Friday 31 December 2010

A Scottish Christmas Story

On Christmas Eve Josh and I flew off to Scotland for our very first Christmas vacation. From what we’ve heard and assumed, the UK seemed like the perfect place to spend the holidays. Maybe it’s just because we watched Love Actually one too many times, but whatever the reason, at 7pm we were eating Christmas Eve dinner in Wetherspoon’s Restaurant in Stansted Airport and by 9:30pm we’d arrived in Edinburgh full of holiday spirit, ready to paint the town tartan.

After the train ride, plane ride, cab ride and hotel check-in, all we wanted was a drink and an appetizer. We just needed a little something to take the edge off and mark the festive occasion. It was a nice thought with one minor miscalculation: apparently you can’t get food at 10pm on Christmas Eve anywhere in Edinburgh—seriously, anywhere, not even in the hotel. And that was only the beginning. From Christmas Eve to Christmas Day and in some cases even Boxing Day, most bars, restaurants and attractions were closed for the holidays. Whoops!

The city of Edinburgh
Despite 20 degree weather and frozen streets we managed to find a quaint bar that was willing to pour a round of drinks before closing up. We ordered two spirits, split a bag of peanuts and Doritos, and watched as other bewildered tourists (probably from our flight) asked the bartender where they could get something to eat. The fact that nothing was open was certainly not in the brochure! But I should’ve guessed this was going to happen when back in November I called around to make dinner reservations for Christmas Day, and after an hour, found one restaurant in all of Edinburgh that was serving food. Did they expect everyone to starve—or be smart enough to visit after Christmas? Our own hotel wasn’t much help either. Not a vending machine, room service menu or mini bar in sight. I had visions of us curled up in a corner like starving mice waiting for Christmas to end so we could get few scraps food.


Luckily the hotel did serve Christmas breakfast and we feasted on haddock with poached eggs and scrambled eggs with smoked salmon and toasted brioche. Not your typical fare, but it was absolutely delicious! Later we found a pub that served lunch and we went to the sole open restaurant where I’d made reservations so many weeks prior for a sit-down dinner. To be honest, I wouldn’t say it was a “Christmas dinner”, or a “festive dinner”, or even a “good dinner”, but it was a dinner. So we didn’t starve and even though nothing in the city was open on Christmas Eve or Christmas Day, we actually had a really nice afternoon watching Christmas movies in our hotel room and talking to our families back home.
Josh in his Christmas crown
The ever-popular Christmas Crackers
By Boxing Day more shops and stores were opened and the day after that the city was buzzing. It was amazing how the streets that were once dark and vacant, later glowed with New Years excitement. This was when the real Scottish fun kicked in and we were introduced to whiskey, William Wallace and Martin Wishart—among other things.

The Scotch Whiskey Experience

I’ll have you know that Josh and I are now whiskey connoisseurs and we have the certificates to prove it! The Scotch Whiskey “Platinum” Experience is a 90-minute tour, tasting and talk about all things whiskey—with a few added surprises. The whiskey tour began with a mechanical barrel ride (think amusement park for middle-aged business men) through a mach distillery for a lesson on how single-malt whiskey is made. Following the tour, our guide brought us to a room, where we experienced a sensory lecture (which included scratch and sniff cards) and whiskey tasting.

We learned about the various whiskey-producing regions in Scotland and had the privilege of tasting two very different varietals: one from Speyside and one from Islay. We discovered that each region yields its own distinct flavor. Islay whiskeys are peaty and smoky (Josh’s favorite). Highland whiskeys can be dry and heathery or sweet and fruity and sometimes even a bit smoky. Speyside whiskeys are described as mellow, sweet, malty and fruity. And Lowland whiskeys are malty, grassy, delicate and subtle (turns out I’m a Lowland kinda lady).

The Grand Collection
The tour concluded with a look at the world’s largest whiskey collection, donated by Brazilian whiskey enthusiast Claive Vidiz. This stunning collection features 3,384 bottles collected over 35 years. Whether you love whiskey or hate it, it’s a sight to behold (I think I got tipsy just looking at it). On the way out we were presented with goody bags and certificates of completion, which we plan to display next to our diplomas.  

The Tour

Robert the Bruce Statue at Stirling Castle
It’s not a trip to Scotland if you don’t see a loch (lake) or something related to Braveheart—we did both. Our all-day tour took us to Stirling Castle, the Wallace Monument, Loch Lomond, the Oak Restaurant at Loch Lomond and the Auchentoshan Distillery. Unfortunately, due to icy conditions, we didn’t get to go inside the castle or the monument, but we did get to see both up close and learn more about the history. We also discovered that because no one really knows what William Wallace looked like, the statue erected in his “likeness” was made to look like Mel Gibson. Apparently, after Mel went off the deep end, Scotts were so outraged by the statue they revolted by pelting it with shrapnel. In order to protect the monument, a cage was built around it. Therefore, the current statue of William Wallace is actually a statue of Mel Gibson in a cage. I didn't see it myself, but I'm sure it's exquisite. 

The Loch Lomond experience was my favorite of all. Not just because of the spectacular views and adorable Scottish restaurant, but also because of the whimsical winter death march we took up the side of a mountain. Our tour guide John-Paul, who reminded me of a Scottish Otto from the Simpsons (not nearly as rule-oriented as Richard from our last tour), decided we should go on a walk around the loch. The ground was more of an ice skating rink, but that didn’t stop him from pressing on with the scheduled activities. In a moment of genius, he decided to make things interesting when he asked if we wanted to climb the hill beside the loch to get a better view. Inwardly I was screaming, “No!” just as someone yelled, “Yes!” Surprisingly, that someone wasn’t Josh.

Trek up hill
Us at the top of the hill at Loch Lomond


So up the hill we went. The ground, mind you, was incredibly slippery and none of us were exactly prepared for the trek. It must’ve been a hoot for any passer-bys to see a Scottish man leading two Americans, a guy from Kyrgyzstan and five teenagers from Hong Kong up a snowy hill. But like all death-defying experiences, we bonded over our challenge, taking each other’s hand and encouraging one another along the way. It turned out to be an awesome experience and the views were truly inspiring.



The highlights

Edinburgh Castle
I could go on all day, but being that this is a blog not a book, I suppose I have to start wrapping up. In short, Scotland is pretty amazing. In addition to the above, we also got to visit the Auchentoshan Distillery (part of the all-day tour), shamefully devour a 6-course truffle tasting with wine pairing at Martin Wishart’s eponymous Michelin-starred restaurant, tour Edinburgh castle, view the Crown Jewels and put our newfound whiskey knowledge to some good use. All in all, I’d say we had a very Happy Holiday!
Barrels at the Distillery
Josh at Auchentoshan Distillery
Me at Auchentoshan Distillery











Best wishes for a successful, happy, healthy 2011!

Monday 20 December 2010

Lost in Translation

I know I’ve already gone through great lengths to convey how frustrating cooking in England is for an American—the metric system being my first point of contention, followed by an extra small, Celsius oven—but now I’d like to move onto the language barriers I’ve encountered in professional kitchens. Surely one would most immediately ask, “Don’t the English speak English?” Well, the short answer is yes, of course they do. But if you have some time, allow me to explain the many exceptions.

Let’s talk about Appetizers, Entrées and Desserts. Seems clear enough, but the last time I said, “So, we’ll be serving all three courses? Apps, entrées and desserts?” I was treated to looks of sheer confusion. The chef furrowed her brow and with much exasperation asked me to repeat myself. Horrified, I thought maybe I said something that resembled the F word. Apps? Entrées? Desserts? Where could that have gone wrong? I wondered. My cheeks went ten shades of red as I slowly repeated myself. As it turns out, their preferred phrasing is Starter, Main Course (entrée being completely off the radar), and either Dessert or Pudding. Yes, Pudding is actually synonymous with dessert. And if you use the word Pudding, it doesn’t even have to include any variant of pudding, Jell-o or Bill Cosby. I also learned that the ever-popular Christmas Pudding is a cake!

On the subject of things not being called what they actually are, let’s move on to mincemeat. I was working a lunch, when the chef told me the “pudding” we were serving was a strudel stuffed with fruit and mincemeat. So I asked if that meant it was going to be sweet and savory, as I envisioned a phyllo parcel chock full of apples and sirloin. Apparently that was a dumb question, because mincemeat, when referring to dessert, is a combination of fruits, cinnamon, cloves, sugar and raisins. It can include meat, but not when it’s used in a strudel topped with powdered sugar. Talk about misleading!

A few more? I could go on for days! When asked to put left over turkey in the “bin”, I packed it up in Cling Film (aka plastic wrap) ready to place it in a bin—then perhaps in the refrigerator. Am I wrong to think putting something in a bin is meant for safe and fresh keeping? Well, the chef turned to me and said, “You don’t need to wrap it. Just put it in the bin,” while pointing at the garbage. To hide my embarrassment I wanted to laugh and explain that Americans always wrap up their trash before putting in the garbage. Instead, I thought better of it, threw the turkey away and sheepishly moved on to the next task.

And another time (at band camp—just kidding), I was instructed to hand over the “naught pan”. What the hell is a naught pan? Seriously, does anyone out there actually know what that means? I sure don’t… or didn’t. After a few minutes of hot and cold—No the one on the right. Down. Over a bit more. You’re hand is on it. Yes, that’s the one!—I discovered that the so-called naught pan is what we Americans call a “hotel pan”. Basically, these are stainless steel pans that come in many sizes with the purpose of cooking, storing and serving food. They are the be-all-end-all of cooking paraphernalia, and something you learn about on the first day of culinary school. So you can probably imagine that the head chef must’ve thought I got my degree from a Cracker Jack box, as he immediately insisted on giving me a lengthy lecture on the practical uses of the aforementioned pans. I tried to interrupt and explain that I knew what they were, but called them by a different name. But as the chef was Italian and I was American and we were in England, the message wasn’t getting through. So I listened to his lesson, nodded my head and politely said, “Oh, well, yes I see,” as if I never before heard of such a miraculous invention.

After many embarrassing encounters, I think it’s safe to say that while Americans and Brits generally speak the same language, sometimes (a lot of times), things get lost in translation. In addition to kitchen confusion, there are many other words and phrases each country say differently—often times I feel like I’m learning a new language (maybe I’ll put “bilingual” on my resume). In closing, I will leave you with a short list, so next time you come to England (or vice versa) you will know how to properly speak English.

US             UK
Elevator – Lift
Bathroom – Loo or Toilet
Toilet paper – Loo roll
Parking lot – Car park
Period (as in punctuation) – Full stop
Crowded – Rammed
Mail – Post
Hot (as in, “he’s hot”) – Fit
Eggplant – Aubergine
Zucchini – Courgette
(Bread) Roll – Bap
Pants – Trousers
Underwear – Pants
Jerk – Wanker
If you have any more to add to the list, feel free to leave a comment!

Monday 13 December 2010

Field Trip


I’ve never been much of a history buff, but regardless of your interests you can’t help but be enamored by Europe’s ancient sites and stories. As Londoners, we felt it was our civic duty to explore England and a few of its most prized landmarks: Windsor Castle, Stonehenge and the Roman Baths.

We signed up for an 11-hour bus excursion back when it was a brisk 40-50 degrees and the idea of spending a day outdoors seemed like a good time. But in the week leading up to the trip, the temperature plummeted and snow began to fall. It was the type of weekend you longed to spend indoors with mugs of hot chocolate and funny movies. Instead, Josh and I pulled out all our winter gear in preparation for the adventure de jour. Part of me was incredibly excited about the trip and the other part hoped it would be cancelled and we could reschedule for a more appropriate time… like June.

Despite transit delays and slowdowns, the tour was still up and running, and Josh and I took our seats on the bus at 8:45am on Saturday morning. Within minutes our talkative tour guide Richard, a proper Englishman with a plaid cap and khaki blazer, made sure the bus left promptly at 9am. He made a point of telling us that tardiness was not tolerated and that any stragglers would be left behind. He then went on to give us all the extended fun we could have if we did happen to miss the bus at Windsor Castle or Bath. If we were stuck in Stonehenge we were basically SOL. After this was well explained, Richard spent an additional twenty to thirty minutes going through the rules and regulations of eating on the bus. Hot foods and hot beverages were strictly forbidden, while sandwiches were encouraged as they are A) easy to eat B) don’t make a mess C) have a neutral odor D) are really tasty E) are simply the perfect food. I do not exaggerate the effort that Richard went through to detail the unparalleled divinity of the sandwich.

The introduction and rule review took up a good portion of the ride and before we knew it we arrived at Windsor Castle, the oldest and largest occupied castle and official residence of the Queen. As we neared the entrance, it became clear that “residence” is a rather modest term for the 13-acre estate. I wholeheartedly believe they should consider turning part of it into luxe condominiums. I would think there’s plenty of unused space and big money to be had in a self-contained castle community.


Anyway, the castle and its grounds were at the same time massive, imposing and stunning. Inside the castle one could tour many attractions from the Portrait Gallery, full of drawings by Leonardo Da Vinci and photos of the royal family, to Queen Mary’s Dolls’ House, a miniature world of dolls and functioning fixtures that looked like the perfect setting for a horror film. We also toured St. George’s Chapel where the infamous Henry the VIII, among other sovereigns, is buried. While grim and sad, it was surreal to stand in the same spot that many of the characters I learned about in school had once stood and are now laid to rest.

Following another forty-five minutes aboard the SS Sandwich, we arrived at Stonehenge. It had just reopened as we pulled in, after being closed due to icy conditions. Some areas were still blocked off, but it’s impossible to miss this towering site.


What makes Stonehenge special (it’s not just a bunch of rocks, ya know) is that it was built nearly 5,000 years ago (sometime between 3,000 BC and 1,600 BC) and its purpose still remains a mystery. It’s alignment with the midsummer sunrise and midwinter sunset has lead to well-accepted theories that the structure once served as a calendar or perhaps Pagan place of worship and celebration.

Lastly we entered the city of Bath, which reminded me of Prague (yes, folks, I’ve been to Praaague – I told you that would come in handy one day). Our bus left us off in the heart of the Christmas Market, containing stalls of food, treats and crafts. There were kielbasa sandwiches, homemade soups, mulled cider, candied nuts and gourmet chocolates. It was a festive spot to relax and enjoy a bite to eat after a long day in the cold. But before we got to kick our feet up and sample the food, we took a tour of the Roman Baths—an ancient bathing complex built in 60-70 AD.


The Baths, also known by its Roman name, Aquae Sulis, is comprised of three naturally hot springs. These springs are full of minerals and maintain a consistent 46 degree Celsius temperature (115 degrees F). As the story goes, the Romans constructed a barrier around the hot springs and created a public bathhouse. Remarkably, this area is well preserved and many of the original stones, structures and steps are intact today. It’s a sight to see and revere for its longevity and majesty. 

By 5pm it was time to head home. Richard managed to keep to himself and the excursion wrapped up with a lulling two-and-a-half hour ride back to London. The rest, as they say, is history.

Monday 29 November 2010

Thanksgiving in London


Living outside of your comfort zone is one thing, but living outside of your comfort zone on Thanksgiving is quite another. I woke up bright and early and although I didn’t have to work, Josh did. To me, working on Thanksgiving is sacrilegious and I was personally glad to have the day off.

I figured it was only right to do something to celebrate while I waited for the evening’s dinner plans—at a French restaurant—but I didn’t know what to do with myself. I thought about watching the parade on the computer, but then remembered that while it was 9am in England it was only 4am in NY. The clowns may have been rising, but they definitely weren’t shining. So after posting a “Happy Thanksgiving” message on Facebook and snooping around to see what everyone back home was up to, I went about my usual business.

Even though I know Thanksgiving isn’t celebrated here, I sort of hoped I’d come across some type of acknowledgement for the day, like a turkey decal in a shop window or a Black Friday sale advert. Alas, there were none. In fact, I had to explain Black Friday to a co-worker and she looked at me like I was a heathen. In hindsight, driving to Walmart at midnight and clawing your way through throngs of people for half-priced electronics doesn’t make for the most heartfelt Thanksgiving story.

Flashing back to a few weeks before Thanksgiving, I’d invited another American couple over for a traditional turkey dinner the weekend after the holiday, as I figured our five-course French tasting menu wasn’t exactly authentic. My plan seemed completely doable and just plain necessary.  You can take the girl out of America, but you can’t take the America out of the girl. While Thanksgiving Day may have been anti-climactic, the thought of Saturday’s dinner plans lifted my spirits.

I started the process by researching recipes and interrogating family and friends on their tried-and-true cooking tricks. Though I graduated from culinary school, the Natural Gourmet focuses on health-supportive food that also happens to be primarily vegan. No roasted turkeys or sausage stuffing, and certainly no metric system.

After watching countless episodes of Barefoot Contessa and talking to Thanksgiving pros, I knew exactly how to cook a six-pound turkey at 350 degrees Fahrenheit—but what did that mean to a Londoner? It meant that I had to do more math this past week than I’ve ever had to do in my life. My preparations felt more like homework than cooking. If a turkey weighs 2.7 kilograms and it should cook for 20 minutes per pound at 350 degrees Fahrenheit, how long does it need to cook in a Celsius oven and at what temperature? After many equations and matrices, I learned that the turkey had to cook for approximately two hours at 176.66 (repeating) degrees Celsius. Impressed?

The process went on as such and my head swirled with gram and kilogram and milliliter conversions. You’d think I was mastering the Theory of Relativity with the pages of notes I was working with. Fractions and decimal points kept me up at night and worries of salmonella poisoning sent chills down my spine. Yes, it’s safe to say I was sufficiently and excessively stressed. But it was Thanksgiving and without a parade or Black Friday sales, the least I could do was serve a properly cooked turkey.

Cheese Platter
Despite two weeks’ worth of over analyzing and agonizing, dinner turned out as I’d hoped—fun, festive and full of food and wine. I’ll admit there were blunders, burns and tears along the way. I can tell you that I have blisters on my knuckles from my tiny oven and I had a near meltdown when the grocery delivery service sent me frozen broccoli instead of fresh broccoli. Not to mention that the farm I purchased my turkey from called me the day before to change my order (including the size and type of turkey), which meant I had to redo my entire cooking chart in the 11th hour. But all mishaps aside, I’m happy to report that by 7:15pm on Saturday evening four friends sat down to a feast of food that served as a little reminder of home. It may not have been perfect, but it finally felt like Thanksgiving.

Apps - forgot to take pics after this point!
This year, I am thankful for the opportunity to live in London. I am thankful for wonderful friends and family. I am thankful for those of you who helped me plan my dinner and those of you who cheered me on along the way. I am thankful for Cindy, Greg and Josh for being my Thanksgiving Day guinea pigs. I am thankful for my blog readers (become a follower by clicking the “Follow” link at the bottom of the page). And for the first time, I am thankful for my former math teachers, who inadvertently prepared me for my first Thanksgiving abroad. I never thought I’d say this, but they were right. You do use math in your everyday life and you won’t always have access to a calculator. Who knew?

Monday 22 November 2010

Week in Review

1. The Internet goes down for a record-breaking 10 days

2. Josh fixes the Broadband problem numerous engineers couldn’t with his patented “unplug-replug” strategy

3. Order is restored to the Croes household and Josh is dubbed, the Earl of the Internet

4. Wednesday night’s Brisket Disaster leads to the remarkable discovery that the smoke alarms are indeed working

      5. The Water Poet is officially declared Neighborhood Bar of the Year (Commencement Ceremony scheduled for next Sunday afternoon)

      6. Bikram yoga becomes the workout of choice, as we experience the healing powers of heat exhaustion

      7. Sky TV surrenders to Jet domination and finally shows a game, whereupon we bear witness to an  incredible 4th-quarter win against the Texans 
     
      8. Promotion for Nikki’s Natural Gourmet article continues—please visit: http://naturalgourmetinstitute.wordpress.com/2010/11/04/guess-who’s-popping-up-for-dinner-natural-gourmet-graduate-alice-bamford-is-cooking-up-locally-sourced-meals-for-london-insiders/ 
     
      9. In global news, Kate Middleton and Prince William, or “Wilkat”, announce their royal engagement after a nine-year courtship
     
     10.  Nikki vows to spend the next six months procuring an invite to the wedding… all other plans are currently on hold

Tuesday 16 November 2010

Travel Blog About Prague


Two weeks ago Josh and I planned our first Euro-trip to Prague. At the time, the extent of my knowledge on the city was how it was pronounced, where it was located and how long it took to fly there from London. Regardless of the fact that I knew bupkas, I was still eager to go. “Prague” had such a lovely ring to it. I pictured us wowing crowds at an art gallery opening saying things like, “Yes, well, when Josh and I were in Praaaaague…”

Being it our first vacation from London, we spent most of the time leading up to our getaway answering the less exciting questions: How many bags does Easy Jet allow you to take? How are we going to get to Gatwick Airport? What and where is Gatwick Airport? How much longer are we going to have to put our liquids in little plastic bags, because it’s really getting annoying? Etc. By the time we had squared away the logistics, we only had a few days to figure out why we were really going to Prague. We hadn’t the slightest idea what we were going to do, see, or most especially, eat!

I can tell you that after some Internet exploration and a three-day vacation, I am not only in love with the city, but I have newfound respect for it. To begin, Prague is the capital and biggest city in the Czech Republic, and is referred to as the “Heart of Europe”. It’s home to the some of the most breathtaking and cultural sights on the continent, including the Charles Bridge, Astronomic Clock, Prague Castle and St. Vitus Cathedral. It’s also composed of architectural styles indicative of the Gothic, Baroque and Renaissance periods, which add a stunning element of visual diversity to the landscape.  

What I think is most inspiring is the fact that these ancient landmarks and structures have managed to survive extensive periods of hardship and destruction, much of which occurred in the Twentieth Century. It’s remarkable that this burgeoning, whimsical city was only freed from Communist rule in 1989, and in such a short time, transformed into one of the most popular and majestic tourist spots in Europe. It’s a testament to the reliance of its people, who I might add are jovial, friendly and fierce in the kitchen…  

Which brings me to my next point—the food and beer! I can honestly say that I am now a full-fledged beer snob. The dark ales, which I preferred, balanced notes of chocolate, coffee and caramel, while the lagers were light and honey-flavored. Each beer was superb and never disappointed, even if it was just the house tap. I’d read that as the French pair wine with food, the Czech pair beer with food. As it turns out, this is so, so true. We had appetizers of pickled cheese and potato pancakes, which perfectly complemented our pints. Main dishes consisted of what I’d classify as heavy winter food—bread dumplings, sauerkraut, beef goulash and pork by the plenty.

The Old Town Square fast became one of our favorite locations for visiting and eating. At one stall, baguettes were carved out on a spike, making a pocket just the right size for hot dogs and ketchup. (It’s a trade secret I’d like to bring to the US.) Other stalls included spits that roasted whole pigs and a life-sized cast-iron skillet that was used to sauté boiled potatoes with chunks bacon and chopped onions. Desserts of rolled dough were roasted on spinning skewers and finished with powdered sugar and cinnamon. When the wind picked up, there was no better way to get warm than with a cup of hot wine flavored with mulling spices. It was like being at the tailgating party of the century. If someone had brought out a football, we might’ve never left!

Material World

It’s been just about a month since we moved to London from New York. Two weeks before that the movers put all of our possessions, minus two suitcases, on a boat headed for our new city. In total it’s been about six weeks since we’ve seen most of our stuff from cutlery and cooking supplies to clothes, snowboarding gear and about sixty boxes of whatever else. So when the movers called and said our things had arrived, it goes without saying that I was beyond excited. I was ready to cook and wear something other than one of the three sweaters I brought with me. I was looking forward to eating off our Villeroy & Boch plates and using silverware as opposed to plasticware. I wouldn’t go so far as to say we were roughing it, but it definitely hasn’t been easy.
On Friday, Josh left work at around 2pm to accept the delivery. I was at work and had my phone sitting next to my computer, waiting for him to confirm that everything made it in one piece. By 3pm, I had called, texted and emailed twice. You’d think I was expecting news about the arrival of a newborn baby, not a shipload of belongings.
When I finally got a hold of Josh, he sounded deflated. He said it all came, but he was knee-deep in boxes and packing paper and lots of things he couldn’t make heads or tails of. It was my secret fear come true. While I could finally set up my kitchen and curl up with my Snuggy, I wasn’t looking forward to finding a place for all the material items we’d acquired.
Funny thing is, we’d become accustomed to certain things that have no place in our lives. Yet for some reason, we had trouble getting rid of them. For example, we shipped a box of candles—the same box of candles that was sitting in the closet in our last apartment. We don’t even own a lighter! We shipped not one, not two, not three, but four down blankets. We could warm a small country with our surplus of hats, gloves and scarves. And on that note, I’d like to point out that I’ve since discovered that I have some sort of weird Freudian obsession with hats. I counted five conductor caps, three berets, two tribly hats, a knit hat and a bucket hat. Seriously? You’d think I was an eighty-year old bald man.
The point is that aside from my roll bag of knives, which I literally blew a kiss to, pots, pans, plates and utensils, we really don’t need the rest. It’s actually almost sickening to think of how much we’d gotten rid of in New York and how much we still had. And it’s even more shocking to see the pile of clothes, shoes and other non-essentials we plan on donating now. In a way, I think we got used our simplified life, devoid of the useless crap we for some reason were lead to believe we couldn’t live without. Not to mention we had enough room to do cartwheels—that is if we were talented enough to know how.
If this experience has taught us anything, it’s that the people in our lives are irreplaceable and the “things” in our lives are disposable. Not the other way around. Sadly, I think society lets us forget that. We have no problem collecting and carrying around baggage, yet we’re too busy to phone a friend.
From now on the goal is to go with this feeling and purge as much as we possibly can. Pants (or shall I say trousers) I’ve had since freshman year, the leis we got in Hawaii, the Dirt Devil we can’t plug in in the UK and even two of my precious hats.  Without all that clutter, we might actually be able to reclaim our guest room for guests. Now isn’t that a better use of space?

There's No Place Like Home!

The honeymoon is officially over! I mean, I still love it here, don’t get me wrong. But after our first week of fun and tourism, it was time to snap back into reality. I have to say, work wasn’t even half bad. I freelanced and Josh got back into the swing of things in his new office. What did us in wasn’t work at all, nor was it more issues with cable and Internet and everything else. It was Ikea! That place has it out for us. And after our second weekend in a row wasted in its blue and yellow vortex, I now refer to it as Dante’s Middle Rung of Hell. Dramatic, you say? I think not!
It was a brisk Saturday morning and after a relaxing yoga class, Josh and I ate lunch while watching one too many episodes of Super Nanny USA. Feeling energized and well rested, we decided to venture back to Ikea to collect all the furniture we didn’t get the Sunday before. The previous trip turned out to be such headache that we left with nothing more than a sheet, blanket and two pillows. Ikea had beaten us once, but this time we were ready for war.
I dressed for a recon mission. No heeled boots, no skinny jeans, no complicated jewelry. I laced up my new running sneakers, pulled on a sweatshirt and tied back my hair. This was no time for frills and makeup. I was determined to enjoy my Saturday night, which meant we needed to be ready for action.
Josh and I are usually the first to defend London’s transportation system. The tube comes nearly every minute and lists the estimated wait times on a digital board above the track. There’s typically a map of all the stops posted in multiple locations, so you’re not stuck asking random people if you’re in the right place and boarding the right train. While Londoners and New Yorkers alike warned us that we would soon experience its wrath, we fluffed off their concerns.
I immediately knew something was wrong when I saw how many people were waiting for the tube at Liverpool Street Station. If the tube was running on or close to schedule, there wouldn’t be so many people loitering around the platform on a Sunday. We soon learned that someone had left a suitcase unattended at the following station, so the line was temporarily closed. Which makes me wonder about these people who keep leaving luggage all over the place, causing bomb scares and dismantling transit systems. Anyway, we ended up on a bus to Oxford Circus to catch our transfer train. The bus clearly stated it was stopping at Oxford Circus, but somewhere along the way the route changed and we had to get onto another bus.
When we finally made it on the Bakerloo line to Stonebridge Park, we pulled out our books and settled in for the nice long ride. Fooled again, we were informed that the train to Stonebridge Park wasn’t stopping at Stonebridge Park. It instead terminated at Queen’s Park, where the train conductor told us the next tube would be arriving in seventeen minutes. We took those seventeen minutes to verbally bash the London transportation system and admitted that everyone was right and we were wrong and it was horrible!
At last our train arrived in the Promised Land, otherwise known as Stonebridge Park. After standing alongside a highway, sucking fumes for twenty minutes, the Ikea shuttle bus brought us to the massive warehouse. We finalized our list at Olympic speed, raced to the self-serve section and collected our items. We then waited on line for the one item not available in the self-service section. It started to feel like we were on an episode of Super Market Sweep, running around with our shopping carts like our lives—and the big prize money—depended on it. With hope that the end was near, we queued up on the Assembly and Delivery Line at 8pm. By this ungodly hour we would’ve traded our souls for a car ride home and a hot meal. As if hearing our pleas, a member of the Ikea staff approached us with an offer we couldn’t refuse. He waved us over and informed us that for just 60 pounds a delivery person would take our furniture and us home immediately. No more lines, no more torture. It was as if we’d met the Wizard of Oz!
Unfortunately, as the adage goes, if something is too good to be true, it probably is. For starters, our driver looked nothing like a deliveryman. He was dressed in a suit with leather loafers and wreaked of cologne. My commonsense edged its way out and I wondered if this was actually a legit Ikea service or a side business the guy on the Delivery and Assembly line had conjured up. But just as quickly as it appeared, my commonsense slipped away too tired to fight the good fight, and on we went with the so-called Ikea “deliveryman”. I won’t even go into the shouting/horn-honking match he got into with another driver, which nearly lead to a street fight. I’ll just skip to the part where he dropped us off in front of our building and sped away, leaving us to carry nine boxes up two flights of stairs.
Long story short, we treated ourselves to the steak-for-two dinner at Luxe. As for our stuff, an Ikea assemblyman came to put it together on Tuesday. Josh had already assembled the chairs and it still somehow took this trained professional four and a half hours to put together the remaining four pieces of furniture. When he mercifully left the apartment somewhere around lunchtime, I went for a walk. I inhaled a breathe of fresh air, glad to have the ordeal behind me… until it reappeared at my side. “Mrs.,” called the Assemblyman who’d just left. “Yes?” I asked through grit teeth, annoyed by the mere sight of him and his association with Ikea. “I forgot to put these screws in your coffee table. Can I come back up?” All that time and you forgot to put all the screws in?, I wanted to scream. He must’ve noticed the red in my eyes, because he just as quickly said we could probably do it ourselves, dumped the screws into my hands and dashed back to his truck. A wise move on his part!
A week later, I can look back on this laugh. And I must say, the new furniture really has made our house a home. Dare I say, "thanks, Ikea"? Nah!

Life as a Londoner

It’s so easy to talk about writing a blog. “Oh, sure” I said, “the minute I get to London I’m going to start a blog and upload pictures and take lots of video footage. I’m also going to watch less TV, so I’ll have more time to volunteer and finally learn Spanish.” I figured if I’m going to start over in a new country, I might as well do it right. But in real life (or my life) that kind of thing never actually happens. It’s always the same story. I manage to get caught up in errands and activities and never seem to have enough time for anything I resolved to do. Well, I think I never have any free time, but what that really means is I’ve spent most of my afternoon watching Judge Judy reruns on the BBC, leaving no time for creative productivity.
Fortunately, I’m blessed to say that I have some amazing friends and family that didn’t let me weasel out of this one. So to those of you who believe in me, encourage me and offer your undying support, I want to say thank you. I also want to say hello to my readers (if there are any of you) and let you know that if you happen to be a book publisher, movie producer or talent scout, I would entertain the idea of turning my blog into a bestselling novel, blockbuster movie or situation comedy. Until then, on with the story…
I don’t think it’s possible to go into detail on everything that’s happened during our first two weeks in London. Besides, most of you have seen my Facebook updates and know all about the transit strike, the little mouse we found and our Sunday-funday trip to IKEA. What you don’t know, is that in terms of being the perfect tourists, I’d say we’ve rivaled the Griswalds. Here’s a list of what we can now cross off our Fromer’s list: Museum of London, Tate Modern, Buckingham Palace, Borough Market, Spitafields Market, Ronnie Scott’s Jazz Club, London Bridge and Picadilly and Oxford Circus. When we weren’t busy running through the Clipboard of Fun, we tried to fit in as real Londoners with a little help from some new friends. One particular invitation came from a fellow Natural Gourmet student, who had us over for a pop-up dinner in Fulham. Similar to the Friday Night Dinners we had at school, she presented a group of 16 guests with a locally-sourced three-course meal. (If you live in London or went to the NGI, become a friend of Alice’s catering company, Love a Locavore.) We also partied on a houseboat in the West End, watched “American” football in Sports Café on Haymarket Street and hung out at Madame Jojo’s in Soho.
It was a whirlwind two weeks and for a fleeting moment I wondered how it was humanly possible do so much in such a sort period of time. Then I remembered… we had a week off of work. Just when life was starting to feel like a long vacation – or better yet, retirement – it was back to the grind. Josh is working in the London office of his company and I’m doing some freelance work. But I’ll save those details for the next blog.