The On-line Dish

To look at us, or listen to us, you would wonder if we could spend 20 minutes together, much less the 20 plus years we have been close friends. Sandra is the beatnik, the artist, the flower child who approaches everything in a dramatic yet casual style. Rose has a more classical organized style in her life. She is the scientist, the logical, organized soul of the group. I am the business woman, the dedicated 60+ hour executive that has little time for the decorative arts.

Sandra is the entertainer of the three of us, the extrovert, and the most likely to cook for company. Her busy kitchen always seems to be in disarray. Over the years, I have tried to organize her shelves and drawers but to no avail. With in a short period, she has converted back to the higgledy-piggledy Sandra system of organization.

Sandra never follows a recipe. Her sense of flavors and spices are avant-garde. I often feel the need to sneak more conventional flavors into her stews and soups when she is not looking. Yet her haphazard skills often turn out an excellent variety of food, although the various flavors are not necessarily complimentary. Her eclectic meals could include Sicilian pasta with a Nepalese vegetable dish. Her style is beyond cutting edge, what might be called the bleeding edge.

Now you enter a different world when you walk into Rose’s kitchen. It is ergonomically arranged. I can always find the right knife, bowl or pan. Everything is organized perfectly, spices are alphabetized, the knives are always sharpened, and the counters clear of debris. When Rose makes a salad, there is no leftover water on the salad leaves, everything is cut to perfection, and color coordinated in the bowl. Food is served on the appropriate plates, and always decorated with fresh herbs. Each meal is a perfect picture, even the napkins match the dinner theme.

Although the art of getting there is so different, both Rose and Sandra seem to effortlessly get the meal on the table. When Sandra is preparing the meal, both Rose and I have plenty to say and give lots of advice that is usually ignored. As Sandra chops nonchalantly away, Rose and I sneak the ingredients out of the bowl. I neatly trim the corners cutting off the ends of the vegetables, and Rose skins and deseeds the tomatoes.

On the other hand, when Rose is preparing her meals, Sandra and I just watch appreciatively. She has that Martha Stewart touch, the talent to turn both the preparation and the meal into a work of art. It is like watching a symphony conductor lead a perfect rendition of a difficult classical piece.

We seldom meet in my kitchen because I don’t really cook. I have neither the flowing artistic Sandra style nor the more disciplined classic Rose style. My mode can best be described as the order out style. It is not that I don’t have a nice kitchen, because I do, but it is more often used as an office than a place to create a meal. I have high speed access, microwave popcorn, and on line menus for all the delivery services.

We met over 20 years ago at an organizing meeting for Single Mothers by Choice. Even our methods of motherhood were as varied as our kitchen styles. I adopted a three year old daughter who was orphaned in Korea. Sandra had a child conceived during a torrid love affair with a married congressman. When she found out that she was pregnant, she picked up and moved out of town and conveniently forgot to pass along her forwarding address or phone number.

Rose selected artificial insemination. She spent months pouring over the bios of donors, selecting the hair color, eyes, education, and background. She then assured that there would be enough sample left for a second pregnancy, which she did exactly two years after the birth of her son.

When we met our kids were all about the same age, ranging from Rose’s youngest at 3 to Sandra’s six year old daughter. They often played together when young, but once they graduated to puberty, they had little in common. Sandra’s daughter, Nicole, not surprisingly, was the drama queen, always on stage even when the theatre was dark. Elliot, Rose’s son, was already an accountant at the age of five. He could tell you how many coins were in his piggy bank, what year and where they were minted. My daughter, Gemma, took to computer at a very young age and by the time she was in high school, she was making a living creating web pages. Gemma would sit in the kitchen at the computer for hours, but like me, seldom used the room for cooking. Rose’s younger daughter, Katie, is now in her second year of medical school at Yale University.

Somehow even with the stark contradictions of our lives, we were drawn to each other as fast friends. We have spent years in and out of our homes, attending our kids’ events, supporting each other during our low times, and arguing over nearly everything. Since our kids have left the nests, we have begun to turn our attention to other things. With the same determination that has driven most of our decisions over the years, we have decided to take on the challenge of overcoming our current state of singleness. Together we have joined Parents without Partners, the Single wine Group, the Just over Fifty lunch bunch, the Single Express, the Book Club for Singles, and Power Dating for the Older Crowd.

Tonight we will meet in my kitchen. Sandra will supply the cheese and who knows what else platter, Rose is bringing the bottles of wine, and I am supplying the high speed access. We will eat our cheese, sip our wine, and cook up a new kind of dish - the recipe for finding love on line.

To Blog or Not to Blog

To blog or not to blog - that is the question
Whether tis nobler in the mind to read
The inane verse of outrageous ramblers
Or to comment against a sea of nonsense,
And by opposing, end the rantings?

Swan Upping - a Royal tradition in the UK 

Metric Made Easy

One of the many challenges to living in the UK was learning the metric measurements for cooking. Let me start out by saying that I do not come by cooking naturally. Cooking by itself is a new challenge for me. My culinary talent can best be described as the order out approach. Before moving to the UK, I had microwave popcorn, high speed access and on line menus for all the delivery services. The Chinese restaurant around the corner was so accustomed to stopping at my house, that the driver often showed up just expecting I had an order.

Then miraculously, I am transported to a lovely little village with no cooked delivery services, no seven-elevens, and no nearby Chinese take out. Recipes call for metric measurements. The oven has metric temperature (luckily it is not an AGA, but I will save that for another story), and strange symbols for cooking styles like baking or broiling. The markets don’t have the few ingredients that I know how to cook with, including microwave popcorn. There are interesting vegetables like swedes (I always thought it was a nationality), and lots of different words that we need to get use to like crisps and biscuits (chips and cookies).

Faced with the challenge first of cooking, and then cooking with metric, I learned to survive. After a few frustrating attempts, I found even metric measurements can be understood if you start with some wine.

A walk Along the Thames 

Blogging is Like Walking the Thames Path

My blogging meanders along much as the Thames Path. At one point, a vista is beside me, then after a few twists and turns along the river path, it is right in front of me. One of the amazing things about walking the river path is that your view can change so radically with each twist and turn.

My blog is much like that. Sometimes it is filled with musings of what is behind me, sometimes with thoughts of what is in front of me, and sometimes it is just a detour. I might meander along jotting just a few thoughts down, or let my thoughts run down river very quickly.

Blogging is permission to let your thoughts wander and the freedom to not have to apologize for it.

Did I make a wrong turn?

Learning to be a Lady of Leisure

My time has become my own, and I worry that it is wasted. I always have been a dawdler, but now I seem to be perfecting the skill.

Dawdle according to the dictionary is to take a long time to do something or walk somewhere. To me it means that second or third cup of coffee over the newspaper, or just wandering through the email. My how does it get to be 11 AM so soon?

Does this mean I would be called lazy - Let's see the definition of lazy is not liking work and physical activity. Well I don't qualify there. I really liked work, I just seem to like not working better. And as far as physical activity, I really do enjoy getting to the gym when I can. That is good, I can now say I am not lazy. I can't believe it is already 1:30 PM.

Lady of leisure is defined as a woman who does not work and has a lot of free time. I don't work, but I don't feel like I have a lot of free time. I seem to run out of time so quickly. Look at me now. I was planning to do so much, and it is already late afternoon. Where does all that free time go?

Anyway, as they say, nothing good is free, and right now my time is very good.

The Collector

I seem to collect characters in my life the same way others collect coins or stamps. I remember many from my high school drama crowd, but I really perfected the art after I entered college. During my third year at the University, I moved into “the house,” a perfectly charming turn of the century two story building. Originally there were four of us Lyndi, Carol, Janine and myself. We met during our first year in the dorms, and thought we would make good housemates and friends forever. We liked to call ourselves the Gang of Four.

Over the next few years, the original gang of four became a crowd of many. We added several new faces – both people and pets. We learned that the Gang of Four might not be the best of housemates or the best of friends. As old faces moved out, new faces moved in. The many additions to the “house” included live ins, live outs and hanger on-ers. At times it was hard to tell the difference between the actual residents and the visitors.

The first additions to the house were the varied and a sundry stranger than truth pets that became a part of the general scenery. First there was my dog, Garbanzo Huckleberry Bean Hart. Garbanzo was a very sweet mutt, but had a nervous condition in his back legs that caused him to shake, creating the sensation that he was dancing. Then we had Lyndi’s dog, Rigor-mortis, a true Heinz 57 variety. Unfortunately, Riggy, as we called him, lived up to his name when he met an early death. During the funeral which we held in our back yard, rigor mortis set in to poor Rigor-mortis, and consequently we had to dig deeper and deeper to get him buried. Carol then added her dog, a Lhasa Apsa that answered to the name of Muffy, a tiny dog with an overbite that made her look like Mick Jagger. There were a variety of other pets in the house as well including Nanny, the police dog who attacked males with beards, and the one lone cat in the crowd, Hilda. Hilda was especially good at catching birds and bringing them into the house as treats for the rest of us. Henry’s boa constrictor added a whole new dimension .

The people were almost, if not more, colorful than the assorted pets. One of the originals who moved out early was Janine. She was convinced she was the mother of us all, and consistently laid down the house rules. Although she seemed to have her act together, it turned out that she had been pretending to attend school for the last two years of her college education. This only became evident when her parents and fiancé showed up for her non-existent graduation ceremonies.

And then there was Marlee. We never knew what her name had been before she had it legally changed to Marlee, no last name, just Marlee. I guess she was inspired by Cher, but unlike Cher, one name didn’t necessarily tell it all. When she moved into the house, she took over a hall closet for her bedroom. It was years later that I found out that she had actually had been in the closet those years.

Lenny became a fixture when he moved his van into the backyard. He actually lived in the van, and would periodically come in to shower and take advantage of 20th century indoor plumbing. When we first met Lenny he was a straight laced tennis player, but by the time he moved into the backyard, something had happened to him. Not too many years ago, he was spotted still dressed in his long flowing robes and blonde Rasta locks that became his persona.

I can’t forget to mention Bruce. He took over a room one summer when several of the house mates decided to travel. It was then I really learned the concept of exhibitionism. Luckily he was gone fairly quickly, but it was certainly an eye opener.

And, of course there was Shirley, the kleptomaniac, Sue the existentialist, Charlie, the so-called car mechanic and Jim the environmentalist. There was also Tina the folk singer, and Harold, whose six foot girlfriend would show up for every holiday at midnight dressed in costume. You can’t imagine the fright of seeing a six foot Easter bunny jumping around a room at midnight.

After a few years in “the house”, I decided it was time to move on. The overflow of animals and people no longer felt like home, but more like being a part of a circus.

I returned a few years ago on a business trip, and found my way back to the old place. It was empty and had a condemned sign on the front. I am confident that there were many lives and many stories enclosed in those walls, and possibly numerous animals buried in the backyard. My own experience was a brief time in its history but for me it will always loom as my best collection of characters.

Meet me on the First Floor

As I walked through passport control, I had no idea the onslaught of changes I was about to experience. My life became as unpredictable as a tornado. None of the reading I had done, or the visits I had made, prepared me for the events that were about to swirl around me.

I had become an American Expat in England, and my adventure had just begun. It was like entering a parallel universe. Everything seemed familiar and yet different. Driving on the left, roundabouts, English culture and simple conversation all became challenges to experience.

I had never thought of English as a foreign language.. At first it seemed that I did not understand most of what I heard around me. After a few weeks, and I say this with all humility, the ‘foreign accents’ became less challenging. I could stop nodding my head, just because I was embarrassed to ask someone to repeat what they had just said said. Once I began to understand the words that were said, then I discovered a whole new vocabulary. What is an aubergine? I can’t figure out how to get my bangs cut. We don’t wear a boob tube, we watch it. Even the symbols on the burner, I mean hob, are different. Pelican crossing, zebra, or is that ze’bra, toucan, puffin – is this driving or walking in a zoo? I found I needed an English – American Dictionary, both for definition and pronunciation.

One of my best language lessons came in the mail box. I had been out for the day, and when I got home there was a note from the mailman telling me that he had left my package in the wheeley bin store. I had not remembered seeing a Wheeley Bin Store anywhere. But I am good at doing research, so I began looking for the store. First I checked the yellow pages, and then I checked the internet. I came up empty handed. I knew I hadn’t seen it anywhere in the village. So I decided to check with my neighbors. After some incredulous looks, I was finally pointed to my wheeley bin store. So after looking for my trash on the internet, I discovered my package in the hut where the garbage can was kept.

I could not stop laughing. Once I calmed down, I decided I needed to head to a pub for a bitter. I called an English friend to meet me at the pub. She was agreeable, eager to learn what was so funny, and said to meet her on the first floor. I went into town, and waited and waited, and waited. After a while, with a pint or two in me, I headed home. I contacted her later that evening to see what had happened. And once again, the parallel universe had tricked me up. This was the day I learnt that the first floor was a floor above the ground floor. You could have picked me off the floor with a dust bin sweeper.

Cheers.