Hello, Handbasket!

Today I find myself concerned because I have stopped for a second, looked around and realized I'm sitting in a handbasket.  Yes, this is a metaphor.  And when you are sitting in a metaphorical handbasket you know what your ultimate destination is going to be.  If you don't, I applaud you and I would appreciate life advice.

Now, in the moment of inevitable re-evaluation that this sort of handbasket sitting causes, I thought about how I had arrived in the center of this particular handbasket.  Life has a strange way of wending around like a lazy river.  It takes its own time, bending here and swirling there.  Moving in a muddled way that can take a distracted traveler by surprise.  One moment you've put into the river in a canoe, knowing exactly what direction you are headed.  The next while you take a moment to admire the scenery, you realize that you are suddenly in the eddy of an oxbow facing entirely the opposite direction from the one you expected and your canoe has magically turned itself into a handbasket.

At moments like this, I like to assess my life and try to figure out which bend in the river has put me in this precise handbasket.  So, I looked around at a few of my fellow travelers.  A few of them looked shocked as though they'd been newly apprised of our destination.  A couple of them looked grim as though they'd known about our dire situation for a long time but seen no way out of the inevitable.  Not a one of us was entirely sure how the river of life had turned us around and spit us out into this handbasket on the highway to... well, you know.

Hindsight has proven the few souls that bailed earlier to be the wiser travelers on this path.  Alas, I was not so wise as they.  I have only now seen the handwriting on the road signs.  So here we are, a sad group of somewhat more or less shocked travelers in a handbasket speeding down the highway.  I gape as we roar past another group of people along the side of the road feverishly bent over their wickerwork; weaving a new handbasket for their own impending journey.  That's when I realized that not a single fellow traveler was arguing about whether we were, in fact, on our way to H*ll with impressive speed, we were merely quibbling about the ETA.

The way things have gone today, I think it might be wise to invest in wicker.

History was Made This Very Evening

Most evenings do not find me communing with the collective spirit of sport frenzied enthusiasm.  In fact, most evenings that involve me and sports in the same room usually involve my unbridled invective against the barbarity of this sport or the stupidity of that one.  It's not even that I hate sports.  I simply hate watching other people play them.  I'd so much rather play the sport myself, or do anything actively, rather than watch others play sports.  However, this evening was different.

Now, maybe it's my deep American roots, but I've always had a fondness for a good ballgame.  (Not that I watch baseball often, but I tolerate the odd game here and there because I like the game.)  As a child I remember cheering on my Dad while he played in corporate ballgames.  I remember playing t-ball and Dad teaching us to bat.  My brother and I loved it when he would do the "real pitcher's wind up".  No doubt he went easy on us but we felt like pros when we would hit these real pitches.  As slightly older children we taught our dog to outfield for us so that we could take turns batting and pitching without having to run and get the ball ourselves.

So, this evening found me captivated by the world series game between the Chicago Cubs and the Cleveland Indians.  Mom, who has always been a die-hard Cubbies fan was too nervous to even sit in the room.  She feared that if she watched the Cubs would lose.  So she hovered in the adjacent doorway, fretting and finding busy work to keep her hands occupied between running in to see a play and running out of the room so as not to jinx her beloved Cubbies.

And there is something special about Cubbies fans.  They've been fans, dedicated fans, for the last 108 years without any world series wins to their credit, not since their last win in 1908.  To be fair, the Indians hadn't won a world series since 1948.  So, the stands were full of tense faces, hands over mouths and distractedly holding nervously onto baseball hats as fans of both teams watched 10 close innings.  And what a game it was.

The enthusiasm was high throughout the game.  It was exciting because it was such a close game.  With the batters who nobody expected anything of sometimes bringing it home.  So, when the Indians hit a ball at the bottom of the tenth the atmosphere was tense up until the moment that the Cubs' first baseman caught the ball and made the final out, winning the world series and delighting Cubbies fans everywhere.  A historic moment, 108 years of bad luck, curse, dryspell or whatever you would like to call it, was finally broken.  Just think about that for a minute.  People were born Cubbies fans, lived their whole lives and died without seeing the Cubs win a world series.  Almost two generations of people passed while waiting for tonight.  It has been pointed out that the last time the Cubs won the world series, Al Capone, Mark Twain, and Thomas Eddison were alive.  Tonight linked us back to a time that was a full century ago.  And I was caught up in the magic of the excitement, camaraderie and importance of this moment.  I watched history being made.  What a great feeling, knowing both teams played so well, were so close and wanted it so badly.  What a great game!  What a moment to remember.

Transplantation: in which I have been moved

This is a simple post.  It has only one purpose and that is, namely, to inform the unfortunate souls who have stumbled upon this blog of a single fact.  No, wait, that's not quite right.  If you had by some great misfortune stumbled upon this blog you probably wouldn't be reading this post.  Most people stumble into things by finding peculiar images, and I admit that they abound on this blog.  Or perhaps by finding unusually mad titles associated with some term they've just searched...

Sunset through the fruit tree

No.  If you're reading this post, it would seem likely that you are in fact a reader of more than one post.  And the only reason for that must be madness.  Why else would you be reading this?  Well, I suppose you could be here out of curiosity.  This blog is sort of an online zoo for madness.  All manner and types of madness are present here, expressed in my thoughts and the absurd things that always seem to happen to me...

But I digress.  Whatever the reason you are here, and I'm sorry you must have put up with so much already, I must inform you that I have in fact moved.

I am now situated amongst the rolling hills of southern California.  I no longer have the good fortune to live on the rainy and perpetually cold island known as Great Britain.  I do enjoy the sunshine here in southern California.

Hey, where did all the rain go?

But I miss the history and vibrancy of life in London and I really don't enjoy the constant fear of wild fires.  But my transition to life here is for another day.  I merely wanted to inform you, my poor unfortunate reader, that I am now living here rather than there.

Now that I have done so, you must excuse me.  I have things to unpack, mad tea parties to host, and chaos to involve myself in. 

Serves Four? Think again.

Food in the UK is different.  They use less preservatives which is probably better for you but also means the food spoils faster.  They also sell foods we would almost never see in the US.

Sometimes food here perplexes me.  What, for instance, is a chicken teddy?

After reading the label I was assured that they were actually made of chicken, and were presumably breaded chicken nuggets.

They were just shaped like teddy bears.  Now, I understand the need to eat animal shaped foods.  Animal crackers, teddy grahams, and fish crackers are all staple snack foods from my childhood.  I've just never heard of teddy chickens.

Don't worry I ate them in the proper order.

Then there is dessert.  There is really nothing confusing about that, except, just maybe, how much of it you should eat.  A lot.  The answer is always a lot.

A glance at the packaging suggested the pie served four.  Huh.  Four.

I pre heated the oven carefully to gas mark 6.  Yes, I am so international, I can now pretend I understand British cooking measurements and appliances.  It's only taken me two years.

I put the pie in for the correct amount of time.  I used my phone as a timer.  Since I've discovered that my magic phone can do this less things have been burnt by my inattention.  I do love my phone.

The lovely golden delicious smelling pie came out of the oven on time and waited on the counter impatiently for me to eat it.

Serves four.  I cut the cinnamon apple pecan pie into six even slices, mostly because I like the way six slices looks better than four.

Then I unceremoniously put two in my bowl with a large portion of extra thick cream.  Mmm.  I'm not sharing.

Yep, more like serves one at a slightly slower rate than four. Only slightly mind.

I'm also pretty sure I know what I'm having for breakfast.

Freedom without Fireworks

Being an American who lives in the UK there are all sorts of strange and somewhat unexpected cultural divides that I run into on a daily basis.  Sometimes the words I use get blank stares from the people around me.  Often my accent gets made fun of.  But the real problem of living here is that you can't really celebrate the Fourth of July properly.  You can't really run around saying, "I'm free from your tyranny", when you willingly returned.  You end up looking like the naughty dog that got off its leash and ran wild for ten exasperating minutes before returning, grinning foolishly, to your master to receive that withering look.  Of course, this doesn't stop me from running around wearing red, white, and blue and proclaiming my independence in this manner.  It just sort of dampens the camaraderie a bit.  If you can manage to find a few other Americans and all celebrate together all the better.  But we are still lacking one key ingredient.  Fireworks.

I don't know about you, but fireworks are the best part of the Fourth of July.  Don't get me wrong, I love the bbq's, the food, and the summer outdoor parties filled with friends, family, and the best of summer fruits.  But while I can attempt to recreate all of that here I am still missing the fireworks.  Fireworks are amazing, truly.  In my opinion we would all do good to invent more holidays that require fireworks.  There are just not enough times we get to have them.  And who doesn't love them?  I really don't think I've met someone who doesn't like fireworks.  Unless of course, you are counting your canine companions.  I have met a few dogs who quiver in fear at the loud bangs and if asked would probably tell you they hate fireworks.  However, I imagine that most of the people you'd be polling would not be answering from a dog's perspective, so I can safely say that most of them will love fireworks.  I can't imagine meeting a person who doesn't like fireworks.  They must be very odd people, and yes, I do realize I don't have much room to judge on the subject.  Have you ever met someone who doesn't like fireworks?  Think about it, they must be odd and very boring people.

What is not to love?  The deafening booms are regular, not like the somewhat terrifying and random demonstrations of canons in places like Colonial Williamsburg that can catch you off guard and make you jump out of your skin.  They are far enough away, for safety reasons, that they have a dullness to their booming that renders them slightly safe sounding.  Yet, if you are fortunate enough to be watching fireworks in a valley you can sometimes hear the booms echo off of the neighboring hills for great effect.  The colors and shapes, and fun fizzing sounds that fireworks make are eminently lovable.  There are the standard bright colors, the ones that look like smiley faces, and the ones that look like they are chandeliers made of fairy dust straight out of a Disney cartoon.  They are simply magical in a way that is all their own.  There is simply nothing that can compare to fireworks.

Maybe next year I should just plan on going home for the fourth of July.  But until then, Happy Fourth! Happy Independence! And enjoy the fireworks for me.

Tea Time

 

I didn't always love tea.  But tea has slowly grown on me.  Now I find myself wishing for lovely warm cups of tea to greet me when I come home.  Maybe it's just the cold North Yorkshire weather that has finally gotten to me.  It is rather hard to imagine living here without tea.  And there is nothing quite as friendly as someone who is running to the kitchen asking if they can get you a cuppa.

Lazy afternoon chats with housemates over a nice cup of tea are simply wonderful weekend pastimes.  Of course, tea here in the UK can also mean dinner.  If someone has invited you round for tea they could mean a meal.  That caught me by surprise at first.  But I think I like the way tea is a part of the culture here.  Tea is food and drink.  It is comfortable and comforting.  Tea is friendly.  Tea belongs everywhere, even in the workplace.  And you know what?  I think I'll keep it.  I like having a nice cuppa every now and then.