Ghosts... again

  So, I've just returned from Florida's, Amelia Island. It was gorgeous, and historic, and it had great restaurants, yes-- but what I want to talk about is ghosts.

Last night I went on a ghost walk. I was the only one on the tour which was cool, because that meant that I could ask all the question I wanted. And I did ask a lot because I am a huge fan of ghosts. Maybe, 'fan' isn't the right word. I am intrigued by them, as long as they are not residing in my house, as they (she) did when we lived in England.

I won't bore you with the details of my private ghost tour, but I will tell you that it was supposed to last 1 hour 45 minutes and ended up lasting close to three hours. The woman, my 'guide' was unlike any other I have ever met (I'm like a ghost tour groupee)-- she was not the classic, 'sit yeself down while I spin ye a tale of haunts and hags' ghost story teller. She was an a-typical ghost tour guide, mostly because she was so normal. Except she wasn't

She was totally and completely in touch with ghosts and spirits. Not in a creepy way, it was all matter of fact, not at all dramatic-- but she had clearly been touched. She told stories about her own life that I totally believed. But I am known to be gullible. She related tales of spirits that roamed downtown Fernadina (the quaint old village on Amelia Island) without hesitation. But she could have just studied up on those.

No, the reason I say that she was 'touched' is because of this: My guide and I both took lots of pictures of inanimate objects, trees, houses, hotel porches, graveyards-- and all of mine came out looking as they should when taking a picture on a dark night in the rain-- smeared and black. But all of her pictures, as she was taking them on her digital camera, had orbs, orbs of varying colors, and foggy-looking shapes. She had big light spots appearing on her photos, as we looked at them in the view finder, that simply were not there-- in person or in the images that I was taking at the same time, standing right next to her.
It
was
crazy

After my marathon ghost tour, as I drove back to our hotel along the very empty streets of Amelia Island, I came up with two questions:

1) Why is it, when one sees a ghost, they have almost no expression at all. Certainly never laughing or even smiling. I've seen a ghost once and this was the case--she was most serious. Reading accounts of other people's sightings, this expression of apathy seems to be the norm. Why? Don't ghosts have a sense of humor? Is that the 21 grams that evaporates when one dies--the sense of humor?

2) Why is it, except in the movie, 'The Sixth Sense' ghost are seen only in 18th and 19th century clothes? Why don't we ever hear tales of a spirit haunting a bedroom of a B&B in platform shoes and white satin hot pants?

These two questions are what keep me from fully committing to a life of ghost hunting.

Any and all answers are most welcome.

Best Day Ever

  As much as I hate to admit it, yesterday was like most other days; take an unsatisfying shower (not long/hot/saturating enough), pull on clothes from the, not-quite-dirty pile, forget make-up and get out the door. Wearing cargo pants (on their last day in the not-quite-dirty-pile), a wrinkled, linen shirt and running shoes (Ha-Ha!!! When was the last time these show ran anywhere???), brushing my teeth and hair was the extent of my beauty regimen for the day.

I was only stopping in to the health food store to grab a few things for dinner. I placed my firm tofu, Paul Newman pretzels, organic romaine lettuce and bottle of California Chardonnay on the conveyor belt (which charmingly has not worked in six months—customers push or drag their goods down the short, black rubber strip in charade that it is conveying), and waited my turn to pay.

The tattooed and remarkably pierced young cashier scanned my few goods through, then stopped when it came to the bottle of wine.

‘Can I see your I.D.?’ She said

I chuckled a second, then looked at her and realized that she was not sharing my laugh and asked, ‘My I.D.? Really?’

‘Yes,’ she apathetically bit at her nail.

‘Do you ask everyone for their I.D.?’ I pressed her.

‘No,’ she said ripping into her cuticle.

‘Honestly, tell me the truth—are you supposed to ask everyone for I.D.?’ I cajoled.

Now, impatience setting in, she looked at me, ‘No. You looked on the border, so just to be safe, I’m asking.’

The woman behind me, who looked to be about my early forties age, tapped me on the shoulder and said with a knowing nod, ‘Congratulations.’

‘Thanks! I really can’t believe this,’ I said and turned to the cashier, ‘I mean, I am old enough to be your mother!’ I was so proud.

I hunted through my dishevelled wallet, unable to locate my driver’s license.

‘I can’t find my driver’s license, but it doesn’t matter, don’t sell me the wine—you have made my… decade.’

The young woman took pity on my misplaced glee and said, ‘No, it’s okay, you have an honest face.’

I walked out of the health food store and thought, this is the best day ever.

Breakfast

I've declared my adoration for Marmite before, it is the best yeast-by-product-sedimentary-sludge-spread on earth. It tastes even better when one has been without it for a few months. This morning I opened my big food box from England and pulled out my beloved Marmite. 

Squeezed, ever so daintily over a slice of whole wheat toast, blanketed in sharp cheddar cheese and broiled until bubbly, it made my heart leap! And my breath stink...

Exceptionally Average

In high school I was average at just about everything. Most people knew me; some liked me, some found me annoying. I did okay academically (my guidance counselor used the word, 'underacheiver' a lot). I could throw a ball alright, but was afraid to catch it.

Generally, I was comfortable in my own skin, until walking in to a room where the cool kids were; 5th period study hall, or a party at the football player's house. I guess that's pretty standard stuff for a teenager; for confidence to wax and wane.

A few days ago I landed a job interview to write about food for a good size magazine. I was full of confidence. I was in an improv troupe in college, which is really all that job interviews are-- improvization, right? 

Not so fast. Even as an adult, confidence is a tricky mistress. 

It started last night, when I realized (as the babysitter stood in front of me, hand extended) that I had lost my wallet. And inside my wallet was not only the usual suspects like credit and debit cards, cash, drivers' license, but also my check book and, especially worrying, a small folded piece of paper with all of my family's social security numbers written on it, name by name with the words, "Social Security Numbers" written in bold at the top.

Keeping this paper in my wallet, was not so average. I would classify it more as an exceptional move.

Needless to say, this morning, after spending the night fretting over the identity theft of my family, I dropped the kids at my neighbor, Kracker's house (that is a story unto itself) and rushed to get to the interview in the city (a city in which I had only even been once before). I was a bit of a basket case. I had chosen to wear the most fashionable shirt I owned; I floaty, black, swishy thing that was sort of see-through, so I wore a black camisole beneath (my black bra was in the wash, so I went comando, which in my case, is perfectly doable) and a pair of baggy cargo pants. It was an acceptable outfit. I looked, average-- Not a head-turner, but not offensive, either, which is where the bar has been set for some years now.

I inevitably got lost making my way into the bowels of the city, stopped and asked for directions at a derelict gas station and arrived at the interview, sweaty and more flustered than I had been in years. So much for the confidence.

We were meeting at a Starbucks, and here's my confessional: I have never been into one. Except for that one particularly cold, damp winter in England, I don't drink coffee, so I've really had no need to enter a coffee house.

In the parking lot I noticed many, very fit, very stylish mommies entering the building. I thought about my baggy pants and sagging body and felt a bit sheepish. But this emotion passed as soon as I entered, and was replaced instantly with self-loathing. Everyone, I mean everyone in that Starbucks was gorgeous. Even the counter girls. Gleaming teeth, shiny hair, sun-tanned faces-- and everyone was thin. And (AND!) everyone was either on a Blackberry, an IPhone or using a laptop. It was like walking into the imaginary office of Playboy Magazine-- Everyone happily multi-tasking and gorgeous in Lycra. I stood there breathless and sticky, holding my empty purse, a notebook (as in paper, not computer) and a map.

I felt as if it was 1985 and I had just absentmindedly sat down at the cheerleader's lunch table, and by the time I realized, and noticed them all staring at me, it was too late to leave. And a few people were staring at me; some with bemused expressions and some in an uncomfortable way. 

My nose whistled loudly as I exhaled. I was waiting in line to order an ice tea. Finally, it was my turn and a very polite, absurdly beautiful, blonde girl took my order. After I paid her, she said, 'Ummm...', cleared her throat, then looked at my chest and quickly away. I looked down and realized that my left boob had popped out of my camisole and was staring right back at all the attractive people in Starbucks. 'Oh shit!' I whispered as I readjusted. Without eye-contact, I thanked Miss America and took my ice tea to find a table and wait for the interview that I was now preparing myself to epically blow. At least I'd have a good story to tell friends.

But life doesn't always work out the way you imagine it will. In the end, I got the job. I tightened my camisole straps, pulled my confidence back out of the abyss and somehow managed to make a good enough impression on the editor that she gave me my first assignment on the spot (and that was after admitting my wardrobe malfunction to her... to be honest, I think the idea that I had never before been in a Starbucks made more of an impression.)

In so many ways, I am average. But in other, sometimes disturbing ways, I am exceptional. And that seems about right.

This morning I woke up early and wandered downstairs to find you in the kitchen as usual. I took you in my hands, ‘Hey you…’ I trailed off gazing with big, love crumb eyes.

 I feel like a teenager with a heart-wrenching case of puppy love. My feelings for you are strong because you are so new to me. My head acknowledges, rationally that I am just experiencing the ‘honeymoon’ phase of our relationship, but my heart, oh my heart spins in circles wanting simply to consume you! I can’t seem to get enough. 

I’ve found the swarthy love I have been searching for ALL MY LIFE. In a grocery store, of all places. Sure, my husband doesn’t like the idea. He says it stinks. My kids, too for that matter. But their reaction is to be expected I guess. They just don’t understand. They have no grasp of depth of my feelings.

Yesterday after breakfast with my amour, I went to kiss my huband goodbye as he dashed out the door to work, only for him to quickly move his face to the side so that my kiss hit his cheek rather than his lips, ‘Eck—you smell of Marmite’ he said with an uncomfortable wince.

 Marmite! Who knew I would come to love a wasted yeast by-product so unconditionally?

 My husband may not have eyes or the palate for Marmite, but he does have more in common with it than he realizes. This fudge-colored smudge of a spread tastes exactly like my husband smelled throughout his college years—the bottom of a warm, drained beer keg the morning after a clamorous fraternity party. Let me emphasize that this is a quality much more becoming of a condiment than a hung-over, unkempt twenty-two year-old in his second senior year at university.

 But Marmite is supposed to taste like fermented, old beer because that’s pretty much what it is. Marmite is made when the good lads at the Marmite factory in Burton-on-Trent in England, trot over to their neighbors, Bass Ale and collect the wasted yeast from the brewery. This is the basis of an unusually nutritious (high in B vitamins and riboflavin), salty and sticky food product. (I say ‘product’ because I’m not sure how I feel about actually referring to Marmite purely as a food)

 I had heard about Marmite and its rather uneven reputation before moving to England. Every British person I’ve known has stood staunchly in one of two camps. Like all things worth having an opinion about, (politics, religion, Pee Wee Herman) when it comes to Marmite, Brits do seem to fall into only two categories—love or hate. I think most people hate it, but those of us who love that sludge of spread, love it deeply and madly. A smear over toast in the morning with the paper-thin piece of mature Welsh cheddar makes my heart sing (and my breath stink—seriously, like feet). Chased by a strong cup of coffee and I am flying solo for the rest of the day. Independence is good.

Maybe my initial attraction to you Marmite was precisely because you are the underdog, because most people not only don’t like you, but actively avoid you. Maybe the first time I brought you home with me, a little bit had to do with wanting to seem like I didn’t care what your reputation was—you were the bad one and I was determined to like you. But now it’s become so much more than that. I don’t like you Marmite, I love you. And I am in this for the long haul. I want to see you every morning at breakfast for the rest of my life. The end. To hell with the naysayers! I’ll stand on my dining room chair loud and proud and shout, ‘I love a yeast by-product scraped from the bottom of a brewer’s ale kettle!’ 

The Ant Diet

  

My husband and I share our home with one teenager, one tweenager, two five year olds and roughly one thousand ants, give or take. It’s autumn and, I have been told, this is the time of year for lots and lots of ants. The running joke in our (new) neighborhood is that this subdivision was built on an anthill. Everyone here battles the formidable Formicidae.

These ants are tolerable; small, and easily smudged beneath an index finger. And they can be kept at bay for a day or two with ant traps and poisonous powders. Being around them so much though, I am starting to pay more attention to them—you know, their behavior, what seems to motivate them.

I’ve decided that ants really are pretty smart, colonizing critters. I knew that they were strong and extremely fast for their body size, but it’s their food choices I have come to admire most.

Ants seem to be on an all-carb diet. Breadcrumbs on the floor? Ants. Finished off bottle of wine in the recycling bin? (Drunk) ants. Smear of ice cream on the kitchen counter? Super happy ants. Apple pie? Don’t even get me started on the six-legged, frenetic mayhem.

I tried the Atkins Diet once and hated every second of that carb-free month. I’m trying the Ant Diet now.

I’ll start off the morning light with a packet of Saltine crackers (a little aged Gruyere cheese on top couldn’t hurt), followed by several slices of (well-buttered) whole wheat toast with peach jam. Mid morning snack will be pretzels (made tolerable by Ranch dip) and a cupcake (with sprinkles). Lunch will be pasta (specifically mac and cheese), and a bowl of cookie dough ice cream for dessert.

Please note, my dedication.

A simple afternoon snack of a rustic bread sandwich (with salami, butter and mayonnaise wedged in-between the bread slabs) will be followed by a super-charged carb dinner of two, large baked potatoes (with cheddar cheese, sour cream and bacon crammed in the top), brown rice (smothered in beef Stroganoff) and a Bavarian Cream Puff for dessert. Of course, to really follow the Ant Diet, I should drink wine (of any color) with all meals (and snacks).

If, after three or four months on the Ant Diet, I am not speedier and stronger than I have ever been I will be shocked. But I realize that to truly succeed on a diet requires a life-style change; they don’t necessarily work over night. I am willing to stick with this diet for years, if I need to.

Broodje Haring (you heard me)

I'm standing in the middle of Albert Cuyp Market, in Amsterdam checking out a pair of size 39 orange clogs, you know for kicking around in, when my husband, Jeff says he wants to take me to lunch. I narrow my eyes, put down the clogs and look at him—trying to gauge where this is going. I am leery because of this: My husband is the cheapest man on earth. End of story. He feels visceral and real pain if he has to spend even the smallest amount of money for anything (importance is irrelevant.)

We were in Amsterdam for a weekend away and I was holding out hope that in those three, kid-free days we might actually eat somewhere nice-ish; a place that had stools, a bench, possibly even chairs. A dining experience that did not begin with, ‘Can I take your order?’, or involve vending machines.

We walked for a while toward the mystery lunch destination, taking in the beautiful architecture, admiring the canals and the quite streets, when we were bamboozled by a plump, naked lady dancing in her window. This didn’t make any sense; we were blocks from the Red Light district. Okay, she had an illuminated red light on outside her window, but it seriously looked like she was in her living room—it was so out of context. I imagined, five minutes before she was watching the Dutch equivalent of All My Children, eating some Gouda and crackers, maybe drinking a glass of milk and decided that she’s rather open the curtains, strip down to her thong and dance around the poll she had installed in her family room.

Equally upsetting though was the special lunch ‘treat’ Jeff told me I was in for; broodje haring: raw herring and raw onion sandwich. ‘It is what you eat when in Amsterdam,’ he chortled.

I don’t know which one made me more uncomfortable, the porky housewife practically vacuuming while naked, or the Dutch fishwich my husband was blathering on about. Oddly, he was at ease with both ideas. Maybe it’s because he travels to Amsterdam often for work and is desensitized to naked women dancing in front of their living room windows, and eating penguin food for lunch, or maybe it’s because he’s simply a human-garbage-disposal-woman-admiring-man. I discovered later at lunch, that he was so comfortable with both concepts, he ate a broodje haring while watching the naked lady swirl around a poll—to him this was multi-tasking.

Back to the sandwich. The idea of it honestly scared me. After my run-in with rollmops a few months ago, the gastronomic potential of a couple fillets of raw herring (bones included) and copious amounts of raw onion piled into a white bun was lost on me. I mean, sashimi is a thing of beauty; the attention to design, the way the unadulterated fish is arranged on the plate. Herring, on the other hand, raw or cooked, looks like the fish-model that animators use when drawing a cartoon about a mangy alley cat searching through trash cans for dinner.

Like the pop-up naked dancing lady, there was no escaping the threat of a lunch filled with broodje haring—Amsterdam is home to dozens of Vishandles, market stalls selling broodje haring (among other seafood). They are popular as an inexpensive place to get a snack. And the idea of super-fresh seafood, so affordable and quick is what I am all about—but I was sincerely still shell-shocked from my experience with the pickled herring I had gagged on in England and was reluctant to try the oniony Dutch version.

We stood at the Vishandle. I shifted my weight anxiously from side to side as I felt the first few raindrops. There were plenty of other sandwiches I could order, but I knew that I should try the broodje haring. Jeff nudged me, ‘Don’t be such a baby. Get the herring,’ he whispered. He held up his thumb and index finger and said, ‘Twee broodjes haring, met uien, alstublief’ (two herring sandwiches, with onions, please—but he was just showing off, every Dutch person I’ve ever met speaks better English than all the Americans I know). The lady handed us two soft white buns brimming with chopped onions, and raw herring. I must have looked like every other American tourist about to eat their first broodje haring, because the lady said, ‘Don’t worry madam, you can eat the bones.’

            We thanked the lady and walked on toward Anne Frank’s house. I figured the best way to eat this sandwich was to dive in at the deep end—no smelling, no more looking it over, just take a huge bite and chew fast.

            I opened my mouth wide, like an Anaconda about to slither down a baby wildebeest and bit into the fluffy bun. Within a second or two of chewing quickly, I began to slow down, to savour this sandwich. My taste bubs registered that this was a good sandwich. A really good sandwich. I took another bite, breaking easily through the fresh raw fish and bones, inhaling the sharpness of the onions. So surprised and happy that I had gone with the broodje haring that I didn’t even notice we had come to a stop and were standing in front of another poll-dancing, huisvrouw’s window.

            We walked around the city for the rest of the day. As we burped our way around Amsterdam, I figured out  my husband’s thrifty plan: Broodje haring was an economical lunch that we repeatedly enjoyed experienced all afternoon.

Forking Foreigner: Blood Sausage

Blood sausage—there, I said it. That is as gruesome as this post will get.

 But I wanted to put it out there, blood sausage. It’s not something I grew up thinking about, certainly not eating. In my small town in the middle of Ohio, Wonderbread and tuna salad ruled, not this deeply cultural food found in equally uneventful, small European villages.

Boudin Noir in France, blutwurst in Germany, Switzerland and Austria, black pudding in the UK, and in Spain it is named morcilla. Regardless of the country, they are all made from the similar ingredients: pork, herbs, spices and one key ingredient—pig’s blood. Yes, they may dress the name up, make it a bit more palatable, but take just one look at the deep purple sausage and there is no mistaking what, indeed it is.

We moved to Europe seven years ago and up until that point I had managed to avoid blood sausage for the most part. There were references to it in charcuterie class in culinary school of course, but that amounted to no more than the answer to a multiple choice question on a final exam. 

When we moved to Switzerland in 2003, blutwurst was displayed in every butcher’s shop window. It lay snugly shrink-wrapped in the supermarket meat case. It hung from the ceiling of specialty sausage-making shops. I became used to its presence, but resisted actually trying it.

Have you seen how it is made? I don’t want to talk about it. I said that mentioning the term ‘blood sausage’ was as gruesome as I would get, and I’m sticking to it.

Then a couple of years ago we moved to the UK and found black pudding; it sounds so benign, like something your granny would place down in front of you on a lace doily, in a pretty, glass cup for dessert. It’s not. It’s sausage made from the blood of pigs.

And maybe that is my hang-up—the fact that it is made mostly from blood. I mean, I am a card-carrying carnivore, I happen to love leberwurst (pig’s liver made into a paste). And, the last time we were in Scotland, my husband and I ordered Haggis (sheep’s heart, liver and lungs—for God’s sake—that are minced, mixed with herbs and oats then stuffed into its own stomach and boiled for three hours—sorry, I said things wouldn’t get more gruesome, but I think I just turned that corner) anyway, we ordered haggis and loved it. Maybe it was because we had just come from a whiskey tasting on empty stomachs, but it seemed pretty good at the time.

Strolling the sausage section of my local grocery store (and most grocery stores in the UK do have a section devoted entirely to sausages) I began to think, what up Holly Hypocrite? You’ll eat a sheep’s innards, and a pig’s liver, but not its blood? And you call yourself a foodie?

So I bought what is supposed to be the best brand of black pudding, brought it home and cooked it up for breakfast that Sunday morning. We had an official ‘Full English’ that British weekend brunch consisting of black pudding, bangers (sausages), fried eggs, grilled tomatoes, grilled mushrooms and fried bread (…and Alka-Seltzer).

In my life as an eater, there have been just a handful of foods that I simply could not swallow. My motto is, try everything, swallow most, spit-out few. Black pudding joined the ranks of the select few. And it’s not that it tasted bad—it didn’t, it tasted mostly of the herbs that seasoned it, but even the thought of it now… it makes me shudder. I couldn’t do it, that morning at breakfast I couldn’t swallow the black pudding. My husband, on the other hand, cleaned his plate then finished my black pudding, as well. He’s even requested it several times since then (but bare in mind that this is a guy who travels often to Asia, digging into plates of unrecognizable things that are still moving when he puts them in his mouth, so his opinion doesn’t really count.)

A friend of ours named John, (who sounds exactly like Sean Connery), loves black pudding; he grew up eating it and adores it. Savours it. I asked him to come over, eat a plate of black pudding and explain to me why he loves it so.

He got as far as holding a forkful of warm black pudding to his nose and smelling its essence. Eyes closed and inhaling deeply, he let out a satisfied sigh then said, “It smells of old socks.” And he meant it.

I told him to enjoy (!), turned around and did the dishes.

So the mystery continues. Thousands of years ago, when animals were slaughtered for food, blood sausage was also made, and enjoyed, not just by one exceptional culture, but in most regions in Europe. It is no less loved now that it was hundreds of years ago, when eating meat was a great luxury. And it transcends socio-economic divisions. Rich or poor, it doesn’t matter; eating blood sausage is a cultural thing. For many devoted Europeans, enjoying it is simply in their blood.

Forking Foreigner: Percebes

Look at these monsters. Take a good, long look. They are called percebes, gooseneck barnacles or stalked barnacles. People all over Europe have the nerve to swear on their grandmother’s sight that these frightening, gnarled-claw crustaceans are not only edible, but delicious, too. Never mind the fact that percebes fetch more money than lobster per pound; you’d think that after looking at these beasts, nobody in their right minds would consider chewing on one. You would expect a foreigner who happens upon these reptilian toes in a foreign country to turn on her heel and head in the opposite direction in haste.

And that is exactly what most rational people do—they walk away. I, on the other hand bought a pound of them for my children to eat. We were in Paris at the time. Had we been in America I could have been arrested for child-abuse.

I bought them from a reputable-looking fishmonger just a few blocks over from the Louvre. I speak enough French to ask ‘Ou est le Poste?’ (where is the post office) and ‘Mes souliers sont orange, et ses chaussures sont bleu’ (my shoes are orange and her shoes are blue’) but I was struggling to negotiate a mid-afternoon seafood snack with this guy. The kids were clambering for food at a fevered pitch. Anxiously I stammered out, ‘Feed-moi, vite!’ feed me quick! But, looking back, maybe I said, ‘Feed me feet!’ because that is pretty much what it looked like he handed over to us; a bag of mutated feet.

Those two years I spent repeating remedial French in high school were not paying off the way I had hoped.

 The fishmonger watched me (as I butchered his language) with a look on his face residing somewhere between boredom and irritation (I can’t say I blame him). Looking at me through his round, wire glasses, he chuckled a little bit and discharged a huge scoop of the aforementioned creatures into a clear, plastic bag.

My husband was standing to the side of me. I looked at him, his eyes widening, silently pleading with me No, not those—not THOSE! His face made an impassioned, silent scream, as he furrowed his eyebrows and stared directly at the harmless, cooked prawns. He mouthed the word ‘crevette’, but I ignored him. It was too late anyway, we had barely the vocabulary to piece together the request of food, there was no way we could backtrack now summoning enough French to say ‘We’ve changed out minds and actually don’t want the tiny crocodile claws, thank you’-- without looking like twits.

Before handing me the bag of primordial toes, the fishmonger was kind enough to wordlessly demonstrate how to eat the barnacles. Grabbing the nail end, he pinched the bit of meat at the other end, twisted and pulled a sort of slug-like looking thing out and popped it into his mouth. Chewing with his eyes closed, he smiled. ‘It tastes of… the sea. Enjoy!’ he said in perfect English (forking Frenchman).

Don’t judge a book by its cover (or a crustacean by it’s clawed foot)

I grew up eating steamers (soft shell clams). I’ve been told that some people find them off-putting. If by ‘off-putting’ they mean that they feel uncomfortable with the manner in which one must slide the coarse, condom-like membrane off the freakishly phallic clam neck before tossing into one’s mouth, then I can see their point, but I’ve always adored them. The clam is sweet, with textures varying between a velvety soft belly and a firm, chewy neck. It was as a teen, eating steamers and raw oysters in the Cape that I developed this theory: If a food is horribly ugly or smelly (this applies mostly to cheese), but still remains popular with locals then it must taste good. I mean it’s got to have something going for it, right?

I trotted my children out to an empty bench in Jardins des Tuileries, carrying my bag of percebes like a prize. My husband grimaced and shook his head in defeat. We sat down and my three year old contemplated the percebes for a moment then asked as a matter of fact, “Are these turtle legs?” I told her no, handed her one and she gobbled it down. After the first hesitant taste, so did the rest of us.

We all hunkered over the plastic bag in the springtime sun, sucking and slurping, twisting these critters that spent their lives clinging to the side of Spanish sea cliffs, free from their claw-like home and savouring their meat, sweet like scallops and at the same time salty like the sea, and reminiscent of oyster.  

They were sublime.

As seawater streamed down our hands and forearms, my little girls tried in vain to lick their elbows; an attempt to catch the last bit of briny flavour.

It was the best meal we had in Paris.

Forking Foreigner: Rollmops

Introducing a new element to Finding Tasty-- the Forking Foreigner. In this weekly column I will discuss, quite emotionally at times, new foods I find, as a foreigner traveling around England, Europe, even back in the States. If it's is new (to me) and unusual (to most), I will eat it and discuss. Sometimes I like the weird foods I eat, sometimes I do not. But I will always give an honest, if not dramatic, recount of the experience.

Rollmops

What the fork, England? You had me going for a while I’ll give you that. What with your characteristically quaint fish and chips (fried up the old school way—in beef drippings—like fast food places in the States used to, until they caved to the food-do-gooders), and historic steak and ale pie, just like King Henry VIII used to eat (pie crust so fantastically flaky because, again, it’s made with suet, psst—that’s beef fat), and your cheddarific Welsh Rarebit (okay, granted this one is from your neighbour Wales, but that’s a detail I can overlook), and surprisingly delicious crackling (pig skin fried until light, salty, crispy and eyes-rolled-in-the-back-of-my-head scrumptious).  I was living the gastronomic dream in Ye Olde food porn.

Then, last week you bamboozled me with rollmops—rollmops! Originally from Scandinavia (need I say more?) it’s herring, skin left on, then soaked in a sweet and sour brine for a couple of weeks until horrible.

Are you having a laugh? I trusted you, England. I thought that you would supply me with only familiar, comforting, fattening foods; foods that, although ultimately leading to my obese demise, would successfully see me through the worst bouts of PMS, or lonely binge eating. I mean, you invented roast beef with Yorkshire pudding and beef gravy (a meal that, in case you didn’t get enough beefiness with your roast beef and beef gravy, made sure that you got more beefy-goodness in the beef drippings used to make the Yorkshire puddings)— for crying out loud!

I was so naïve. Browsing the breakfast buffet line at that posh restaurant Saturday morning, I never thought in a million years there would be anything as unpleasant as a sweet-pickled and preserved herring lurking amongst more refined Kippers and Abroath Smokies. No label, no nothin’; just ostensibly reliable white fish fillets, rolled and glistening on the silver platter beckoning me to add them to my already heaping over-priced breakfast plate.

I didn’t even have to put on my ‘I’ll try anything once’ hat—to my unsuspecting eyes this was as conventional a breakfast as one could hope for.

I was like a lamb being led to slaughter.

I slid the rollmop (don’t even get me started on the name) onto my plate beside two always-dependable bangers and made my way to table. Saddling down beside my daughters, contentedly dipping their toast soldiers into their soft-boiled eggs—loving their breakfasts— I had a bite of sausage (squish-Yum!), a corner of buttered toast (crunch-Mmmm), then cut off a piece of rollmop and brought it confidently into my mouth. Instantly, I was assaulted by the acrid taste of vinegar, followed by the one-two punch of saliva-inducing sweetness, and finished with the taste of fermented fish.

I literally gagged. I have never, ever, in my life gagged from food. Instinctually, without thinking (I was in fight or flight mode now) I spit the rollmop into my white, linen napkin and gasped for air. My little daughters just stared at me, wide eyed and shocked. ‘Oh my God,’ I uttered, breathlessly as I flailed for my water glass, ‘I can’t get the flavour of low-tide out of my mouth.’

A few days later I went to lunch with my tall, British friend, Jonathan. I related my story to Jonathan assuming he would lend me some much deserved sympathy, but no. “You’re mad!” he screeched like a woman. “Rollmops are brilliant! Best eaten with a proper pint. Biting through that fleshly, little lump of fish is like a juicy, taste explosion!” I shook my head in disbelief (I had always thought Jonathan to be a rational man). He continued, “If you don’t see the virtues of rollmops, you need to have your head examined, mate.’

That was the last time I spoke to Jonathan. He is dead to me now. Not because he insinuated that I was insane, but because he loves rollmops.

So, way to go England! Pip, pip cheerio! After being assaulted by you’re plebe the rollmop, it will take some time to win me back. As long as Spotted Dick is a genuine dessert option in this kooky country, I’m not sure if I will ever be able to bring myself to trust again.


Got an unusual food in mind that Forking Foreigner should try? Would love to know about it! Leave me a comment!

Forking Foreigner: 6 British Foods I Will Never Eat Again

A million years ago when it took days (if not weeks) to chase an animal down in your barefeet, kill it with your handmade bow and arrow, eviscerate and butcher it with the shard of shale that one of your six wives whittled, and then figure out a way to preserve the meat without the use of refrigeration or salt, it made sense to eat really gross foods—that is sort of all you had and you were lucky to get it.

But a while after World War II ended, after England got back on its battered feet and charged, stiff upper lip into the modern world (full of indoor pull-chain loos and cramped under-counter refrigerators), one would presume that eating the remnants of slaughtered animals, the stuff that should only be used in tinned dog food would have ended with a collective sigh of relief.

It’d be a safe assumption, right? Wrong. Call it a cultural thing, but the Brits still eat some questionable grub.

In the first eighteen months of living in their country, being a food writer, I thought it best to try some of the foods that foreigners make fun of. Here’s a list of those foods I tried that I will never put into my mouth again.

1) Rollmops Not originally British, but the fact that they have embraced them so, makes it all the worse. Herring, skin intact, soaked in a sweet and sour brine until awful, then wrapped around an olive or onion. Served cold or room temperature.  Tastes like low tide.

2) Tripe The lining of a cow, sheep, pig or deer’s stomach. Have you seen­ this stuff? Culinary tip number 342: Stop reading any recipe that begins with, ‘boil for 2-3 hours to tenderize and clean’.

3) Black Pudding Sounds like something Mrs. Doubtfire might set down in front of you after a nice English supper. It’s not. It is sausage made from the blood of pigs. The flavour isn’t all that bad, it’s just the idea that you are eating blood (and the iron taste that clings to the back of your teeth 30 minutes after finishing).

4) Jellied Eels At least no one is trying to sweeten up the name—this is what it purports to be. Fresh water eels cut into rounds (never mind about the skin and bones), then cooked in a fish stock and allowed to cool in the gelatin that results naturally from their bony serpentine bodies. It’s like eating a snotty snake.

5) Cockles in Vinegar Cockles are small clams that are cooked and chucked into a vat of vinegar. Cockles = Good. Cockles + Vinegar = Gag.

6) Brawn Also known as ‘head cheese’. This is a case of dressing up the name so that young children will eat the head on their plate. Made from a calf, cow, pig or sheep’s head, the brain is removed (these people aren’t Barbarians, after all) and it is boiled. As it cooks, the skull releases copious amounts of gelatin. The head is picked of its meat sometimes chunks of heart may be added, then the meat and skull gelatin are mixed together and set. Eaten by the slice usually as luncheon meat. Just the idea of this is a show-stopper. 

Duck Race...?

I've been intrigued by these signs ever since seeing them tacked up around our village a few weeks ago.
Questions ran through my mind like: How do ducks race, exactly? Do they run? Waddle? Swim? Will they sport spritely coloured racing numbers? Maybe racing silks of some sort? Is gambling involved?

I also wondered about the bottom bit of the sign that reads, 'Fun from 10:30, race at noon'. What sort of fun does one have pre-race with a participating duck? I mean, shouldn't the ducks be mentally preparing themselves for the event?

After thirty minutes or so of chasing these ideas around my head, I got a headache and my thoughts meandered toward duck recipes, and my favourite, Duck Provencal with Olives.

I'll post the recipe sometime after tomorrow; I am waiting to see if there will be a sale on duck in the village after the race.

Hearing Problems

I have been having some hearing issues recently. It’s not that I can’t hear (although my husband claims that I often choose not to), it’s that I seem to be hyper sensitive to shrill sounds.

Take the constant whining of my two littlest girls, for example—sets my teeth on edge. Or my twelve year old’s high decibel music blasting from her bedroom—I walk past her door with my index fingers stuffed into my ears like a child not wanting to hear her punishment. Or my husband’s happy whistling—‘Must you??’ I implore.

Sometimes I feel like a dog, acutely aware of high-pitched noises that other, human creatures are not sensitive to. I want to solemnly lay my chin on the kitchen floor and thump my paws over my ears.

I made an appointment with an ear, nose throat specialist to see if my payment for attending a couple hundred concerts in my early twenties was finally coming due, in the form of nerve damage.

The doctor was very nice; looked in my ears, set a tuning fork to various parts around my head, and asked me some questions.

‘What types of sounds hurt your ears?’ he was smiling kindly at me.

‘Nothing hurts my ears. It’s just that high-pitched noises annoy me,’ I answered with a nervous laugh.

‘What type of noises, for example?’ he asked again.

‘Uhhhhh… well, the sound of my twin five year old girls whining in tandem…My twelve year old’s hideous music, for sure…and my ten year old’s voice, especially when she is asking me to do something or get something for her, but come to think of it, no it’s just her voice in general.’ I said.

‘Ah. Okay,’ he was looking at me more seriously now. I shifted my weight from one side of the chair to the other.

‘You have Hyperacusis.’

‘Oh…’ I answered, not sure what to make of the medical term.

‘I see this a lot in women about your age with young children.’

‘Go on,’ I said steadily.

‘It is a real condition,’—that statement right there told me that it was not— ‘It is best treated with behavioral therapy…’

‘Behavioral therapy… for my children? For my children.’ I asked, then stated—in all seriousness I though it was where he was going with this—‘Because I would totally support that.’ I nodded in agreement.

‘No, the therapy would be for you. For you to be able to tolerate the… sounds that seem to annoy you.’

‘Oh!’ I exclaimed too loudly. I quieted, ‘Oh, this would be a sort of ‘bitchy Mommy therapy’,’ I whispered. His nurse, who was in the examination room, and obviously had children, allowed herself to chuckle. The doctor, while still looking kindly at me, was more serious, now ‘No, this is a real treatment for a real condition,’ He reiterated.

‘I want you to be tested by an audiologist just in case, but I can’t see anything wrong with your ears—they look spotless. After that we can begin behavioral therapy and things may start to improve at home.’ He smiled.

Although I didn’t express it to the doctor, my first thought about behavioral therapy was this: Like almost every mother I know, I find myself on edge in most domestic situations because I haven’t enough time—rushing out the door in the morning, the kids in mismatched socks or unbrushed hair. Late to pick up the little girls from ballet class because I hit village traffic while picking up my eldest from German class. Looking for a birthday card for my husband in the gas station on the way home from picking up the little girls late from ballet class, because I was too busy this week and simply forgot it was his birthday. That sort of thing.

The last thing I have time for is a bitch therapy session, (‘Hi. My name is Jenny and I am a crabby, bitchy mother of four…’ ‘Hello Jenny’).

So, rather than getting a babysitter once a week so that I can take behavioral therapy sessions to improve my hearing, I have decided to get a babysitter once a week so that my husband and I can get out and enjoy a quiet conversation in a noisy (but not in an annoying way) pub. 

The One Universal Truth of Utility Companies

In the space of fifteen years, my husband and I have moved twelve times within three countries and two continents. What I have learned from living in so many different cultures is this one, 

universal truth: Utility companies, the world over are assholes.

This shouldn’t come as a surprise, I guess. Utility companies are like the popular kids in high school; The prettiest cheerleader and the all-star quarterback. They don’t have to work to be nice to anyone simply by virtue of the fact that they have something we all want. In the case of the vapid cheerleader and the dim football player, it is their natural beauty and physical ability that gives them a free ride through their school years. In the case of the utility companies, well, they simply have something (water, heat, electricity or phone service) that we cannot live without. 

This knowledge, this power gives the utility companies free reign to treat the rest of us as if we were all members of the glee club. One call to the utilities and you get the sense that you are being made a complete fool of. The customer service rep speaks from a script saying that they are so sorry for our inconvenience, then covers the mouthpiece on her phone trying half-heartedly to hold in a snort of laughter. Maybe she even puts us on speaker phone to let all her colleague-buddies get a good laugh, too. Calls for help to utility companies are the equivilant to being tripped while carrying a loaded lunch tray in the cafeteria.

For the first 14 months (MONTHS) that we lived in this mildly remote farm house, the quality of our phone lines were so bad that we gave up making phone calls—even home to our families in the States.

This is what my phone call home to my mother on Mother’s Day last year sounded like:

Ring-Ring

‘Hello?’

Crackle-crackle

‘Hi Mom, happy Mother’s Day!’

Crackle-Crackle

‘Hello?’

Crackle-CRACKLE

‘Mom? Can you hear me? Happy Mother’s Day!!’

CRACKLE-CRACKLE

‘Is anyone there?’

CRACKLECRACKLECRACKLE

‘I WILL CALL YOU FROM THE NEIGHBOR’S HOUSE, MOM—HAPPY MOTHER’S DAY!!’

…Click

Worse than not having phone service was that, because our internet comes through the same line, we had just intermittent use of that, too—at best.

Over the fourteen months, I calculated that I spent, and I am not exaggerating here, at least 40 hours on the phone with the phone company trying to get them to fix our phone lines.

My conversations with British Telecom would go like this:

Ring-Ring

‘Thank you for choosing BT, how can I help?’

Crackle-crackle

‘Hi there—my phone lines are very bad, I need an engineer to come—‘

Crackle-Crackle

‘Hello? Thanks for calling BT, is anyone there?’

CRACKLE-Crackle

‘Yes, I am here!! Can you hear me?’

CRACKLE-CRACKLE

‘Ah, yes. How can I help?’

CRACKLE-CRACKLE

‘As you can hear, my phone lines need to be serviced—there is something wrong with th—‘

CRACKLECRACKLECRACKLE

‘Hello?’

CRACKLECRACKLECRACKLE

‘MY.PHONE.LINES.NEED.TO.BE.SERVICED!!!’

CRACKLECRACKLECRACKLE

‘Alright, thanks. If you could hang up I will run a line check to see what the problem is and call you right back.’

CRACKLECRACKLECRACKLE

‘Oh—Great, thanks, bye.’

CRACKLECRACKLECRACKLE

‘Hello? I said that I must run a line check—are you still there?’

CRACKLECRACKLECRACKLE

‘YES! I. WILL. HANG. UP.NOW!!’

click

2 minutes later…

Ring Ring

CRACKLECRACKLECRACKLE

‘Hello?’

CRACKLECRACKLECRACKLE

‘Hello?  This is Sara from British Telecom. Is anyone there?’

CRACKLECRACKLECRACKLE

‘HELLO! I.AM.HERE!’

CRACKLECRACKLECRACKLE

‘Hello, I’ve done a line check and there doesn’t seem to be a problem.’

CRACKLECRACKLECRACKLE

‘I’m sorry, I couldn’t hear you—what?’

CRACKLECRACKLECRACKLE

‘I’ve said that I’ve done a line check and there doesn’t seem to be a fault.’

CRACKLECRACKLECRACKLE

‘BUT.CAN’T.YOU.HEAR.THAT.CRACKLING?”

CRCKLECRACKLECRACKLE

‘Yes, I hear that, but our system does not show a fault.’

And that’s literally how it went for more than a year. On several occasions, my phone calls with BT brought me to tears.

After fourteen months of infuriating calls and eight different engineers coming out to the house, the phone lines were finally replaced and the phone and internet worked perfectly…for one week.

Then a farmer took down three telephone polls with his tractor and we were out of service for another two weeks, while those were being repaired.

For the past three months, though we have had flawless service. I’ve appreciated every crystal clear moment, and am in the process of repairing my relationship with my mother (after she thought I forgot not only Mother’s Day but her birthday as well).

Then last night our neighbor came over to ask if she could use our computer because her phone line and internet were no longer working. She told me that all should be sorted tomorrow, though—BT had simply given her a new phone number.

‘I’ll give it to you so that you can get a hold of me whenever…’  she trailed off.

‘Great—glad this was fixed so quickly,’ I replied, secretly feeling a bit jealous.

‘It’s 0121 656 120,’ she said

‘No, silly kitten—that’s my number. What is YOUR number?’ I chided her.

She checked her BT document containing her new phone number, ‘Yea—that’s the number they just gave me—that’s my new number.’

So, as it stands now, my neighbor and I are sharing a line.

I would call the phone company to try and straighten things out, but I don’t have the stomach for it-- they've worn me down. I'll just put up with sharing a line until we move...then I'll be in a new country with new utility companies to contend with.

Coldest Day in England

‘It has been very cold here... by British standards,’ I said to my husband smugly. But, we have been in parts of the world that have been much colder, I thought to myself.

New Hampshire, for one; our first tiny apartment together in that rickety, two-hundred and fifty year old house. The winter of ‘93/’94 was horribly frigid. And then there was that Christmas we spent in gorgeous Quebec City with my parents. It was so cold that, after being outside for just a minute or two, our hunched, contracted back muscles would begin to ache. And I still remember the blizzard of ’76, in Ohio. Five feet of perfect igloo-making snow was gloriously laid down for us kids. After school had been closed for two full weeks, I'm certain my mother must have wanted to jump out the windows of our one story ranch and make a slippery run for it.

Yes, I fancied myself a sort of cold-weather expert. I could handle anything Jack Frost threw my way, or so I thought.

Our narrow farm lanes had been iced over for about a week and were treacherous enough to limit our outings to those of absolute necessity (grocery store, pet shop for guinea pig food, that sort of thing). Then two days ago we awoke to the most beautiful dumping of snow. At least six inches; which, as I said before, is huge for this part of England. We were officially snowed in and planned on making the most of this climatic anomaly. Sturdy snowmen, fantastic igloos and snow ball forts. We had a ball shoveling, mounding and patting together a small, icy village.

That night, after a warm dinner and a hot shower, we all settled into bed early, completely exhausted.

The next morning, Jeff woke me up abruptly saying, ‘You’d better get up. The pipes have frozen, we have no water—I’m not sure what to do’ Hmmm, this was something we have not yet encountered in our cold-weather experience. But, no worries—so what if we can’t get water, we don’t need to shower (we weren’t going anywhere), we could just drink juice or soda all day (rather than coffee, tea and hot cocoa) and boil snow to cook pasta in. It would be fun, like Little House on the Prarie!

It wasn’t until after Jeff had left for work and the girls and I were finishing off our fry-up of bacon, eggs and toast, washed down by two or three glasses of orange juice that I realized the full effect of not having water—five people and not one flushing toilet.

In an exaggerated sense of decorum, I will refrain from any further details.

Camille, my ten year old was very helpful. She attended to the boiling pot of snow and consistently checked the taps all around the house to see if any water was dribbling out. Getting water into our house became her project

At long last, Sean the plumber showed up and got down to the work of thawing our frightfully frozen pipes. After having removed the drywall in the downstairs loo, he found the culprit pipe and warmed it slowly with a hairdryer. Our tea cups and toilet bowls would soon be flooded with water! This wasn’t so bad, I thought...smuggly.

After an hour or so, the kitchen tap began to sputter water, then slowly but steadily the flow increased from a trickle to a steady stream. We all hugged Sean, the plumber and I made him a celebratory cup of tea (I’ve learned that Brits really do drink a lot of tea). After our tea party (PG Tips for Sean, peppermint for the girls and green tea for me), I headed upstairs to grab a sweater. That’s when I heard it—the powerful charge of running water. I stopped in my tracks, turning my head in the direction of the sound— the bathroom off the playroom. I ran in and saw that the bathtub, used to store the girls' stuffed animals, was over-flowing with water—brown bears, pink bunnies and white lambs were bobbing and sinking as they sucked up the water like giant, furry sponges.

‘HOLY CRAP!' I yelled. I ran to the stairs and yelled down to Camille, ‘Camee, come up here, quick!’ She ran up and gasped in horror as she crossed the threshold of the bathroom. ‘Ohhhhhhh, Mommy! I thought I turned this tap off!’ I shut off the water and we got down to the task of attempting to wring out the bloated animals.

Camille began to cry, but before I could even try to comfort her, Claire (my oldest) and the twins began screaming from downstairs in the family room. ‘Momma!’ (every mother knows the difference in the cries of her children, i.e. serious or frivolous—these were cries of the most serious nature). I ran, skidding down the stairs. As I rounded the corner into the family room and took in the sight of water pouring from the ceiling onto the floor and all of the furniture. ‘SHIT!’ I screamed, oblivious to whether or not my children heard me, but I am sure they did.

I ran back upstairs, past Camille (sobbing into a soggy giraffe), and sprinted into my bathroom, which sits directly above the family room. Camille had left the taps to both the bath tub and the sink on. They were over-flowing. The carpeted floor was flooded. I shut off the water and stood there, trying to catch my breath, having no idea what to do next. ‘Mommy!!! The water—it’s making big puddles in the family room!’ I ran back downstairs, swinging by the kitchen on my way to the family room and grabbed as many mixing bowls and buckets as I could carry.

Arranging them on the floor, my girls and I tried to dry off the furniture, but there were only so many towels in the house.

I looked at Camille. Her eyes were as flooded as the bath tubs, tears spilling down onto her flushed cheeks. ‘It was trying to help...I thought leaving the taps on would get the water to flow. I’m sorry, Mommy!' She sobbed.

I looked at her and paused. In my exasperation I didn't want to say anything unkind. ‘Camille, it was an accident.’ I hugged her tight. ‘You know, you’ll never forget this. You’re sort of an expert in frozen pipes now. When you grow up and live in your own house, you’ll know what to do, and what not to do when the weather turns very cold.’ She looked up and smiled just a little. Unable to keep a straight face I continued, 'But you know, as a mother of limited maturity, I will mock you about this for the rest of your life.'

No Hugging, Please

'Are you going to hug her when she walks off the plane? ...Just kidding.' Claire laughed.  We were driving to the airport to pick up my friend Erin who was coming to visit for the weekend.

Claire's question was humorous for one simple reason: I am not, in any way, a hugger.
I am not a cuddly woman.
I never feel compelled to hold a friend's new baby.
I don't indulge my children in unnecessary crying or whining. In our house it is understood that unless you are bleeding profusely, or your heart is sincerely breaking,  Momma will not attend to unwarranted upset.

I love my children fiercely and will do almost anything for them. But I don't coddle them. Pretty much the only things I coddle are puppies and eggs.

But I'm not cold. Ironically, most people find me to be casual to a fault and quite warm with my words and deeds.

At least I am honest about my hugging defect. A few weeks ago, the girls and I were driving home from the mall. We were stopped in traffic. On the sidewalk, up ahead there was a mother with her arm strongly encircling her teenage daughter's shoulders. I pointed at the pair and said, 'Look girls, that's what it looks like when I mother hugs her off-spring'.
My girls solemnly gazed out the window at the warm scene of motherly love, and sighed.

Maybe it is because I am so forthcoming with my anti-hugging convictions that my children love me anyway. On rare occasions, they approach and ask me for a hug. This always catches me by surprise and I feel a wave of guilt as I whole-heartedly squeeze and hug my daughter.
I just need to be reminded, I guess... not too often, though. I couldn't handle that.

My close friends know not to hug me. I am very clear about my personal space requirements. Ironically, it's only people who don't really know me who hug me. But that only happens once, I clear up the miscommunication after that first awkward embrace.

Erin walked through customs and saw us, my four girls and I, waiting behind the security barriers.  As she came closer I surprised myself as I stepped forward and threw my arms around her. I don't know what came over me, but I felt the sincere overwhelming urge to hug my dear friend. I stepped back and chuckled not only at myself but at the expression on my daughter's faces: complete shock.

We turned to walk out to the car and I put my arm around Claire's shoulders. She smiled and we walked through the doors of the airport into the chilly winter air.

Turning Over a New Leaf

Santa brought my children a Wii Fit Plus for Christmas this year. Before the ripped wrapping paper hit the floor the girls were off in a flurry of pink and red flannel headed into the family room to begin play.

As I was cooking Christmas dinner, the four girls and my husband were having a blast playing on it. Hooting with laughter, they yelled into the kitchen and asked if I would like to join in. ‘Sure!’ I shouted back (Santa brought me Madonna’s Greatest Hits; Borderline, Like a Prayer and Crazy for You were shaking the walls of the kitchen as a chopped, diced and sautéed.)

‘First you have to make a Mii—it’s a mini you that plays inside the game,’ my middle daughter, Camille explained. No problem, I thought. And it was fun; I got to choose her hair colour and style, even the colour of her shirt.

‘Okay, now step on the Wii board for your body assessment’—WHAT??? I choked. ‘It’s cool’, said my skinny-as-a-reed ten year old girl, ‘It measures your BMI, that’s Body Mass Index and takes your height and weight.’ I stared daggers at her. She continued, ‘It says that I should be careful because I am underweight...’ she said solemnly. I searched her face without speaking for a good twenty seconds then said ominously, ‘Your day will come...’ and I took the step up onto the board. I made everyone look away as I typed in a password. Then again after it had finished its assessment and revealed my BMI and weight.

Surprisingly, my girth has not changed (thank God!) in four years, but my body mass(ive) index has fluxuated just a wee bit. There, on the screen with friendly pink lettering it stated that I have moved from green ‘normal’ range and was now just this side of the orange ‘overweight’ colour-coded zone.

I am officially overweight.

What really hurt was meeting my Mii character for the first time. She was noticeably chubbier now, after attaining my body assessment results. So fat, in fact that it looks as if I might have eaten the skinny, little twig standing next to me on the screen, my daughter Camille.

But there would be no going back now. Miss Piggy would greet me every time I stepped on the Wii Fit whether to play a balance game with the girls or something more aerobic by myself—she would be a constant reminder, there smiling, taunting, practically yelling at me to get my fat-ass moving.

I can dodge floor-length mirrors for the most part, but if I wanted to interact with my children in the next half year (until June arrives, warming the English countryside to a balmy 65 degrees and the children play outside for three months until blustery September arrives, blowing them all back indoors) there would be no avoiding the mini Mii and all her pudge.

This morning, rather than a plate of cold stuffing topped with a fried egg (my all-time favourite post-holiday breakfast) I had whole wheat toast for breakfast. I played on the Wii with the girls (after 45 minutes it announced that I had burned just 120 calories... sheeze). For a snack I had a cup of scorching hot beef bouillon with dried onions (warming and honestly really tasty) and a salad loaded with veggies, fresh parsley, chick peas and tuna for lunch.

I am not a dieter. I tried Weight Watchers once and it worked, but I hated the way I thought about food after that—all numbers and points—that’s just not me. I’ve always been the girl who passionately loves her food. I cared not a bit about the fat or caloric content.

It seems that at 41 years old, those days have passed.

I still won’t diet, but I may have to curtail the amount of food that I eat—maybe skipping the platter of cold stuffing, fried eggs and bacon-wrapped sausages for breakfast the week following Christmas.

A little moderation.

And perhaps a bit more time just spent with my girls and Mii.

Christmas Chaos

It's the same all over the world this time of year: If you celebrate Christmas, your life is currently in a state of chaos...especially if you have young children. It's a nice chaos, lots of annual activities that we all look forward to, but they seem to happen all at once.

I think sometimes that I am so crazed I am missing 'it'. In all my disorganized confusion, I trample right past some of the important, meaningful stuff.

Last night the twins had their Christmas ballet recital. My oldest, Claire also had a German course wedged in between school pick-up and the start of the recital. As the minutes sped by I noticed the sound of my voice rising louder and higher. I knew I was being unreasonable ('Mimi! Stop touching every pencil on the counter and just put your coat on!’ and, 'No Camille! I don't know where the Christmas cards for your class are! You signed them, where did you put them?!'), but I was like an out of control avalanche and couldn't didn't stop.

In the five minutes of spare time I had between school, German and ballet runs I threw a bunch of ingredients I had on hand into a pot, slid it into the oven, crossed my fingers and hoped to find something resembling a stew when we got home from the recital.

On the drive over to ballet I apologized to the girls for shouting.

We arrived with no time to spare and jumped out of the car into the frosty, December night. The twins had no tights on, no pants either— their bare, skinny legs were blue and prickly with goose bumps. My friend Sam pulled up along next to me; mother of three daughters about the same age as mine, she is equally harried most of the time, too. This always makes me feel better.

Sam emerged from her minivan with her youngest daughter, Emily hanging from her— Emily's hands locked behind Sam’s neck, her body, bare legs and bare feet dangling as her Momma trudged into the dance hall, scowling.

The sight of this actually made me relax a little.

Sam peeled Emily off of her and sent her into the pre-show room with my two. She and I settled into the last two seats at the back of the hall. At least I have brought my camera, I thought (remembering last year, when I didn’t). I turned the pocket-sized camera on and read in the display screen, 'No memory card'. I sighed, turned it off and stuck it back in my pocket. I mouthed to Sam, 'Will you take pictures of the twins, too?' Her expression changed to one of nausea as she whispered, 'I've forgotten my camera...' We both turned solemnly to watch the show.

Although it took me a few minutes to get out of my head and really pay attention to the little ballerinas in front of us, I soon sat back in my seat and enjoyed this treasured moment. I'd like to say that my girls were the picture of grace and poise, but unfortunately they take after me in the dancing department and were remarkably awkward, even for 4 year olds. Tess fell down twice while standing in place and Mimi drifted from one end of the room to the other, stepping on tiny pink toes as she went.

My daughters were the comic relief of the show, which, in my mind, made it even better.

We arrived back home, opened the door to the house and were enveloped in the fantastic aroma of tomato, herbs and chicken. I had forgotten that I had stuck dinner in the oven before we left, it was a nice surprise. It wasn’t, as I had envisioned, stew—it was even better. The tomatoes, stock, shallots and herbs had melded into a rich sauce.

Nothing that evening turned out the way I would have planned. But ultimately the recital and the dinner turned out to be better than I expected.