The Wicked Penguin

Steve and I both enjoying cooking, but we have slightly different styles in the kitchen. (He's reading over my shoulder and he says he's a little bit country and I'm a little bit rock and roll. That's the difference.) Steve loves kitchen appliances. When I get out the rice, he gets out the rice cooker and when I retrieve the yeast to make bread, he retrieves the bread machine. Normally I would just make the rice in the pot, and I prefer making the bread in a bowl with my hands. I really like some of his appliances, like the remoska. Others, like the chopper, I can do without.

Recently, we came into possession of a pressure cooker. Steve loves it. He wants to cook everything in it. He wants to own a complete set with different sized pots. He wants to take our family picture with the pressure cooker on his knee. I am less fond of our new gadget. It makes me nervous. I'm convinced the hissing noise indicates an impending explosion and the little spinning bit on the top looks like a penguin to me. A wicked penguin. Steve claims that the penguin is friendly and that he spins around because he's doing a happy dance, but I have my doubts.

Look at that!

Remind you of anyone?

The Secret of Steve's Success

I started volunteering at the city library today. The man who is my immediate supervisor is about to retire and is a bit of an English stereotype--very well-spoken with a dry sense of humor and an inclination to offer visitors tea. He appears to know everything about the history of the UK and I've learned all kinds of things about grave-robbing traps and medieval buildings and bridge disasters while spending time with him. He has a project in mind for me to work on, but he seems to be most interested that I feel NO PRESSURE about anything--arriving at a certain time, completing work, etc. Instead, I am to enjoy myself and feel free to use the kettle and read up on whatever fascinating files I encounter (so far, my favorite files are 19th century drawings of local gravestones). I am happy to oblige.

The library has quite a lot of information on the poet William McGonagall, and my supervisor is a bit of an expert on him. We ran across several files that refer to McGonagall, which excited me because McGonagall is an important part of my relationship with Steve. McGonagall is a terrible, but much-loved, local poet from the late 1800s, and Steve wooed me with his awful verse. Here's a little gem of an excerpt from "The Sprig of Moss":

And when life's prospects at times appear dreary to ye,

Remember Alois Senefelder, the discoverer of Lithography

Magical, no? To be so brilliantly bad at your craft is a real gift. A gift.

I Like to Wear My Wellies

We (mostly Steve) built a cold frame this weekend out of junk we found around the allotment. Steve did all of the sawing and drilling and using of pliers. I did all of the plexiglass steadying and all of the bolt fastening and all of the wandering off to weed the raspberries.

We're going to plant it full of delicious salad ingredients.

And then the slugs will attempt a takeover.

But we will prevail.



I hope.

The Scottish Language (and Me)

I can't understand the local Scottish dialect.

Steve wanted me to ask our allotment president about using ("hiring") the rototiller ("rotovator") on our plot. I did. I have no idea what the man told me. I came home and reported to Steve that I believe I heard something about a funeral on Friday and that the machine was available either in a blue building or from the man in blue coveralls or possibly from the man in blue coveralls at the blue building. If he wasn't at a funeral.

"Hello, Betty. I'll have five plain pies and an onion one as well."

My New Best Friend

Steve and I stopped at a car boot sale on Saturday. A woman was selling little, tiny, toddler-sized wellies for 2 pounds. They sent me into raptures and I kept thinking about them and talking about them.

MBC: Oh my goodness, weren't those little wellies the best thing you've ever seen?

Steve: Not really. They look just like regular wellies, but they're small.

MBC: I know! They're so small. They're tiny to fit on little tiny, baby feet that can go tramping through the garden. (pause to think about whether I should go back and buy 12 pairs of tiny wellies) Maybe I should buy some baby wellies.

Steve: We don't have a baby.

MBC: Don't they make you wish we had a baby? So we could squash it into little wellies?

Steve: They're just little boots.

A day or two later I was looking at zooborns and I saw this great photo and I made Steve look at it while I gushed over how sweet and tiny that little jumping goat is.



MBC: Look at this goat! Isn't this the sweetest goat you've ever seen? Doesn't this goat make you wish we had a baby? (I'm really not campaigning for a child. Tiny things just make me think about babies.)

Steve: But it's a goat. It makes me wish we had some livestock maybe.

Last night we had an activity with our little 8 to 11-year-olds at church. Darling, red-headed Lydia came in late, sat down on a chair in the first row, swiveled around, looked me up and down, pointed her two fingers toward her eyes and then at me in that I've-got-my-eye-on-you gesture, and then turned back around in order to raise her hand every 2 seconds to give the missionaries what for. Later in the evening she held my hand while she prattled on about everything she's ever thought and told me that she knows all about me and how I've been talking about her. (I have. Her Dad was over a few weeks ago.) I want her to be my best friend in Scotland. I want her to have slumber parties at my house and to keep me amused with her sassy, 8-year-old ways.

Then we drove Chloe home (after she gave an earnest closing prayer in which she prayed for the people who were "destructioned" in the volcano) and she talked and talked and talked in her tiny, soft voice to Steve about where she goes to school (with detailed directions on how to reach it) and how her Dad dropped her off at the swimming pool before checking to see if there were life guards and about the Travelodge where they stayed over Easter holidays.

When Chloe got out of the car, Steve turned to me and said, "Now, I want a baby."

Which is not any kind of announcement. But next time we're at the car boot sale, I'm buying boots.

Music for the Days When School Kids Bug You

Yesterday I had an appointment with the volunteer coordinator at the library downtown. We live across the street from a high school and while I was waiting for the bus outside our flat, the school kids were pouring down the road to re-enter the school following their lunch break. Their lunch break wherein each day they surge across the road and through our complex to get to the trails and shops behind us. They do not strike me as a very promising group of youngsters, as the ones I encounter are always trying to do things like break down our gate and kick trash into the bushes. I'm sure there's another set of school children somewhere who are curing cancer and training seeing eye ponies, but they don't visit our flats at the lunch hour.

So, I was waiting at the bus stop and weeping for the future of the world and listening to an album that Steve downloaded onto my MP3 player. These are the songs that were pleasing me as I felt myself turning into a curmudgeon.

This is Steve's favorite band.


They played a concert with Sarah Harmer on my album.

Highlights of Luxembourg, Germany, and France

These were some of my favorite delights in Luxembourg, Germany, and France.

Is this not the most fantastic cathedral door panel you have ever seen? I'm assuming it's a depiction of David dancing before the Lord with his lyre. Check out the foot action! The angel-shaped door pull is also very pleasing.

The buildings in Oberammergau, Germany are painted with images. This building was covered in fairy tales. Here Hansel and Gretel are shoving the witch into the oven (just as she deserves).

A rock star awesome monument in Oberammergau.

A German maypole. They're better with the little, dangly, elven figures attached.

We drove from Germany to Calais through northern France on the back roads to avoid the high tolls on the motorway. The rows of trees along the French secondary roads were lovely.

The back roads took us through WWI battle areas--the Argonne and Somme Valleys--and we stopped at 3 or 4 cemeteries. This one was full of Commonwealth graves for unknown soldiers. The markers were inscribed for "A Soldier of the Great War" at the top and "Known Unto God" at the bottom. It was a little bit heartbreaking.

Checking Off Another World Heritage Site

On our way from Germany back to the UK, I planned our route through France so that we could visit a few World Heritage sites. Some of them were better than others. For example, the citadel in Arras is part of the Fortifications of Vauban, but when we got there we found that it is still very much a working military installation and it did not appear friendly to visitors.

Notre Dame de Reims, the former coronation site of French kings, however, was lovely.

There's currently restoration work being completed at the cathedral. The statues on the right side of this photo have been cleaned. The ones on the left have not.

I love this detail. The scene is part of a larger carving depicting the Last Judgment. This is a demon leading chained up sinners down to hell.

These are the rose windows as seen from inside the cathedral.

Chagall windows!

The woman in green on the right is Mary. Beautiful!

Welcome to France, Buffalo Bill

France is known for its excellent cuisine. I love their bread and cheese and I went all weak-kneed at this patisserie window in Arras.


However, we never found a good, reasonably-priced French restaurant on this last trip.

One night we couldn't find any good restaurant options. We'd been driving all day and we were hungry and tired and every restaurant we checked was priced too high and only offered pub food or Chuck-a-Rama-like buffets anyway. We resorted to eating at a moderately-priced restaurant near our hotel, an "American" restaurant.

Don't judge us.



Our waiter wore a giant belt buckle and a bolo tie. Instead of being served bread before the meal, we were given a bowl of popcorn. Our placemats could be turned over to reveal special games that involved word searches and puzzles about the Wild West.

It was so sad.

And we were in France.


Fortunately, Germany totally came through for us on the food front. All of our meals there were so delicious.

Bunk Beds are Not Romantic

We spent the last week in Europe to help our friend Sue Anne move, which involved traveling through England, France, Belgium, Luxembourg, and Germany.

We spent our two nights in Germany at a secret, bird research facility. (Well, it may not be secret, but it is hidden away in the middle of a Bavarian forest and protected by security.)

We spent two nights in England at the beginning and end of our journey. The first night we stayed at a really delightful hotel.

The bed was fancy.



And the sitting area was fancy.



And the ceiling was fancy.



We thought of that British hotel fondly as we moved on to France and stayed at Mister Bed, the cheapest accommodation in the country.



Sometimes France is less romantic.

The Photos are Coming

We are back from the Continent. The UK border patrol didn't want to let me back in this time. They pulled me aside and consulted a supervisor and put The Fear in me but finally relented just in time for us to catch our ferry from Calais.

We did not buy souvenirs, but we did bring home sausages and cheeses and mustards and other delightful foods from Germany and France. (All the perishables went into the cooler that plugs into the cigarette lighter, a device that Steve calls the "CoolTron.") Steve picked out this spread that I was not enthusiastic for him to purchase, but it has changed my life. Its introduction into our home is one of the best things that has ever happened to me. It tastes like spreadable digestive biscuits. Mmmmm.

I Make a Lot of Lists Lately, Eh?

1. I drove today! I dropped Steve off at school and then I drove entirely unassisted (because the sat nav doesn't know where Aldi is) to Sainsbury's (because it turns out that I don't know where Aldi is either).

2. We're driving to Germany tomorrow, or, rather, Steve is driving to Germany and I'm riding along and taking very seriously my post as Snack Mistress.

3. We recently inherited a bottle of Jaffa orange curd AND I happen to have some chocolate ganache in the refrigerator, making it possible for me to now turn any food into some form of Jaffa cake (Jaffa cakes being one of my favorite British treats). If I weren't so very lazy, I'd make Jaffa cake crepes tonight.

4. I'm reading The Visible World. It's very good.

I Can't Tell You Anything

You know how sometimes you should be blogging or starting the rye bread from the new rye bread starter you made because your husband's in love with Andrew Whitley's bread techniques or packing for your trip to Germany or, at the very least, cleaning the bathroom, but you can't because there's a new episode of Masterchef on iPlayer? Yeah. Sometimes that's how it is.

A Full Report in Photos

The weekend as documented by a photographer lacking photography skills:

Saturday we spent the morning at the allotment. Steve did manly things like rebuilding the shed with his bare hands (and some power tools). I wore my brand new (and very cheery, I think) garden coveralls and killed plants. We're ripping up flowers to make way for delicious root vegetables.

In the afternoon Steve made orange-coconut buns for Sue Anne's going away party at the Dunino Den

where there were egg races and a bonfire and little children tramping about in wellies.

Sunday we visited a park built on a former volcano

that includes a graveyard
looking out over the water
to my favorite bridge.

And then Steve did some more cooking magic by roasting up a chicken for Easter dinner with traditional carrot and turnip mash and the best gravy man has ever known.

It was a great weekend. I even got to talk to my wee marmots.

It's National Poetry Month (in that other country I live in sometimes)

Remember Amy Lowell? She wrote "The Letter." This is another poem she wrote that I enjoy. I find the calling out and shouting bit a bit too much, but the last two lines are lovely and the phrase "wedge you away from me" is such a nice image. I like Ms. Lowell's turn of phrase.

The Taxi
by Amy Lowell

When I go away from you
The world beats dead
Like a slackened drum.
I call out for you against the jutted stars
And shout into the ridges of the wind.
Streets coming fast,
One after the other,
Wedge you away from me,
And the lamps of the city prick my eyes
So that I can no longer see your face.
Why should I leave you,
To wound myself upon the sharp edges of the night?


My hot cross buns call to me. (Happy Good Friday!)

Things You May (or May Not) Want to Know

1. I drove the car in town yesterday. I did not cry. I did chant every few minutes, "We drive on the left. We drive on the left."

2. I do not know where to buy Andouille sausage in Scotland. The Internet is not forthcoming with this secret.

3. We bought crazy Nigerian beans yesterday at an African shop. The beans are poisonous if eaten unboiled. The shop is full of deep freezers stuffed with meat parts in clear plastic bags. We also bought an African hard chicken out of one of the freezers. I'm going to stew it for a million hours and see what happens.

4. I love Battenberg cake.

5. I replaced the running list of what I'm reading on the blog to a separate page on the blog. The link is at the top of the sidebar.

6. I cannot remember to say trousers instead of pants here. Three different people have reminded me that the meaning of pants is quite different here and possibly not a term I want to keep tossing around, but I forget. And when suggesting to someone that she doesn't want to date someone without any initiative, it's much more fun to say that a man needs to get some man-pants than it is to say he needs some man-trousers. You see what I'm saying?