Blog Camp

Stonehenge

I've been to Stonehenge several times, but there is always something a bit startling about seeing it -- just there, up on the rise of the hill, as one putters single-file down the A303. It looks exactly how you imagine it will look; (and why shouldn't it, really, because we've all seen images of those iconic slabs of standing stone.) And yet, there is something about its very familiarity that always feels surprising to me. Somehow, it manages to feel both grand and cozy, familiar and unfamiliar, all at the same time.

I know that I'm too fond of stretching metaphors, but it's not unlike meeting blog friends in the flesh (and voice and mannerism). So strangely familiar, and somehow known . . . and yet suddenly there is unfamiliar texture and context, too.

Julie, Judith, Blanca, Kristina and Agnieszka

This weekend, I hosted a Blog Camp at my house -- sort of an English franchise of the Danish original. It was not unlike the summer camps that I attended as a child, at least in the sense that we talked nonstop, laughed a lot and didn't sleep much.

Of course, the activities were a bit different: We didn't go swimming, build a fire circle, or sing Kumbaya, and the only "hike" we took was more of a stroll -- with the ultimate destination being a pub at the end of the road. And of course we had lots of wine and cappuccino, and fancy Nikon cameras, and twitterings, and field trips to World Heritage Sites . . . and I definitely didn't enjoy any of those at Prairie Valley Church Camp.

However, it had exactly the same intensity as a summer camp experience. In a very short time, strangers -- (albeit, strangers whose online "diaries" I had been reading for months) -- felt more like best friends. Even better, there was the knowledge that promises "to write" and "stay in touch" would be kept.

Caramel Corn

Tea at Furlongs

Eric Ravilious

Inside or Outside? It is the dilemma of all summer entertaining in England.

It's not enough to listen to the weather report, or even to scan the early morning sky, for the weather is nothing if not changeable.

Barbeques and picnics can be glorious, but only if weather conditions are just right. In my mind -- and frankly, that's the only place this idyllic scene has taken place -- children play croquet under a crisp, cloudless sky while parents sip champagne and eat strawberries under a bower of roses. In reality, I've planned many a picnic which ended up with too many people huddled around my kitchen table. We've also toughed out many an evening barbeque -- with all of the guests begging for jackets and jumpers.

Last Friday, my youngest daughter had six friends over for a sleepover party. Unlike me, who cares only for the food when it comes to party planning, she fretted over the food and the entertainment. After considerable cogitation, she drew up two plans: one for inside, and one for outside. If the weather was warm and dry, we would have a barbeque. If the weather was cold and wet, we would make homemade pizza.

Only one detail remained consistent: no matter what the weather, we would have homemade caramel corn.

When I got married, my mother made me a cookbook of family recipes. Under the Miscellaneous section, there are kid-pleasing recipes for pancakes, hot fudge sauce, coffee can ice cream, Chex party mix and pull later taffy. There is also a recipe for microwave caramel corn: a bit of late 1970s history, from the days when microwaves were a great novelty. I only remember to make it every few years, but when I do, I'm always delighted because it is DELICIOUS and easy and fun to make with children.

As summer winds down, and everyone gears up for the rush rush rush of the school year routine, it is a worthy afternoon project . . . and will, at least, lend some novelty to another afternoon spent watching DVDs. If you do let children have a go, make sure that you reserve a bag of this good stuff for yourself. It makes a lot, but a small gathering of children can snarf it down before the hapless adult has managed to clean up the kitchen.

Caramel Corn

Special Equipment: You will need a large paper bag and a microwave for this recipe.

Ingredients:
Two batches of popcorn

8 ounces packed light brown sugar
4 ounces butter
2 ounces honey or white Karo syrup or Lyle’s Golden Syrup
1 teaspoon vanilla
½ teaspoon baking soda
¼ teaspoon salt

Method:

First, a few words about popcorn: don’t even think of using microwave popcorn. It is nasty and full of chemicals. You need to make popcorn the old-fashioned way, which is really very easy. You will need a large pot with a lid and handles on the side (so you can hold it to shake it). I use my spaghetti/soup pot, but when I was a child we had a special seasoned pot just for popcorn. On medium to medium-high heat, heat 2-3 tablespoons of a light vegetable oil (like sunflower, canola, etc). Then add your popcorn – I think that 2/3s of a cup is about right. Make sure to shake your pan back and forth, so you don’t burn the popcorn, and take it off the heat when it has almost stopped popping. Don’t forget to have a large bowl at the ready!

After you have made two batches of popcorn, using this method and quantity, pour all of your popcorn in a paper bag.

Next, you will make the caramel.
Place the brown sugar, butter and syrup in a large glass measuring cup or bowl. (Check picture for size. A 16 oz measuring cup is not big enough.) Microwave this mixture for approximately 1 ½ minutes – or until butter has completely melted. Then, stir until smooth, with all of the ingredients fully incorporated.

Here is the fun science experiment part: Add the vanilla, baking soda and salt and microwave on high for 2 more minutes. The baking soda will activate and the mixture will foam up.

Pour the syrup over the popcorn, and stir well with a long wooden spoon. Then, fold the bag down tightly. The last step is to heat the popcorn in the microwave for 2 to 3 minutes. (The recipe says 3, but I thought that 2 was plenty! You don’t want to burn it.)

Remove to a large bowl. The popcorn will be hot and sticky at first, but when it cools it will become crisp. If the weather is humid, store the popcorn in Ziploc bags as soon as it cools.

This is delicious, addictive stuff! Make sure to have some when it is warm – although don’t be too hasty and burn your tongue.



As for the party, we decided to play it conservatively and go with the "Inside" plan: pizza, dancing and movies. (As luck would have it, the day ended up being warm and dry.) The girls ended up playing in the creek, which hadn't been part of any plan . . . but that's just how parties go.


It's just as well that I had a lot of "tester" bites when I was making the caramel corn, because there weren't any leftovers . . . not even for the vacuum cleaner.


So now, it's almost Friday again and I'm planning for six more friends who are coming to visit. And I'm wondering: Will we be eating inside or outside? (And should I make more caramel corn? Because it's a really good snack for people who spend a lot of their time at computers.)

Contrasts of Catalunya

A slice of Mediterranean Sea on the Costa Brava

Our biking holiday was described as “Contrasts of Catalunya,” and I suppose it was meant to refer to that combination of mountain and Mediterranean Sea that you can find on Spain’s Costa Brava. The intense blue of sea and sky contrasted with green pine forests and palm avenues and a palette of yellow, which varied from brilliant sunflowers to the dull gold of haystacks and scorched grass.

Our accommodation was various, too. Nearly every day, the Headwater representative conveyed our luggage to a new dwelling, and after hours of biking we would discover that evening’s surprise lodging: a hotel set into the hillside, and so vast and winding that my daughter named it “Pan’s Labyrinth;” a beachside hotel whose décor hadn’t been touched since the early 1960s; a traditional farmhouse; and best of all, a converted castle as stylish as anything you might found in Northern California.

A bicycle still-life

We cycled through holiday trailer parks, a nature reserve, the occasional crowded highway, lots of farm land, orchards, modern cities and medieval hilltop villages. The views did change, but the smell of Catalonia was disturbingly consistent. Although there were brief whiffs of salty air and fresh pine, you could never really get away from the fact that the pork industry is central to Catalonia’s economy. We never actually saw any pigs, but we saw the signs of them everywhere. It must be said plainly: the smell of pig shite was, at times, overpowering.

I didn’t find biking to be very conducive to photography. Frankly, my biking skills weren’t really up to the no-hands approach and it was a bit much to ask eight other people to stop riding every time I spied something scenic. I wanted, so much, to take a picture of our long and colorful single-file of bikes . . . but I had to be contented with the posed line-up here.

The cycling (and occasionally singing) von Trapps

Indeed, I’m sure that I missed lots of gorgeous scenery altogether – as my eyes tended to point downwards, always inspecting the terra-not-so-firma for rocks and potholes. (Despite my vigilance, I got two flat tires – one of them conveniently near a pizza restaurant, but the other on a busy highway.)

Most of my best (and worst) memories didn’t get recorded on film, and already their intensity is starting to fade. I wonder what, after a few years, will remain in my memory file of Catalonia? So many of my favorite memories have to do with appeasing my appetite: eating the most delicious chocolate cake for breakfast; discovering that I like fresh sardines; smearing rustic bread with crushed tomato, olive oil and salt, in the Catalan way; sharing a seafood paella at a beachside restaurant; slugging down cup after cup of café con leche.

It always seems like mealtimes are erratic on holidays, either feast or famine. We ate three-course dinners late at night, and massive breakfasts early in the morning, before we wanted them . . . but we never seemed to get to lunch before a ravening hunger took hold. One afternoon, after a long, hot morning walking through Barcelona and playing tourist at Sagrada Familia, we stumbled upon a stylish tapas bar. I’m sure the food would have been delicious no matter what, but with the keen edge of hunger, the combination of meltingly hot seafood croquettes and chilled rosé wine was absolutely memorable.

My worst memories were physical, too – not so much about the belly, but more about the aching legs, back and neck. We were staying at a farmhouse the night before our longest bike ride, and I spent a sleepless night tossing and turning under an oppressive blanket of heat and raucous birdsong from the open windows. The next day, I was full of anxiety about 44 kilometres of “undulating landscape.” Undulating turned out to be a rather euphemistic word for hilly . . . and the scary thrill of hurtling down hills really, really was not worth the shuddering effort of forcing my bike up them. I took the following picture whilst taking a breather from climbing that very hill. I’m sure that the scenery was beautiful that day, but I spent most of my energy trying not to cry.

The undulating Catalonian landscape

Occasionally, we had such steep climbs that it was necessary to shift down to the dreaded 1:1 on our bike gears. We dubbed this the “Coco the Clown” gear, as it felt as silly and ineffective as a clown on a tricycle. You could push your bike by foot just as quickly, as I proved on more than one occasion.

A rather piercing memory is of biking slowly, ever so slowly, up a long hill which passed by a primary school. Some young boys hung on the wire fence and jeered at us. My friend, who speaks good Spanish, said that they were calling us donkeys. It haunts me still. Was that just a generic insult, or did it have something to do with our awkward, plodding progress? Perhaps I misunderstood their tone and they meant to be kind. Perhaps they were suggesting that we would be better off with donkeys, as did my dear friend Fantastic Forrest.

In this picture, my friend Bon Bon and I are smiling because her gung-ho husband had run over a patch of stickers. It’s not that we enjoyed his misfortune, but we were rather pleased to get an extended break as he patched his tire.

Bon Bon and me:

a rare sighting,

as we were usually on the other side of the lens

The mothers laughed the most; whined the most, too.

The children were quite stoical and mostly enjoyed the biking, I think. They were topped up with ice cream as often as possible.

Our gung-ho male companion – fearless leader, map-reader and general chivvier of lazy lasses – was philosophical about the ups and downs of hilly landscapes. Apparently, he subscribes to the idea that you have to take the rough with the smooth. I think that it says a lot about my character that I would just prefer to stay on the flat all the time. I’m obviously a Dutch biker by temperament.

Despite this claim, I did opt to climb to the top of the observation tower in the nature reserve. Anyone who has voluntarily agreed to wear padded lycra shorts might as well be a good sport.

Sigmund and me: looking all-pro

There's always room for one more

Bee: blown away by so much blogging brilliance

(well, really I was at The Savill Garden)

Every now and then I make noises, (mostly mutterings to myself), about not acquiring any new blogs to love. After all, I'm already at saturation point. I cannot keep up with all of the blog-friends that I already feel emotionally committed to . . . and that is not to mention emails, Facebook, and the phone calls that I owe my mother.

And yet, today I found myself falling passionately in love with two new blogs. As with any new infatuation, I wanted to know EVERYTHING about the person and wished that I could read and read until I had absorbed every word.

(Of course, this was not possible . . . as I had already squandered precious time taking children to school, eating breakfast, walking six miles, buying some new plants, tweaking various things in the garden, answering some emails, feeding chickens, making pesto, tutoring a six-year-old, vacuuming the living room . . . you get the idea. I did, however, miss out on the grocery shopping that I had planned.)

The really annoying thing is that I have "known" about these blogs for months, and yet I didn't follow that URL. (The really good thing is that I can still catch up . . . if I stop sleeping, maybe.)

For your reading pleasure:

dovegreyreader scribbles - this self-described "bookaholic" really doesn't need my patronage, as she already has readers and blog-fame galore, but I can't resist her bookish views. I think of myself as fairly well-read, but dovegreyreader is in a class all her own. She reviews a book nearly every single day . . . ! Although I have various hobbies, pursuits and pleasures, reading is the most constant love. This blog makes me feel that, given a good book and a cup of tea, I can always be well-amused.

Ngorobob House: Life from the Hill -- this soulful, beautifully written blog makes me wish that I were a tad bit more adventurous. Janelle has more than one story about being chased by elephants. I'll just leave it at that and let you discover her colorful life in Tanzania on your own.

Had we but world enough, and time . . .

Oh, Sugar! A virtual candy exchange

Dedication: For dearest friend Lucy, of Box Elder, on her birthday.

Lucy was one of my first blogging friends, and the first person who “found me” rather than the other way around. (I left a comment on Jan’s Writing Journal – oh lucky day! - and Lucy followed it to Bee Drunken.) Lucy is the person who I would like to be when I grow up; unfortunately, though, Lucy is only a few years older than I am . . . and I just don’t think you can get that much seasoning in three or four years. She is a talented writer (prose and poetry), teacher, photographer and artist, and she knows all sorts of things about birds and plants – not to mention her practical knowledge about hedgerow fruits and pointing. I am always educated, charmed or emotionally moved by her postings . . . and usually all three at once.

I’ve been planning my virtual candy exchange for a while now – saving it until Friday with the hopes that busy Anne could join us – so when I read Lucy’s ghazal about sugar yesterday, the timing was just too delicious. Please do read Lucy’s poem . . . it adds some depth to my own tribute to sweet stuff.


Not long ago, Alyson and I were nattering in the comments and we realized that we both make toffee as part of our Christmas tradition. Of course, I immediately wanted to compare recipes. If someone says they have a good recipe of anything, I’m instantly desirous – one part curiosity, and one part greed. Who knows why, but domestic details intrigue me. I always like to know what other people are eating, and if they say it is good, then I want to eat it, too. So in that spirit of sharing and sugar-lust, I am calling for a virtual candy exchange! If you would like to participate, I will link you in.

Do Americans have more of a taste for sugar? Or are they just more industrious? When I was a child, the tins of homemade cookies and candies would line the sideboard. There would be toffee, peanut brittle, divinity, pecan tassies, sugar cookies, gingerbread, spritz butter cookies, and Oklahoma Brown candy – and that was just the standard assortment. We always tried new recipes, too. If you wanted something salty, there was Texas Trash (basically a nuttier, spicier version of Chex Mix), but Christmas was mostly about indulging your sweet tooth.

In England, you’ve got your holy trinity of dried fruit: Christmas pudding, cake and mince pies. I don’t recall ever being offered homemade candy. At best, (depending on how you look at it), a tin of Quality Street or Turkish Delight will get passed around. But let’s be frank: that “treat” will probably be reserved for family. I think that you have to grow up with these delicacies (in other words, never experience anything better) in order to really appreciate them.

Ironically, my family’s favorite Christmas candy is called English Toffee. Goodness knows why, as I have never tasted anything like it in England. But, then, Americans often get England wrong – erring on the side of thinking that everything about is postcard-esque. Anyway, the toffee may not be English in origin – but English people have been known to love it. Everyone else who tries it tends to love it, too.

English Toffee

Ingredients:

8 oz butter
8 oz brown sugar
4 oz finely chopped pecans
4 oz chocolate chips (or dark chocolate, finely chopped)

Method:

You will need a nonstick pan of some sort. My mom always used a pizza pan, while I use a heavy nonstick cookie sheet. Sprinkle about half of the nuts evenly over the pan’s surface.

Melt the butter and sugar in a medium-sized saucepan over medium heat. Stir continuously until the temperature reaches 295F/146C. You will need a candy thermometer for this bit – (and I like to have something to read as well) – as it will take awhile. Just like childbirth, time will seem to move really slowly and nothing will seem to be happening . . . but be careful and attentive at the end, because it will suddenly shoot up to the required temperature.

Quickly pour the mixture over the nuts. Be extra careful – you do NOT want to get burned. You can smooth it out with a plastic spatula or wooden spoon, but do that straight away as it hardens up quickly.

Let cool for a few minutes, and then sprinkle the chocolate evenly over the candy’s surface. The heat of the candy will melt the chocolate, and then you can spread it evenly. Finally, sprinkle the rest of the nuts over the chocolate.

When the candy is completely cool, you can break it into small pieces. It will cool on its own, but it you are in a hurry (and sometimes I am) you can speed it up by putting it in the refrigerator for a few minutes.

Store in an air-tight can . . . and don’t make it on a humid day!

The only tricky thing about this candy is that a few degrees of temperature can change the consistency/texture. If you get it right, the toffee will be crisp, but have a giving bite to it. If you don’t cook it long enough, or if it’s really humid, it will be chewy. If you cook it too long, it will be glassy. All of the versions are highly edible, though – we are just talking about degrees of perfection.

Americans have always had a culture of recipe-sharing: whether recipe cards (From the kitchen of . . .), church or Junior League cookbooks, newspaper columns, or just word of mouth. In fact, at the bottom of my recipe for toffee there is a little note from my mom – “from Kathy Daniel Kimes.” Probably 35 or so years ago my mom ate this toffee at a Christmas lunch at Kathy’s house. She asked for the recipe; we started making it every year; and now I’m spreading it around the blogosphere.

Please join me for a virtual Christmas candy exchange! You know never know when or where you will find that recipe that becomes your family’s traditional, must-have, favorite.

It would be nice to add a dedication, too . . . when Southerners say “give me some sugar,” they are actually talking about love and kisses – not candy.

Virtual Candy Exchange:

Gingerbread Truffles at Beyond Ramen

Toffee Testimonial at Just a Plane Ride Away

Lucy's Flapjacks at Box Elder

Buckeye Candy at The Caboose Chronicles

Candied Orange Peel at Nimble Pundit

Independence Day in England: Oxymoronical?

The dictionary tells me that an oxymoron is "a rhetorical figure in which incongruous or contradictory terms are combined" (American Heritage Dictionary, 2nd Ed.). Even better is the original Greek "oxumoron" -- which translates as "pointedly foolish."

Am I just being pointedly foolish to even attempt to celebrate July 4th in England? For what am I celebrating exactly? As a current dependent of the UK, is it not just a little bizarre to keep this wholly American tradition going? Never mind the "oxy" bit, am I just a moron?

Without the parades, the fireworks, and the patriotism, what does July 4th really offer for an expatriate American? I've pondered this question long and hard, (well, at least short and superficially), and I have a very satisfactory answer: July 4th is a good excuse to get together with American friends and eat fried chicken.

I've never had a stock way of celebrating the 4th, but there are definitely key ingredients. Here is my ideal (and like most ideals, never actually experienced): the fried chicken (of course), potato salad, corn on the cob, fresh tomatoes, cold watermelon, biscuits and peach cobbler. A warm summer night. A dip in the lake. Sparklers. Homemade ice cream -- made the old-fashioned way, with rock ice and a churn and a grandfather. Good people.

If you have good food, and equally good people to share it with, isn't that all the sense of "occasion" that you will ever need?

I don't know when or why fried chicken came to epitomize July 4th for me -- to be its very essence -- but there it is. No matter where I am in the world, I want to eat fried chicken on Independence Day -- even if I have to fry it myself. The funny thing is that I don't recall my family ever frying chicken. Indeed, we were probably more likely to have hamburgers or grilled pork tenderloin. In the mythical days of my childhood, when we used to have July 4th at my grandmother's lake house, I remember having barbequed chicken -- but definitely not the fried stuff I insist on now. If my obsession with fried chicken as the symbol of July 4th is rooted in any reality at all, I think that it has to be traced back to the annual church picnic. Whenever church people gather for potluck, you can always count on someone bringing a bucket of fried chicken. Because I grew up during a culinary era dominated by mystery casseroles and jello salads, I think that I learned early on to make a beeline for the fried chicken -- the always reliably delicious choice.

The truth is that I would never bother to make fried chicken in Texas. I'm not that crazy; I'm not that in need of a 4-6 hour project in which I am likely to burn myself. When you've got Church's, Popeye's and KFC on your corner, there really is no point in trifling with home cooking. However, in the English countryside, if you want to eat fried chicken you are going to have to do for yourself. This year, although I lingered over Homesick Texan's recipe, I decided to go with something tried and true: Nigella Lawson's recipe from Nigella Bites. Her recipe is a bit unusual, but it really takes the anxiety out of frying chicken. Her secret? You cook the chicken before you fry it. To be more specific, you brine the chicken in salty milk overnight -- and then you gently poach the chicken in its milk bath. You actually just fry it for a couple of minutes -- so when the crust looks golden enough, the chicken is done. (No burnt chicken! Even better, no fear of raw chicken!) I had a piece for lunch today -- and even though the crust was not at its best, the meat was still tender and juicy.

I realize that it is a bit ironical to consult an English cook for a quintessentially American recipe, but hey, that's the nature of my life. That's why we drank Pimm's and ate peach cobbler: I like to cherrypick the best from both cultures.

Last week Barrie Summy issued a call-out for favorite summer recipes. I knew that I had to post my beloved recipe for Hill Country Peach Cobbler -- because it is easy, delicious, summery and it tastes like home to me. Unfortunately, I've been running late all week . . . and I've missed the publishing deadline. But just because Just a Plane Ride Away said that she liked it, I present my notion of a perfect summer dessert.

Hill Country Peach Cobbler
(courtesy of Martha Smith, of San Antonio)

Ingredients:
3/4 cup flour
dash of salt
2 tsp baking powder
1 1/2 cup sugar (plus an extra 1/4 cup to sprinkle on top)
3/4 cup milk
4 0z butter
3 cup sliced peaches

Method:
Sift flour, salt, and baking powder together. Mix in 1 1/2 cup sugar. Stir in milk. Melt butter in 8x8x2 inch (or similar) pan. Pour batter over the melted butter; do not stir. Lay peaches on batter. Sprinkle with remaining 1/4 cup sugar. Bake for 1 hour at 350F/180C oven.

I don't make peach cobbler very often -- mostly because I am the only person in my family who truly likes it. Sigmund never misses a chance to tell me that it is like a crumble -- but not as nice. While I would never disparage a good crumble, I think that there is something magical about this cobbler. I love its silky, buttery texture. I love the way it makes its own doughy crust. I love the voluptousness of the peaches. I also especially love this recipe because of its storied history. Years ago, or back when I was 23 years old and newly launched into the adult world, I had a "grown-up" dinner at the home of a newly married friend. We went to the Farmer's Market on the old Austin Highway in San Antonio, and we bought plump ears of corn, juicy tomatoes, and beautifully ripe Fredricksburg peaches. As we chatted away, my friend Martha put together a simple, but unbelievably delicious, summer dinner: Barbeque chicken, corn, fresh green salad, glistening cut tomatoes . . . and peach cobbler, with Homemade Vanilla Blue Bell ice cream, for dessert. I begged Martha to copy the recipe down for me, and I still have that recipe card -- almost 20 years later. No cobbler that I make will ever be able to duplicate the perfection of Martha's cobbler, but I keep trying!

As for my ideal July 4th, well, it was a bit less than perfect. It was too cold and windy to sit outside, so we had to huddle around my kitchen table. I forgot to serve the potato salad. I put too much butter in the peach cobbler. We didn't have homemade ice cream. Almost everyone had to leave before it was dark, and we didn't really get around to doing the fireworks.

However . . . there was fried chicken. There was peach cobbler. There was champagne, brought by Audrey, and the most delectable brownies, made by Just a Plane Ride Away. And most of all, best of all, there were good people. Old friends and new -- with a foot on each side of the pond.

Changes

I have a tendency to think of things as "fixed," even though I know they are not.


You would think that a person who moves every year or so would have a worldview that resembles constant flux, yet it is not so! Changes catch me unaware; change can still surprise me.


In the last week or so, relationships all around me seem to be undergoing changes . . . and I am reminded, again, that life is just one ongoing transition. Those famous lines of Yeats', "things fall apart; the centre cannot hold," keep occurring to me. People die; marriages end; friendships fade; children grow up. All of our seasonal ritual, and all of our attempts to fix routines, are just flimsy, imperfect bulwarks against the inevitable encroachment of change.


On the weekend, one of my husband's "aunties" died. Not an aunt by blood, actually -- she was in fact "just" a neighbor and family friend, elevated to "aunt" status many years ago. Yet in every way, her connection to the family was unassailable. None of the (now middle-aged)children of the family could remember life without her. As a woman without children -- from the time when childless women "just got on with it" -- she had become a surrogate mother to the five rambunctious children who at times overwhelmed their own mother. She had offered food and a quiet place to study; she had replaced buttons and let out hems. In later years, roles reversed a bit and she became more taken care of than caretaker. Her place at the Christmas table was more consistent than that of any of the children. Every Friday, she came up for a shopping outing -- followed by tea. She was always there; always seemingly the same. Ninety when she died, Auntie V was a relic from a previous age. She never learned to drive, and her activities were confined to an almost rigidly circumscribed domestic sphere. Her attitudes, her beliefs, her topics of conversation, her stories, her clothing, her hairdo, even: all of these were fixed and unchanging. "Isn't she marvellous (for her age)," people would say. But gradually, almost imperceptibly, her conversation drifted from predictable to repetitive; her clothing, which always looked much the same, turned out to be the same outfit, worn over and over again. A nephew (her heir) took the decision to put her in a nursing home, and then she quickly declined. She seemed to be eternal, Auntie V; but of course she wasn't.


Isn't it strange how things can drift for awhile, before you properly notice? And then when you do notice, you realize how utterly they have changed.


I have an old friend in the area -- not so much an intimate as a fixture -- who I've socialized with for about ten years. When we moved back to England a couple of years ago, I sensed that something was not quite the same. She had lost a lot of her zest and sparkle. She seemed withdrawn, not just from me, but from all of our old crowd. Last week an unusual circumstance threw us together, and I guess that I probed a tender spot with the kind of direct question which sometimes disarms. She confessed that she was laying down plans to end her marriage. Years ago, as fairly new parents, we had met. She and her husband seemed so close then. Convivial and generous to a fault -- the champagne was, literally, always flowing -- they seemed so simpatico. But apparently they have been drifting for a long time now, and not even anger remains. Just indifference on her part, and unkindness on his.


Once you get to a certain place in a marriage, it seems like all of that accumulated experience should add up to an insoluble bond. And yet it doesn't; not always.


On Monday, a friend confided in me that her little son was experiencing his first heartbreak. "Daisy" had been his best friend since the first day of school, and she had given him a reason to want to go to school -- a place that he otherwise associated with unhappiness and frustration. For months they had been inseparable, but then -- perhaps unsurprisingly -- she began making new friends. The tighter he clung, the more she wanted to get away. He had developed a sort of fixation with Daisy, and she had eventually withdrawn from him. Maybe it was nothing personal. Maybe it was nothing more than discovering that she was a "girl" and he was a "boy," and that in the world of six year olds they could not have the same interests or loyalties. But whatever the reason, his innocence has taken a knock. Being rejected for the first time has opened his eyes to the sometimes harsh world of social interactions.


We are all obsessed with romantic love, but friendship love can die, too, and it can hurt just as much. The expression "fast friends" implies a bond that is fixed firmly in place, but I've also noticed that friendships which are fast in the sense of forming quickly and intensely have a tendency to fade. I try to keep all of my friends, but some friendships have eluded me. Once or twice in my life I've had a friend who withdrew from me and I never quite knew why. Was it something I did? Or was I just incidental -- just in the way of someone who was undergoing changes?

As my teenaged daughter has put together her "list" for her 14th birthday party I cannot help but notice how much it differs from last year's list. As she tries on different identities, as she moves up the ladder of "popularity," the friendships seem to come and go. Last year she was new to the school and happy to be friends with (almost) anyone who befriended her. This year she is more selective. Last week I took her and a friend to a concert for her birthday treat. In their navy school uniforms, pony-tailed and fresh-faced, they look like young girls. But clothing and makeup can utterly transform, and this new vampy young woman is a stranger to me. How did she learn how to put on eye makeup? Where did she learn those dance moves? As young teens all around me swayed to the Jonas Brothers' insipid music, and sang along with Avril Lavigne's rather strident voice, I felt as mumsy and old as I never thought I could or would be. When did concert music get so loud?

When my children were younger, I derived a more (shall we say) genuine pleasure from doing the things that they wanted to do. But as they have established their own independent lives, so have I . . . and now I notice that I am more grudging about sacrificing my interests and likes for theirs. As I trudged around Legoland yesterday on my youngest daughter's school trip, I couldn't help but reflect that I am more conscientious than enthusiastic about dispatching certain parental duties. I freely admit that I do not like "amusement" parks. I do not want to pay a lot of money to (mostly) stand in line in order to eventually be made nauseous or bored. And that is the high point! Never mind the long drive to get there, the crowds, the bad food, the inevitable whining and tiredness (both mine and the children's). The last time I went to Legoland was seven years ago. It was cold and wet, and the three year-olds were too young to ride anything. I mostly remember sitting in a canteen, feeling miserable, and trying to clean up the hot chocolate that my toddler had spilled over her last change of dry clothes. On this visit, the toddler had turned into a tall and fearless girl who actually found most of the rides a bit babyish and "lame." As we left the theme park, it occurred to me -- and it was a most happy thought -- that perhaps my Legoland days were over. Not all changes are bad, after all.

"Haunt" Tracing

Or, how I spend three days talking without pause . . .


We've all had friendships of "proximity" -- at the water cooler, the sand box, or the shared fence. While they last, these sorts of friendships are great fun -- and a natural and necessary part of life. But more often than not, (and sometimes even surprisingly so), when you take away the shared props and bonding basis, only the ghost of former friendship remains. Perhaps most friendships are of this sort, and realistically, they do have value -- as long as you can accept the limited shelf life.


However, there is another kind of friendship, too. The rarer kind; the kind that really lasts. This friendship might be based on mutual interests, too, but it is lit from within by some indefinable kind of chemical spark. The kind that doesn't need constant feeding. Even if starved for years, a true friendship can go from dormant to vital -- especially if given the rich compost of unfettered time.


I wonder: Does each person have an essence that remains unchanged -- no matter how many changes they might undergo? If you come to know the essence or the core of the person, do you always "know" them . . . even if time and distance get in the way?


When I was 20/21, I had a little box room in a sort of boarding house for American college students. Mabledon Court. WC2. At the edge of Bloomsbury; the rough, ungentrified edge near the gateway train stations of King's Cross, Euston, and St. Pancras. Down the hall from me was Michelle, from Minnesota. Unlike most of the other students, we two commuted across town to Queen Mary College on the Mile End Road. We were both English majors; unsurprisingly, we shared the love of reading. But books alone, although they are good food and a marvelous touchstone, aren't quite enough to make a friendship.

Sometimes friendship is like spontaneous combustion; and sometimes (often, in my experience) this sort of friendship burns out quickly, too. My friendship with Michelle was slower to spark, and it took time to build. She was cautious, I think, about making new friends -- and I was all over the place, spreading myself thin with new experiences and acquaintances. However, by the spring of that year, we were intensely close friends and that friendship was part of the magic of living in London for a year and discovering who I was (or rather, wanted to be).

Saying goodbye to London, and returning home to my senior year in Texas, was a wrench. At first, Michelle and I saw each other regularly -- in Texas, and New York City, and Connecticut, and Minneapolis -- and of course we corresponded frequently. But over time -- and 20 years is a long time -- our visits were reduced to my occasional visit to New York City. The last time we saw each other was fall 2002 -- when I stopped in NYC on my way to West Point to visit my brother. Michelle met me at my hotel room, and we talked in the hallway for a couple of hours -- because my children were tucked up in bed.

Sometimes life gets in the way of friendship -- we all know that. Soon after I saw Michelle in that hotel hallway, my marriage broke up . . . and it took a long time to mend. Mending it was so involving, and so emotionally draining, that many friendships got neglected. It all seemed too much to explain, and I couldn't always understand what was happening to me, anyway. My life had lost a describable shape, and my future was a frightening blank.

Although I sent Christmas cards, I was never sure if Michelle received them. We moved six times in those five years -- and I wondered if Michelle had moved, too. I thought of her, though, particularly when a shared favorite crossed my path again. Nanci Griffith, May Sarton, Gifts from the Sea -- these were amongst the memories that I had shared with Michelle. If I lived to be 100, I doubt that I could think of them without thinking of her, too.

When I decided to start a blog, I named it Bee Drunken -- it had been a poem that Michelle and I discovered together, and we had dedicated ourselves to living that 21st year in the most "be drunken" way possible. Becoming "Bee" again was so intermingled with this friendship; I couldn't bear to be Bee without being in touch again with Michelle. So I decided to Google her. (I know that other people would have thought of this option long, long ago; but as I stated, in my opening blog, I am a computer idiot -- or more kindly, innocent.)

I asked Michelle if she minded being blogged about, and she just laughed -- wryly? The truth is, Michelle is already very much part of the public domain. As a writer for BusinessWeek, her byline is all over the Internet. And as I discovered, when I googled her, her life in the last couple of years has been part of a social experiment of sorts. I will be writing more about this later, because it is fascinating, but if I've piqued your interest you can read this article . . . just as I did, one February day.

I know that there is a school of thought that says we make our own luck, and I would agree that some part of that is true. But I have a more mystical side, too, and it acknowledges the role of serendipity and unexplained good fortune in life. Because not long after reestablishing contact with Michelle, I received an email which trumpeted the good news that she would be coming to London for a visit. Amazingly enough to me, as I have been in and out of London for most of my adult life, Michelle had never been back. Thus, not only was she visiting me, she was revisitng a time and place whose memories had been entirely untrampled by fresher experience. Happily, all the stars aligned -- and not only was I able to join her for some "haunt tracing," but the English weather conspired to give us some rare glorious spring days for our jaunting.

So all of this is background to understanding just why this past weekend, spent in London with Michelle, could have been the set-up for disappointment . . . but instead was like one long wordy ode to the glories of friendship. Never for one minute was I unaware of how much a gift it was to be given time with my friend -- time without constraint or consideration for the needs of family, jobs, houses or other pressing obligations. As Michelle would say, it was delicious; we ate it up.

And yet: I suppose there is always an inherent melancholy to haunt tracing -- particularly the haunts of 20 years ago. The evidence that life has moved on is always incontrovertible. Mabledon Court is an inexpensive hotel now, and I wonder how many travellers (or even immigrants) to this country spend some time in its box-like rooms. (A kindly African man let Michelle see her own rooms, and she was amused to see what a "dump" we had lived in.) I hope, like us, these new inhabitants are too excited by the possibilities of London to mind their claustrophobic, spare sleeping place much.

Our most-beloved haunt, The Hermitage, had closed more than fourteen years ago. I had tried to visit it soon after, soon enough to find the notice on the door announcing that the owners had sold up and moved to Greece. We wasted much time wandering around looking for a Cranks -- the vegetarian restaurant that had been a neighborhood favorite, and was still listed on the Internet. Perhaps it had only been recently swallowed up -- by the ongoing march of Starbuck's and that sort. We ended up eating a late, and rather indifferent lunch -- but we were too engrossed in conversation to notice or care. Another favorite, Troubadour Cafe in Earl's Court, was still going strong . . . but the soothing candlelit atmosphere and delicious "white" coffee was gone -- replaced by blaring music and weak lattes and cappuccinos.

And yet, none of this really mattered. London had changed, like we had changed -- but the essence of London was still there, and it still beckoned to us and beguiled us. We drifted rather aimlessly around Regent's Park, and as we climbed to the top of Primrose Hill the city lay at our feet. I had been telling Michelle about some secret heartbreak, and as I looked down from our green perch I realized that time had, almost imperceptibly, healed me. I felt a rush of love and gratefulness -- partly for Michelle, partly for Everything.

Serendipity ruled the day: at one point we got lost, somewhere in the beautiful neighborhood of St. John's Wood. We had gone off my map, and were relying on only my dubious sense of direction. Without knowing, we had drifted onto the famous Abbey Road -- a place that neither of us had visited before. Except for the graffitti on a pair of pillars, we couldn't have distinguished the famous music studio from any of the other beautiful houses in that area . . . and yet there was still magic in realizing that the The Beatles had recorded most of their timeless music there. The ghosts of London always make marvelous companions for the imagination.

There were also new treasures to discover -- particularly at the gorgeous shops on Marylebone High Street. I relished introducing Michelle to some of the things that I currently love in London. At Daunt's bookstore, I bought Michelle a copy of Nancy Mitford's great English classics -- because she had never read them. I also found Coetzee's Life and Times of Michael K. and Lessing's The Grass is Singing down in Daunt's South African section. (I had been searching for these books for weeks!) Daunt's are known for their travel books, and rather idiosyncratically, they group fiction and travel literature by country. Michelle's little daughter absolutely needed a china mug, painted with quirky brown chickens, from Emma Bridgewater. We shared a plate of colorful macaroons (in the French style) at Paul -- a haunt that I share with my dear friend Jenni.

Everything about the weekend was a delicious bon bon -- beautiful on the inside and out.

Mostly we just talked -- and London was the backdrop for that conversation. On Friday, we estimated that we talked for twelve straight hours without pause. I probably did more than my share of talking, as Michelle is the most marvelous listener. It would be tempting to say that journalism has honed her listening skills, but actually, she listens in just the same way as I remember. She fixes you with her big brown eyes; she nods; she occasionally repeats phrases; if you are lucky, she laughs with much gusto and appreciation. She listens with great attention; quite a rarity, in my experience. I enjoyed the fact that the occasion for her visit to London was a journalism award for "Best Communicator."

We talked about all of the subjects we've always talked about: books and writing, above all; then family and relationships; travel; food; politics; the environment; memories; music; shoes and clothes; and assorted pop culture detritus. We also talked about marriage and motherhood -- two subjects new to us since our long-ago London days. I never felt that there was a veil between us; but only that open-heartedness and complete attention that is rare, even with close friends.

Although our haunt tracing was not a complete success, it was a delight to discover that we have so much more in common than just a shared past. Our visit was part sentimental journey -- but the greater part, by far, was about a friendship that still has the stuff to run and run.

Fingersmith Review by Ninebel

"Ninebel" is the blogonym of Jenine -- who comments here sometimes; who I have known for more than half of my life.


I was fortunate to meet Jenine my first semester of college, and that's a fur piece down the road now. We've been suitemates and housemates, and we've been to each other's weddings. Jenine's wedding was in Oakland, CA by the way. Almost exactly 10 years ago . . . so Happy Anniversary, Jenine and Dan! I can remember the date, not because I'm good at that sort of thing, but because it is more or less the same date as my youngest daughter -- who was, literally, a babe in arms and in full attendance at the big event. (I left out the crying bit; is that still scar tissue, Jenine?)


Despite all of this prior knowledge, though, it had been many years since I talked to Jenine more often than . . . let's just say Christmas cards and the very odd email. Blogging has brought this funny, beautiful friend back into my life -- and for that, I am truly thankful. She has a great writing "voice" and her precise, fine sense of word selection always delights me.


Jenine is my only "prior" who actually has a blogging habit. Somehow it didn't surprise me to find out that she has been into the blogging thing for a long time now . . . she was always "most likely to blog." When we were in college, Jenine always knew the coolest music. She was also the most likely person to set aside studying in order to burrow into a good book. I've always admired her for her catholic and eclectic tastes. She is one of the few people I know who can take on P.G. Wodehouse and science fiction and mysteries and "lesbian Victoriana" and love them all.


So did lesbian Victoriana catch your eye? Because that is my segue for Fingersmith -- a short-lister from Booker Prize 2002. Apparently, "fingersmith" was slang for a light-fingered thief . . . and another kind of delicate fingering ability as well. The Life of Pi took the prize in 2002, and I'd like to know if Jenine considers it the worthier piece of literature. To be honest, I probably wouldn't have picked up this particular book -- despite my love of the Victorian era. But Jenine gives it such a seductive write-up that I am now determined to add it to the ranks on my to-read bookshelf.


Oh, and you can feel free to read ahead . . . because Jenine has refrained from spoilers.

Fingersmith

Friendly Bridge: A Memoir

Dedicated to:

Ganny, my parents and my brother.

My Trinidadian Bridge Ladies: Debbie, Wendy, Edna, Doreen, Jenni, Sue, Sally.

The Italian Late-Night Club: Andrew, Jenni, Alan.

The Brockhurst Bridge Club: especially Chris M., Barbara, Judith, Geraldine, Chris S., Michelle -- and Jonathan, who organizes us.

Even if you don't play bridge, I hope that you will find something here.

Last night I attended the final meeting of the year for the Brockhurst Bridge Club. The school is about to break for Easter; and when the term resumes, our fearless leader and organizer likes to take advantage of the long, light evenings to do some gardening. My history with this club, and bridge itself, is a funny one -- and one that illustrates many of the quixotic aspects of my personality. I come from a bridge-playing family, but didn't learn how to play until I moved to Trinidad. I do not look or act much like a bridge player, but I have found some of my dearest friends around the bridge table and there is nothing that I enjoy doing more with my own family. I play infrequently and erratically, but it is something I love; however, I do not love it enough to really work at it with books and online playing and such. It is just a form of socializing for me. I only like to play bridge if I can be with simpatico people.

Some people like to play competitive bridge, and they go to special clubs for this purpose. They use bidding boxes and other specialist paraphenalia; they challenge themselves (and others) with contract bridge; they remember how to keep score and never forget who is supposed to be shuffling, who is dealing, and where the extra pack of cards is supposed to be; they know how to bid correctly, and furthermore, can correctly interpret their partner's bidding; and most importantly, they maintain a careful and respectful silence at all times.

I am not this sort of bridge player at all. I like a bit of "friendly" bridge -- where the stakes are low, and a certain amount of leeway (for all of the above conventions) is given. I like to talk during bridge, especially if I'm the dummy; I like to talk a lot in between hands. I don't mind a bit of teasing and/or mocking; in fact, I find all forms of levity irresistible. I know that losing can be just as fun as winning -- if it is accomplished in the right spirit, and if the other team is the loser! I like nothing more than bidding wildly, playing loosely, and still somehow making my contract. I love it when I have an opening hand; I hate it when I have less than 6 points and therefore have no role other than to be quiet.

I like to think that I am an intuitive bridge player. Although I am no-part gypsy, with no proven history of extra-sensory perception, I tend to put a lot of stock into how I feel about the game at hand. Although I more or less know the rules of bidding -- but am always getting confused between the American and ACOL systems, hybrid creature that I am -- I also go with my gut on whether or not we have enough points to take it to game or rather if we should play it safe because our "fit" is going to be awkward and wonky. Sometimes I am sure that I really know if my partner has, or lacks, a card.

This style of play tends to work best with a fairly conservative partner -- someone who thinks carefully before he/she bids or plays a card. My friend Andrew and I played spectacularly badly together this summer in Italy. Our characters are just too much alike: we are both over-optimistic and overly aggressive as well. We just want to play too much. Then, when things start going badly, we get even more out of control and start behaving like crazy gamblers -- bidding for even greater stakes in order to recoup our losses. Our partnership gave me new insight into the old maxim that "opposites attract." (I knew that there had to be some explanation for my marriage!)

The problem with intuitive play is that bridge is basically a mathematical game. You count points; you count cards; you assess probabilities. I am rubbish at all of that; but rather than work harder to overcome my natural mathematical deficiencies, I prefer to just pick my partners carefully. I don't really understand chemistry all that well, either, but I'm always alive to the chemistry of friendship. I try to avoid prolonged exposure to anyone whose personality reacts badly with my personality; worse than volatility is a combination that renders me dull and inert. What I want is some vinegar mixed with baking soda: lots of bubbles and lots of fizz.

Just recently, I have been reflecting quite a lot on the subjects of friendship and character. There are some bridge "rules" (guidelines, really) which can be applied to many other situations as well -- if one just thinks a bit creatively! Note: the following "terms" are a bit of Trini linguistic callaloo, but I'm sure that the behaviors they describe are universal.

• Playing Ma Rapsey style (otherwise known as leading with your ACES). Do you lead with your good stuff, or do you hang on to it? There are advantages to both strategies: people who put it all out there make the game more transparent and reduce the opportunities for strategy; on the other hand, as every bridge player knows, sometimes you are only going to get one chance to make your Ace. Hold onto it at your peril, because somebody might just be void or have a singleton. Whether you are a Ma Rapsey or not can be compared to the way you eat your dinner. Do you eat your favorite stuff first, or do you save it? (I wonder if the Myers-Briggs people have thought of adding this one to their personality test? I think that it could be quite illuminating.)
• Don't send a boy to do a man's job. In bridge, this rule refers to the sharp disappointment caused when you send out a trump card -- only to be out-trumped. In other words, it is when you get a taste of your own medicine. It is also when you buy a bargain, only to discover that it is cheap goods; or, you pay for what you get.
• Don't rescue your partner. This one may not be immediately obvious to a non-bridge player, particularly since it sounds like something to do with relationship problems, co-addiction and all that. What it really means is: any action you take is probably going to make things worse. The best course of action is no action at all. I was intrigued to discover, just this week, that The New York Times featured the work of an economics lecturer who studies just this common bridge rule (although he probably doesn't think of it in quite this way). Apparently, in times of crisis -- and not just economic crisis -- doing nothing achieves more beneficial results statistically speaking than doing something. Unfortunately, the study of this phenomenon has also highlighted the perverse, contrary fact that emotionally we tend to feel better if we do something -- even if our action makes things worse. (People rushing the banks for their life savings: We're talking about you!) At any rate, good bridge players (and even pretty bad ones) quickly realize that there will be bad situations -- bad fits, shall we say -- that cannot be dodged. If you don't have any points, you've got nothing to offer. If this is all too vague and insubstantial, let me express it in this way: any attempt at rebidding will get you both into deeper doo-doo.

When I first learned how to play bridge in Trinidad, the four of us (three neophytes, one bridge guru) played outside on a terrace overlooking the sea. It was exquisitely beautiful, if a little humid; it was the Caribbean. It felt a little decadent, and let's just say it was probably outside the norm. Perhaps these early experiences gave me a taste for bridge -- but really, I think it was mostly -- like always, with me -- about the people.