During this recent trip to the land of my birth, I visited many people. These are people I see once, maybe twice, in a year. It is an interesting experience to pop into vignettes of my former life. Living and working in another country brings with it many new perspectives, and these are thrown right up in my face when I visit my homeland.
So much of a culture of a place is imbedded in the normal ways people manoeuvre through everyday life and is very hard to detect from within it. At least it was for me. Even though I was well travelled prior to moving, it took the act of everyday living to trigger a true awareness in me. No amount of pretending to be a resident even came close, and I did dabble in such pretences.
At first, the new perspective revealed itself as frustration when an invisible force, which appeared out of nowhere, scuppered what should be very simple tasks. At some point, I started to figure it out. But my mind kept grasping for its former expectations, resistant to the delicate complexities that all realities are composed of, whether we want them to be or not. Eventually, I started to perceive the new reality, which led to seeing my former one differently. During visits to my homeland, the culture of that place as a separate thing started to emerge.
What I saw is hard to describe. I have to call it: an underlying sense of panic that is woven into everything, which I could not see when I was embedded in it. It took years to untangle it from inside me so that it became visible, but now it is so obvious. Some boogieman is always lurking and is going to… kill me, kidnap my children, take away my rights, snatch up my possessions, steal my place in the traffic, wreak havoc with my routine: all with a myopic sense of urgency grossly misaligned with the actual danger or consequence. My love for my homeland is unconditional and unending, but the relentless undercurrent of panic is exhausting. It will be interesting to see how long it takes for me to rejoin it.
Photo Credit:
Squirrel Farts Drink Blog
We had our first Toad in the Hole last week. Apparently, it began life as a leftovers meal. According to Wikipedia, you would stick in chunks of leftover meat from a previous meal that was not enough on its own for a full serving into Yorkshire Pudding batter. But now the chunks of leftover meat have become sausages. A Yorkshire Pudding, you say? I wish I knew what a Yorkshire Pudding was: I mean I can describe it. It is a piece of pastry that looks like the bottom of a pie crust but with no filling in it. It is served with roasts. Mostly, I think their purpose is to sit on the plate mocking me. Am I supposed to load it up with stuff? Do cut it and dip it? The term 'pudding' suggests maybe I save it for last? How am I supposed to eat this thing? Maybe I am not supposed to eat it at all, and it's just a game of 'one of these things is not like the other'. I just get the feeling that all the English are laughing at me inside when I eat it.
The most atypical of the season was the OT department do at The Half Moon in Putney. One of my work colleagues is a member of a parody girls band called Hot Skank. They were amazing. It is made up of former staff from The Half Moon, a gig pub where some pretty famous British folk / rock / blues artists got their starts in the 60s 70s and 80s. It was supposedly in danger of being torn down several years ago. I am suspicious of how the existence of a petition suddenly turns an unprofitable pub into a profitable one, but I am happy to live with the delusion that a small group of well meaning people can affect a positive change.
This is not the case of American versus English language, like 'take out' and 'take away' or 'eggplant' and 'aubergine'. There is no cute English idiom for it: its not a 'rummy sack' or a 'Cockney satchel'. As far as I can tell, 'Doggy bags' just do not exist in England. In case I have an English reader, I might have to explain that a 'doggy bag' is container that a restaurant in America gives where you put the rest of your meal that you couldn't finish because the portion size was so ridiculous that the only way you could possibly finish it is to take it away with you afterward and have the rest later, or tomorrow,… or presumably give it to a dog. I cannot make my mind up whether the absence of the doggy back is an improvement or not. We have not dined at too many restaurants in England. I must admit that I do enjoy the shock and awe at Antonio's in New Bedford as the single portion of Carne de Porco à Alentejana, big enough to feed a small family, arrives at the table. Even though I know it's coming, it amazes me every time. My advice to the English reader on holiday in America: the proper response to the offer of a doggy bag is "no, thank you, I am on vacation". This response will not stop the quizzical looks or the many suggestions on how you could still benefit from taking the rest of your meal with you. Other than ordering a half portion, this is the best I can offer.
