Nicole V. The Royal Mail (Round 1)

There comes a time in every person’s life, when the gloves come off. After months, days, maybe even years of suppressed anger and built-up tension, you finally decide that enough is enough. Conjuring up images of Tom Petty you say to yourself, “I won’t back down!”

My day of reckoning came earlier this week. My opponent: the Royal Mail. Not one person in particular, but Her Majesty’s Postal System—that’s right, the entire system (that includes you, too, FedEx)! You may wonder how, in four short months, I managed to seek the demise of an entire sector of the British service community. I can tell you it wasn’t easy, but it’s a battle I’ve been fighting since Thanksgiving Day.

Sometime late November I got the sense that my mom had sent us something. She was dropping very subtle hints, such as “Did you get anything in the mail today?” and “Are you sure you didn’t get anything from FedEx?” Each time I answered, “No.” Aside from a ton of repetitive bills filling us in on all stages of the payment process (even though we pay online) we hadn’t received anything of note.

Finally, on Thanksgiving Day, my mom had to share the big surprise. She’d sent us homemade cookies via overnight FedEx—a special delivery that came with a $100 price tag! The US FedEx worker not only helped her package the cookies, but also assured her that spending $100 on cookies was a justified act of love (I think he works on commission). He had also assured her they would arrive the day before Thanksgiving, already making them two days late. As it was, we didn’t have the cookies or even a note citing an attempted delivery. It was a perplexing mystery I couldn’t solve alone; so I called upon my trusted sidekick Josh Watson and opened the Case of the Missing Cookies.

After some serious sleuthing, we discovered that FedEx had come several times, but our buzzer was dead as a doornail (no pun intended). But if FedEx had come, where was the note? Why couldn’t we find a “We Were Here” message or sign that anyone had tried to deliver a package? Could it be that there was a Note Thief on the loose?

Before I jumped to conclusions and hired Scooby Doo, I called FedEx and asked if a note was left and if not, why? The FedEx rep responded with the following question: “What color is your door?” The question threw me completely off guard and I had no choice but to stammer in response. I wondered if this was a new self-help scheme—the follow up to What Color Is Your Parachute? Perhaps she was taking a few psychology classes and this was her conflict-resolution method.

Sensing my hesitation and confusion, she asked more specifically if my door was gray. Gray sounded right, so I said as much. To this she said, “That’s why we didn’t leave a note. You have a gray door and we can’t leave notes on gray doors—it’s the law.” Was this woman serious? What did she expect me to say to the most ludicrous excuse I’d ever heard in my life? Oh, okay, I see. We have a gray door, so we can’t receive packages. That clears everything up for me! Thanks!

My head was whirling and I was unable to regain composure. If this “law” is real and my buzzer is broken and my package is floating around in a delivery truck, how on Earth do I get my hands on these cookies? I felt like Cookie Monster and envisioned myself raging through London yelling, “Me want cookie!” Those were my treats and, by God, I was determined to get them.

I made another call to FedEx and asked if the driver could please phone me the next time he tried to redeliver. They were aware of my situation and seemed eager to oblige. And guess what? The following morning I actually got a call. A call to say the driver had just come by, but I didn’t answer the door so he left. I held my head in my hands and begged for divine intervention. I felt like reaching through the phone and shouting, “Didn’t I tell you my buzzer was broken?! Isn’t that the reason I asked for the driver to call in the first place?! Do you have a cognitive issue I should know about?!”

Of course I didn’t say any of that. I rationally re-explained my situation for the umpteenth time, trying in vain to remain calm. Desperate to get off the phone with the Cookie Lunatic, the rep assured me that he’d send the driver back in an hour. Two and a half hours later he still hadn’t come and I finally decided to throw in the towel. I’d gone 12 Rounds, fought the good fight, and it was time to raise the white flag. I wasn’t getting those cookies and I had to accept the fact that I’d been defeated.

I left our flat and didn’t return for several hours. I ran a few errands and worked on decreasing my spiked blood pressure. When I returned, I checked the mail (just for good measure) and started to take off my coat. That’s when the most remarkable thing happened—my phone rang. It was a FedEx driver claiming he was at my door! I couldn’t believe the timing of it all. I had to pinch myself to make sure I wasn’t dreaming. He had actually come and he had brought the cookies. It was, by this point, a Christmas Miracle!

After a week of detective work we closed the case, ate the cookies and celebrated our victory—and, in usual fashion, we let out guard down just a bit too soon. Around the time the last cookie had been eaten and all was forgotten, we received a letter in the mail from FedEx. I actually thought it might have been an apology note, a refund or maybe even a gift card toward future deliveries. I excitedly opened the letter to find… a BILL! We owed the British government 30 pounds (re: $45) in taxes for enjoying US-produced cookies in the UK. To review, my mom paid $100 for overnight shipping, yet the cookies weren’t delivered for a week and now I, the recipient, had to pay taxes. I wanted to shout, “No taxation without representation!” and spill tea and scones into the Thames. As therapeutic as that would’ve been, I couldn’t risk getting deported. So I kept my tea in the cabinet, paid the bill, cursed the system and banned all parcel delivery going forward.  

Let’s just say avoiding deliveries for a period of two years didn’t turn out to be a viable solution. Within a month I once again found myself at the mercy of the Royal Mail. My opponent was taunting me, begging me for a rematch, and I accepted. In the words of Rocky Balboa, “Going in one more round when you don't think you can—that's what makes all the difference in your life.” 

To be continued…

An Evening at the Theater (or is it Theatre?)

Josh and I have officially proclaimed the London movie experience “The Best in the World”—a very coveted and sought-after honor. We came to this conclusion last Wednesday when we decided that the incessant rain and darkness was becoming far too depressing and we needed to get out. Among the movies playing, we chose to see 127 Hours (no spoilers here) at the Rich Mix Cinema. It was between that or The King’s Speech, which is based on the true story of King George VI of Britain who struggled to overcome his public speaking problem/speech impediment during World War II. While intrigued, I think we’ll wait for that to come out on DVD.

Now get this, when purchasing your tickets, online or at the theater, you get to pick your seats in advance! That means you can show up right before the movie starts and still avoid the front row. And when you meet up with friends, you don’t have to throw your coat over four chairs and yell, “seat’s taken!” like Elaine Benes every time someone comes near your territory. Why is this not a universal amenity?

Upon arrival (about 15 minutes before the show) we checked in at the ticket counter. Directly behind us was a cute little café that served fancy coffees and gelato, and in front of us were a set of doors, which lead to the theater. We walked to these magical doors, opened them and surprisingly found ourselves in the middle of a music venue complete with a full bar and jazz band. And this wasn’t your daddy’s jazz band. The music was an upbeat medley of top-40 pop tunes played on trumpets, trombones and saxophones. The crowd ranged from college students to thirty-somethings and beyond, who all sang, danced, lounged and laughed. Forget those over-priced arcade games and Slushies; this lobby was bursting with liveliness and the type of post-work freedom one longs for on a weeknight.

The best part is that even if you’re there to see a movie and not listen to the band, you can still partake in the bar festivities. Forgive me, but this bears repeating. You can actually take your drinks (beer, wine, Grasshopper) into the theater with you! Now is it me, or is that unheard of (at least in the States)? Maybe I just happened to miss all of these incredible bar-jazz band-theaters in my lifetime, but I’ve personally never been to one that was this cool before. I know it sounds very sixteen-year-old of me to be excited because I can throw a few back during a movie, but the whole evening was actually rather sophisticated. I felt so civilized listening to jazz tunes, and then taking a glass of wine to my reserved seats. Sure beats a bladder full of soda and neck strain!  

Call it a fluke, but people were actually quiet during the entire film to boot. Not once did I have to mentally shout at someone for talking or roll my eyes because the person next to me chewed popcorn like a cow. (Okay, so I’m a bit noise sensitive, but it’s easy for me to lose focus.) Anyway, that didn’t happen this time. At first I wasn’t exactly sure why I left feeling like I’d been to the spa, glowing with the contented pleasure of having just thoroughly enjoyed myself. Then it occurred to me that the movie experience was simply flawless. Comfortable, quiet, exciting with surprises at every turn—it was a cinematic adventure of for the avid or novice moviegoer!

So here’s my Londoner’s note: I highly recommend that after you take a spin through the Abbey, breeze around the Eye and sneak a peek at Parliament, you go to the movies! It may sound very blasé, but believe me it’s not.

A few more topics of note:

      1.)  The dueling Gemini twins in me were very busy this week. One working feverishly on the new Life As A Londoner Facebook page (please Like me!), while the other signed up for advanced nutrition training at the Institute for Integrative Nutrition. I only noticed that both sides of my brain were working on different projects when I posted a FB message about school, and then an hour later posted another about my travel/blog page. Maybe one day, all sides of my psyche will learn to work together.

      

      2.)  Josh and I embarked on another European excursion this weekend. We visited our friend Risa, who was in Madrid on business. While we didn’t accompany her to any seminars on buying high and selling low (or is it the other way around?) we did have an indulgent afternoon in one of the greatest food markets in Europe, Mercado de San Miguel. And while our favorite Spanish restaurant, Casa Lucio, was booked for the entire day, we found another restaurant for dinner and plenty of fun things to do! More details and pictures on that trip to come…

Bonne Année

Happy New Year folks, friends and all eight of my beautiful followers! I hope the start of 2011 has you feeling rested, rejuvenated and ready to tackle your resolutions. I originally resolved not make any this year. Not because I’m perfect and feel there’s nothing I could do to change, but because I find it hard to stick to something once I’ve decided to do it. Like when you buy a gym membership then never go back. But after a little escapade that followed a somewhat “challenging” trip to Paris (yes, I used the words challenging and Paris in the same sentence) I realized there was a virtue I could resolve to focus on this year. Appreciation! Here’s what led to the epiphany…

In case you’re wondering, Bonne Année means “Happy New Year” in French. I learned that last weekend when Josh and I took an impromptu trip to Paris. We didn’t quite make it in time to ring in 2011; in fact, we almost didn’t make it at all. With two days to go before the Big Countdown, we booked tickets to Paris on the last train of 2010. A nagging part of my brain babbled about the extravagance of it all. We’d only just returned from our trip to Edinburgh. Who did we think we were, the Hiltons? I listened earnestly, and then told that little nag to sit down and shut up! Paris is Paris and if your husband calls and says, “Hey, wanna go to Paris for the weekend?” you say, “Yes, yes I do!”

Tickled with glee I did everything I could to prepare. I packed, cleaned the fridge, emptied the trash, washed and folded two loads of laundry, dusted and rotated the coach cushions. You’d think I was awaiting the arrival of the Queen. Before I left I did the usual check: wallet, keys, money, phone. I even brought the laptop fully charged and two DVDs, along with a Madeleine Wickham novel and my Iphone updated with three new CDs. All this for a two-and-a-half-hour train ride and two-night stay. I had everything I needed and more… save for one, teensy, tiny, minute belonging—my passport!

I didn’t realize I’d forgotten my little blue book until we were going through bag check 15 minutes before the train was scheduled to depart. I panicked and pleaded with security, tumbling all of my personal information onto the counter top—my license, social security card, credit cards. Not only was I willing to offer myself for a full cavity search, but I was also prepared to make a sizable donation to his personal bank account. Blah, blah, blah, French police, blah, blah, blah, out of our hands, blah, blah, blah, always bring your passport when traveling to another country. Long and short, he was not letting me on that train.

The gentleman at the ticket counter took mercy on our sad souls and my welling eyes and switched our tickets for the following morning. So we went home, popped a bottle of Veuve and watched the Thames fireworks from our flat. All in all, it wasn’t a bad New Years Eve. I actually would’ve been perfectly content had I not completely blown our chance of ringing in 2011 beside the Eiffel Tower in my new blue dress. C'est la vie.

Big Ben at Midnight (via the TV)

Fireworks from our Flat

We went to bed excited that the trip was still upon us. To be extra safe we both set our Iphones for a 5:30am wake-up call. We wouldn’t want to miss another train. Haha! Famous last words! Let’s just say I wasn’t laughing when I lazily rolled over to check the time and saw that it was 6:47am. I thought I was in the Twilight Zone. What time is it? What day is it? Don’t we have to be somewhere in 15 minutes? Didn’t we both set alarms? With realization came one of those Home Alone moments, where we jumped out of bed, raised our hands in the air and said, “We slept in”. Leave it to the Apple Iphone to be a pioneer of digital technology, but to have an annual New Year’s Day alarm clock glitch.

Surprisingly, we made it to the station in the nick of time. Sloppy hair, unshaven, unshowered, with rolling suitcases and shoes in a plastic bag, I’m sure we looked more like vagrants than world travelers. But the important thing was that we made it on the train and arrived in Paris.

Chocolates at the Christmas Market

We had a lovely afternoon moseying along the Champs-Élysées, underneath the Eiffel Tower and past the Christmas Market. It was the sweetest reward one could ask for. We stopped for lunch at a quaint bistro, sharing a croque-madame and meat-and-cheese platter while the bartender poured us a friendly house red. Our lack of plans allowed us to linger and talk, and watch the rowdy group of French-folk at the neighboring table slosh their champagne and merrily sing about something I couldn’t understand.

Eiffel Tower

Trying to get a pic in front of the Eiffel Tower

Croque-Madame 

Meat-and-Cheese Platter

French Waiter

The evening proved to be just as magical as we strolled by the Moulin Rouge and over to Montmartre. We walked as the rain sprinkled our heads and cold nipped at our feet, pointing out the adorable cafes and artfully shaped breads, wrought-iron balconies set against cream-colored buildings and sparkling views of the city. 

The Square at Montmartre

Moulin Rouge

Eventually we ended up at a little corner restaurant. Its façade, decorated with a tangle of green vines, looked like something out of a fairly tale. It was all going so well and we were finally able to put the past debacles aside with a laugh. That is until Josh’s thin esophagus decided to act up. No, that’s not a typo, Josh has a thin esophagus, which means it’s exactly as it sounds—it’s thinner than it should be. When he eats too fast or eats foods that are too rich, the aforementioned food painfully gets stuck in the esophageal pipe. It’s usually nothing more than a glitch in his system, so to speak. Like the Iphone, it quickly fixes itself and goes back to normal. But in this case, also like the Iphone, it wasn’t going away without causing a scene.

After about 20 minutes of looking into Josh’s crimson face, I came to the conclusion that we might be taking our first trip to a Parisian emergency room. Worried, I asked what I could do to help. I offered to kick him in the duodenum to force his stomach open, but aside from making him laugh it really didn’t prove to be a viable solution. Several times the wait staff popped by to make sure Josh was okay and didn’t need a Heimlich expert. I’m sure they were dying for us to leave, as we were probably scaring the customers. On the way out, I thought about telling the girl next to me to stay away from the filet. Just a little esophagus joke!

Without help from the paramedics, the food eventually unclogged and we left the restaurant. Josh hadn’t really eaten much and I didn’t have a French pastry, but before an anvil fell on our heads or a meteorite dropped from the sky, we thought it best that we go back to the hotel. Josh curled into bed and passed out. I, still raring to go, settled in with a bag of peanut M&M’s and a mini-bar bottle of red wine.

Our Hotel

As I lay in bed with my novel and my nightcap, I realized that with everything that had gone wrong, there was still nowhere in the world I’d rather be. Even though the trip wasn’t a total success—and I complained and cursed and cried at times—we managed to have our moments of fun. We’re getting out there and seeing the world, and that’s what’s important. While our experiences may not always be perfect, they’re still experiences. I feel blessed to even have this opportunity. And as I think about all that’s happened and changed since January 2010—graduating from the Natural Gourmet, changing my career, moving to London, exploring Europe—I can honestly say that life, in and of itself, is something to appreciate. So in closing I offer these resolutions: appreciate life, live each day to the fullest and don’t forget your passport!

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!

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!

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.

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 11^th 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?