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Category Archives: True Life

Wedgwood

26 Apr

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Mom and I were in Staffordshire for a quilt show today, and while we were so close, we decided to head up to the pottery district of Stoke-on-Trent. There are several companies headquartered in the area, but I specifically wanted to go to Wedgwood. Not to look in the museum. Not for a factory tour to see how the famous china wares are made. Not to buy dishes in the outlet shop. No. We went because I wanted tea. Tea? At a pottery factory? Yes. Wedgwood sells the best English afternoon tea I’ve ever tasted.

I was first introduced to this tea a few years ago when one of my Japanese students travelled to England as part of a package tour to the UK (all of the Japanese tour companies bring busloads of eager shoppers to the potteries); she brought me a pretty Wedgwood-blue tin of loose afternoon tea as a souvenir. Back then, I was only drinking Lipton or Japanese green tea, so my tea palate was not very refined. Plus I was a bit intimidated by tea that was not already prebagged. Once I discovered that the 100-yen store sold disposable tea envelopes into which I could put the loose tea leaves to brew, I made my first experimental mug of English afternoon tea. Wow. So much better than Lipton!!

Since moving from Japan to England, I’ve tried all kinds of different tea, as well as different brands of my two favorites, English breakfast and English afternoon tea. I’ve yet to come across an afternoon tea as tasty as the Wedgwood tea, so when my tin was empty, I set about trying to replace it. It is not stocked in any local shops, so when my grandmother visited last summer and wanted to visit the pottery outlet stores in Stoke-on-Trent, I was sure I’d find it there. No such luck. So I emailed Wedgwood to ask whether there were any shops licensed to sell their tea in my area or if they had an online shop where I could place an order. No reply. So today’s trip to the actual Wedgwood Pottery (as opposed to the outlet shop) was my last great hope.

At last, success! I now have two tins of afternoon tea safely tucked in the cabinet, and my husband’s permission to make another trip to the retail shop before we move back to the States in August if Wedgwood doesn’t offer the tea online when they roll out their new and improved website next week. Life is good! Now if you’ll excuse me, I think it’s time for a cuppa.

 
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Posted by on April 26, 2013 in Challenges, How It Is, True Life

 

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‘Taters

23 Apr

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I love potatoes. Baked, boiled, mashed, fried, in soups, in salads. Not sure I’ve met a potato I didn’t like (white potatoes, that is…not a fan of sweet potatoes in any incarnation). I didn’t know there were so many kinds of white potatoes until I moved to England; the supermarket has an entire aisle–both sides–devoted to nothing but potatoes. Heaven must look something like the potato aisle in Tesco.

I grew up eating potatoes almost every night for dinner. Mom married a meat and potatoes guy; Dad liked other starches like rice and pasta well enough, but preferred spuds with his evening meal. Now, I find myself married to a man who would happily eat rice seven nights a week–he doesn’t dislike potatoes, he just likes rice more. So, long story short, because I don’t cook potatoes very often, the ones I buy often go off before I can use them all.

A few months ago, I found a special potato storage bag while wandering through a cooking store. The package stated that the special dark liner inside the bag would keep potatoes fresher longer–the eyes wouldn’t sprout, and the potatoes wouldn’t turn green (this happens when potatoes are exposed to light, and green potatoes are poisonous!) This magical bag sounded like just what I needed to prolong the life of my taters, which hadn’t been faring so well in a plain paper sack. Let me just say, if I had saved the receipt this bag would be going back to the store.

I bought a bag of new potatoes and used several of them in a recipe the same day. The rest were secured in the dark protective shroud of the potato sack. A couple weeks went by, I cooked rice, we did some traveling, and through it all the potatoes slumbered peacefully in their sack. Last week I remembered that I had baby potatoes (only because I’d just purchased a couple larger spuds for baking and needed to store them in the sack) and thought I’d use them to make some potato salad. I loosened the drawstring at the top of the bag and blindly reached my hand in…only to yank it out with a yelp when I encountered tentacles trying to wrap themselves around my wrist. WTF?! Angling the bag’s opening toward the window, I looked in the dark interior to find 10-inch long sprouts coming out of every single potato. Good thing the bag slowed the growth of those eyes, or I’d have had to hack my way into the kitchen with a machete!

Unless anyone out there has a tried and true ‘tater storage trick, I may have to give up and just get my potato fix when we go out for dinner. Rice is a much more docile side dish, not turning poisonous colors or sprouting and trying to take over the pantry as soon as I turn my back.

 
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Posted by on April 23, 2013 in Challenges, Observations, True Life

 

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Rarity

20 Apr

HPIM1850Yes, Virginia, England does have sunsets!

I’m no gardener, but I doubt this tulip is rare (although the fact that it bloomed before my daffodils does make me wonder). No, what is rare about this photo is that the tulip was captured at sunset. Yes, sunset. In England. I’d begun to think there was no such thing. I don’t know the last time I saw a sunset here, thanks to the nearly unbroken string of cloudy, rainy, or snowy days we’ve had since this time last year. (Just a note: I haven’t seen many sunrises either, and it’s not because I was sleeping the days away.) In the rarest of occurrences, the sun was out all day today, sunup to sundown, with not a cloud to be seen. I figure the meteorological good fortune is a direct consequence of my mom’s arrival from the States; there’ll be only bright blue skies while she’s here, and it’ll be impossible for her to believe that the past twelve months have been nothing but the stereotypical dismal British weather portrayed in every movie ever set in England. I’d forgotten just how good the sun feels and how energizing it can be, even if the temperatures are only in the 50s. I could get used to this. I could practically feel my body synthesizing vitamin D while I was pulling weeds around the tulips this evening. So if the sun shines for the next two weeks, and it looks like my mom is indeed the good luck charm that has brought sunshine to England, then I’ll be begging her to stay until August when we are due to move back to America!

 
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Posted by on April 20, 2013 in Challenges, Observations, Photography, True Life

 

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Plunge

18 Apr

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Question 128
You are at a lake with some friends; the sun is warm and the water is cold. Going into the water would temporarily chill you but you know that later the warm sun would be even more enjoyable and you would be glad you had gone in. Would you take the plunge?

Uh. No. Been there, done that, not doing it again.

I lived in New Hampshire during my high school days, and went with a friend to Lake Winnipesauke over Memorial Day weekend. Her family went there often in the summer months, so she had local friends who were able to meet us at the lake for the afternoon. The weather was decently warm for New Hampshire in May, but the water was cold. Way cold, in my opinion. Our original plan had been to go water-skiing, but the guys were not able to procure a boat as planned. So the three decided a swim in the lake would be the next best option. I am not a fan of cold water, so I mentioned that I would just sit on the dock and maybe dip a toe in while they had a splash. Well, that plan was quickly vetoed–if one was swimming, we all were swimming. I tried to persuade them to go ahead without me, but the three of them were insistent that I was getting wet. Jump in, just jump, they cajoled. I stood firm in my refusal, but the next thing I knew, one of the guys had hooked me under the arms, the second had my left leg, and quickly coerced my friend into grabbing the other. As they were preparing to start swinging me over the edge of the dock, I managed to scream and wiggle enough to convince them I’d rather go in under my own power than be tossed in, so they set me back on my feet and formed a line behind me to block any chance of retreat. I was even a good sport while they counted, and jumped on command at three. My lungs stopped working as soon as I hit the water.

The three of them jumped in right behind me, laughing and whooping, and by the time we had all surfaced and shaken the water out of our eyes, they did have the good grace to notice that my lips were sapphire blue and I seemed to be gasping unsuccessfully for air. Once again they lined up behind me, this time urging me to swim faster, get out, climb up the ladder. The lack of oxygen to my brain had not stopped me from realizing that the impact with the water had driven my swimsuit as far as it would go up the crack of my backside, and though I feared the very real possibility of an imminent blackout and subsequent drowning, I was NOT climbing up that ladder with a wedgie. While I was wrestling the spandex out of my posterior, they must have thought I was too weak to pull myself up the ladder because suddenly half a dozen hands were fighting for real estate on my butt to push me up onto the dock. I eventually flopped onto the sun-bathed wooden planks with at least half a cheek still exposed, and finally felt the band around my chest loosen enough to drag in a breath of warm May air. My friend wrapped me in a towel, and they all stood dripping and watching me warily as I pinked up again (not sure whether the return of oxygen or embarrassment contributed more). I think I must have scared them witless, for they were pretty subdued the rest of the afternoon, but I never again had to worry about taking a forced swim in a cold lake with that crew!

Nice that I was able to twist today’s random pick from The Book of Questions to fit letter P of the April A to Z Blogging Challenge!

 
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Posted by on April 18, 2013 in Challenges, Deep Thought Thursday, How It Was, Memoirs, True Life

 

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Overlooked

17 Apr

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I spy with my little eye…something chocolate! Can you see the foil-wrapped Easter candy tucked in the corner of the road sign? I spotted this little treasure while we were wandering around Delft in the Netherlands on Sunday morning. Made me wonder if the town had had an Easter egg hunt and this one got overlooked (it was more than six feet off the ground, so if it was a hunt geared towards young ‘uns, no wonder they missed it!), or if someone had just randomly stuffed a chocolate egg in the sign (maybe they stashed eggs all over town, like a squirrel hides acorns). I’m not normally one to pass by a piece of chocolate, but not knowing the provenance of the egg made me uneasy about testing its edibility, so I reluctantly walked away.

Seeing this forgotten egg reminded me of a family Easter many years ago. I must have been about eight, and my brother six, and we had dyed and decorated a dozen hard-boiled eggs with Mom’s help. On Easter Sunday, Dad took the eggs out and hid them all around the back yard, concealing them well in the shrubs, trees, and patio furniture. When he had finished, my brother and I were turned loose to hunt high and low, each wanting to best the other by finding the most eggs. I don’t remember now whose basket held more when we finally gave up the hunt, but I know for sure it wasn’t a tie. The twelfth egg remained hidden, despite hours of searching. We sent Dad back out to retrace his steps and find the rogue egg, but he, too, came up empty-handed. We would have accused Dad of eating it instead of hiding it, but he didn’t particularly care for hard-boiled eggs so we were pretty sure he was innocent. For days afterward, my brother and I went back out into the yard, poking in bushes, digging in mulch, climbing up trees, and turning over rocks, but each time returned to the house eggless. We thought for sure the sulfur smell of rotten egg would eventually lead us to the pastel-colored fugitive, but weeks passed without a malodorous whiff. Dad finally concluded that soon after the hunt a raccoon must have come through the yard and had it for a snack.

Wonder what kind of critter might tote off the chocolate egg hidden in the street sign?

 
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Posted by on April 17, 2013 in How It Was, Memoirs, Observations, True Life

 

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Notice

16 Apr

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Notice: I am giving you fair warning that I am about to temporarily abandon my carefully planned weekly blogging schedule. My mom is coming to England for a two-week visit, and my priority will be spending as much time as possible with her, not locking myself in my office to curse the cursor taunting me from a blank screen. Since I’ve yet to master the art of the quick post (those 33-word Trifextra pieces take me hours), I am scaling back the writing while Mom is here. I will continue to post daily, and am committed to completing the April A to Z Blogging Challenge, but I see the next half-month’s postings being heavier on photographs than words. And since my goal when starting this blog in January was to practice my photography skills as well as my writing skills, I don’t feel like I’m letting myself down too much. Thanks for understanding, and I’ll be back on track the first week of May!

 

 
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Posted by on April 16, 2013 in Challenges, How It Is, On Writing, Photography, True Life

 

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Message?

15 Apr

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The 22° halo is not a rare phenomenon. It is simply an atmospheric optic caused by the sun’s rays glinting through the millions of ice crystals in wispy cirrostratus clouds three to five miles above the earth. These rainbow-colored halos can be seen circling the sun any time of the year in any region of the world. Or so the internet tells me.

I saw my first one seven years ago, the day after my dad died without warning at age 58.

Above all else, my dad wanted me to be happy. If he ever saw that I was down or troubled or upset, he’d tell me–beg me, really–to smile. I, in turn, never wanted my dad to be upset or disappointed or unhappy with me, so I always tried to put on a cheerful face when he asked. At the worst of times–when he held me as I cried over my grandmother’s death, in a comforting email he sent me during the horrific days after 9/11–Dad would tell me to smile and somehow I would find the strength to rein in my emotions and do as he asked. His request could not take away the pain from tragic events, but it did help to balance the overwhelming feelings of sadness, anger, and confusion by giving me a different focus. For above all else, I wanted my dad to be happy.

On April 16, 2006, driving back to my parents’ Maryland home after a quick trip to Virginia to pack some clothes, numb and nauseous as I tried once more to absorb the reality of the previous day’s news that my dad was gone, GONE, I saw a 22° halo as I neared the Potomac River. I had to pull the car over while I gave in to deep, keening, hiccup-inducing sobs, because I just knew that halo was my dad’s way of telling me that he was okay, that I would be okay–and that he was asking me once more to smile for him. I’ve never had to work harder to regain control or put on a brave face, but as the halo slowly faded, some of the knife-sharp despair started to drain away too. Dad’s final message was the only thing that helped me get through those first terrible days after his death, as well as the series of further trials and tragedies that seemed destined to bury me in the subsequent months.

The second time I saw a 22° halo, about six months ago while sitting in a friend’s back yard, I immediately sensed it was my dad just checking in. I watched the colors brighten as the sun sank behind a neighboring roof, and I realized what a comfort the echo of his ritual request has been in the years of his absence, even though his deep voice and warm hug no longer accompany it.

“I got your message, Dad,” I whispered. And I smiled.

 
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Posted by on April 15, 2013 in How It Is, How It Was, Memoirs, Monday Mix, True Life

 
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