remind of why I sometimes bristle when reading British publications.  It's a cheap joke to fall back on 'the Americans are dim-wits' schtick in one's writing.

Apparently, not only do we not carry passports, and, therefore, are likely to confuse Austria with Australia, but we are also terribly gullible to the point that a pubescent boy living somewhere in America still believes in Santa.  I was thirteen once, and, let me tell you, I knew things well beyond whether or not Father Christmas existed.  If at the age of 13 this kid still believes in Santa, then his problem isn't the fact that he's American. Maybe this thirteen-year-old-going-on-three might be suffering from some form of  '-ism'.  (At this point I would concede that we are an 'over diagnosed' society.)  Or, more to the point, he might be suffering from parents who infantilise him.  That, of course, could happen anywhere.

Fanny pack? Bum bag?

Let's call the whole thing off!

I've been living in LDN now for eight months and I'm no closer to thoroughly understanding what the English say to me than when I landed.  I think it all comes down to word choice.  We say 'wrench', they say 'spanner', and that really puts a spanner into the mix, as some might say.  I feel like I've filled up my Brit Vocab Bag reasonably well and I now say with confidence things like, 'you could do...' as a response to many questions directed at me, and 'go on then' when offered another biscuit/pour of wine/most things edible.

I'm fairly sure that I haven't fucked it all up and said, 'thanks for the ride' when stepping out of someone's car, and, if I did, you know I didn't mean it that way.  Speaking of all things sexual, I may have inadvertently referred to the big, refillable jug at Whole Foods as a 'growler'.  Yes, I did actually know that that word is slang for vagina here in the UK, but, in the moment of my sampling good beer (which may or may not be synonymous with 'real ale'), forgot and said it.  The beer dude at Whole Foods kept a straight face.  As well he should have cuz if he's such an authority on beer that he gets to wear the badge and pour the brews, then, well, he should just know that a big-ass jug with a thumb-hold is a growler in No. America.

Most challenges I usually deal with well even if they do take more time to figure out than normal.  Just the other day, some woman of indeterminate middle-age came into the shop where I work and asked if I had an 'egg lifter'.  Mind you, I visualised some tong-like device one might use to pull a boiled egg out of a pot, so I asked her if she were needing something for boiled eggs.  She looked at me as if I were speaking Martian, yet I wasn't the one who'd just asked for an 'egg lifter'.  She tried again while I asked her pointed questions as to how the eggs in question where to be prepared.  'I'm looking for something for fried eggs, you know.'  Oh, I thought, you need a spatula!  I ventured forth with something not terribly crushing that highlighted my being from somewhere else, so that she shouldn't think that asking for a 'lifter' was completely lame even though it was.

Eight months have gone in a second and I'm about to celebrate my first Christmas in England.  What I need to get straight is understanding the differences between Christmas Cake and Christmas Pudding, and why, in general, pudding here isn't like this:

I've eaten (see link above) already more than anyone's reasonable share of Xmas Cake and won't need to refill until 2014.  And, to use the British expression, if I'm honest, if the pudding here is anything like the cake, then I'll pass, thanks very much.

Bird watching...

in London, and I don't mean checking out the ladies!  Although that may occasionally happen, too.


Since moving into a place with a garden and having Greenwich Park almost at our doorstep, we've had a wonderful "eye load" of bird watching.  The bf received a groovy, little bird book for his birthday mid-May, and, since then, we've supplemented that mini-tome with another one that includes raptors.

Bold Robin chilling in our garden.

One of the most common birds to be spotted here in our Greenwich garden is the Robin.  Unlike an American Robin, the English Robin is sparrow-sized, and, as you can see, has orange covering his face and upper chest.  When I first saw the Robin, I thought of it wearing a little, orange ski-mask and imagined him breaking into bird houses looking for grub to steal.  This particular Robin is a "regular" to our garden having been fed by the kids who used to live here.  We see him daily, and, as he's so familiar, were able to shoot this picture of him with great ease before he flitted off over the back fence.

 

Another bird of note, and I did mean that pun, is the Black Bird.  The male, replete with large yellow-orange beak and yellow-ringed eyes has a bit of a whacked-out look to him.  He's more the size of an American Robin, and has the most amazing song consisting of a variety of notes sung loud and long.  The female is all brown.  There was a female Black Bird in the garden today, and I felt like telling her, "you're supposed to be black!"

Say it loud!  She's brown and she's proud!

Tits, I told you we're not talking about the ladies, are another feature of English garden life.  The most viewed Tit is the (well, we think) Coal Tit.  Both males and females boast black 'caps' with white cheeks.  They don't seem to be particularly fond of being in the garden when we're out there.  We usually spy them from the kitchen window hopping about the soil looking for things to eat.

Tit on a Wire

One of the most startling features of the English garden is the occasional appearance of the Wood Pigeon.  In contrast to the Common Pigeon that also inhabits this area, the Wood Pigeon is a fairly dignified-looking sort.  Full-figured, gray-breasted with a white collar and yellow eyes, this tidy-looking bird is a rather attractive addition to Greenwich Park and the surrounding environs.  However, when rocks up to your back garden to nosh on the seed that you've laid out for the other birds, then, well, it's sort of a bummer.  I'm glad, at least, it's not a bum-legged, scurvy-looking, mongrel pigeon that comes to scrounge food, but I still want it to fly away back to whatever park it came from.

Wood Pigeon

We're hoping to install a bird bath, some feeders, and, maybe, replace the crusty, old, rotted-out bird house that's been lodged seemingly for years behind a bush along the back fence with a new one.  Our garden could well become the vacation spot for local birds around town.  -so long as no pigeons or, maybe, even, more importantly, no crows show up to gate crash, then I'm happy to welcome them.