A Royal Recipe

Last Friday I wanted to post a special recipe in honor of the royal wedding of Prince William and Kate Middleton, but I couldn't come up with anything.

True, we lived in England for more than a year, but I cooked, and I cooked American style. Also, I was a poor grad student so I didn't have the time or the inclination to try new recipes and cook like I do now.

So, in lieu of a recipe, a story from those long-ago days:

I remember one of the first meals I made after we moved to Canterbury. I was no novice cook, thanks to my mom and my time in 4-H, and I am relatively sharp, but I was baffled that the oven only went to 260 degrees. I figured everything would just take longer so I cranked it up, put my meal in and walked away.

About 20 minutes later it hit me: The English use the Celsius scale. I was cooking at 500 degrees Fahrenheit.

Whoops!

In my defense the oven was oddly small and the kitchen (which we shared with another couple) also had a dorm-sized refrigerator. So I think it was an understandable mistake.

I realized my error in time to rescue the meal, and Jeff and I had a good laugh about it.

I learned all the foibles of that little gas oven and the art of getting half a dozen meals out of a five-pound chicken while I was getting my Master's degree.

Luckily for our appetites, I also learned how to convert Celsius to Fahrenheit!

© Trippin' Mama 2011

Writer's Workshop: Excuse Me?

When Jeff and I were living in England, we quickly learned that although we spoke English, we did not speak the Queen's English.

I was constantly reminded of this when I would refer talk about my pants and my classmates would all titter. Turns out "pants" are "underpants" in England. "Trousers" is the proper term for what we Americans call "pants."

Of course, most Brits knew these Americanisms and were very tolerant of us, besides snickering over my "pants" from time to time. And we tried to adapt, learning to visit the chemist for prescriptions and referring to the trunk of the car as the "boot." So for the most part we all understood each other.

Then one day Jeff came home from his job at the chemistry lab. He told me that he was working that day when a colleague hurried into the room and said, "Professor So-and-So is running down the hall carrying a Winchester."

What?! I panicked just hearing him tell me this story.

Jeff was looking for a safe place to hit the deck when it occurred to him that no one else seemed the least bit disturbed by this announcement.

He slowly stood from his semi-crouch and said, "What exactly is a Winchester? Because where I come from it's a rifle."

His colleagues laughed and told him it was a large flask -- a simple piece of glassware common in chemistry labs. It was still a little concerning that someone was running down the hallway with a large flask -- an experiment gone awry, perhaps? But not the alarming announcement Jeff thought it was.

We had a good chuckle over the miscommunication then, and we laughed about it again the other night, some 15 years later. Thanks, Mama Kat for reminding us about a good memory with prompt #1: Describe a time when you had difficulty communicating with someone who speaks a different language than you.

It seems that sometimes a Winchester isn't a Winchester after all.

© Trippin' Mama 2010

Writer's Workshop: The Mystery of the Missing Shoes

"Christy, I can't find my shoes. Have you seen my shoes?" Peter said.

"I haven't seen them. Are you sure you were wearing shoes when you got here?" I answered.

"Ummmm. I think so."

Peter and I and our 23 classmates had just completed our Master's degrees in International Conflict Analysis at the University of Kent in Canterbury, England. It was a two-year degree crammed into one year, and we had worked our tail feathers off. Seriously.

Ours was one of the brightest classes the University had ever seen. More than 20 percent of us graduated with distinction. Typically, that number would be less than 10 percent.

Though you'd never know it from the way we celebrated at our graduation party.

Much like we had at our Thanksgiving party, we drank. A lot. Enough that shoes disappeared and their very existence was questioned.

I recall making Pimm's with something called "light, white mixing spirits." It was grain alcohol, pure and simple. And that stuff did not go down smoothly, let me tell you. But it went down. As did the wine, the margaritas (warm, no rocks, because we were in England and apparently ice is more valuable than gold there), the beer, and probably a few other things I don't exactly remember.

The weather was gorgeous and we were outside. At some point most of us removed our shoes. And at the end of the party most of us were hunting through the bushes for Peter's shoes. I'm sure our professors regretted granting a few of our degrees with distinction as they watched us.

Many of my classmates have gone on to do brilliant things. (Of course, only one of us went on to do brilliant things AND had triplets!)

Peter is in the midst of a very distinguished academic career. Kristen has done some amazing work at a couple different embassies. Every time I reconnect with Amanda she's in a different part of the world solving problems. Elisabeth and Ananda both work for the International Peace Research Institute in Oslo.

A brilliant group indeed.

But we never did find Peter's shoes.

Play along with Mama Kat's Writer's Workshop. This week's prompt was to tell about a time you found yourself barefoot, but we writers are allowed a little creative license, no?

© Trippin' Mama 2010

An English Tradition: Boxing Day

As my faithful readers know, when Jeff and I were first married we lived in Canterbury, England for a year and a half. We celebrated some pretty memorable holidays there, including Thanksgiving and Boxing Day.

While we imported Thanksgiving as an excuse for a party, Boxing Day is a traditional English holiday. Boxing Day was traditionally a day for giving gifts to people who work for you (laborers and servants) or for making charitable gifts. But, it has become a day for visiting friends and neighbors, often to give a small sweet or gift.

We did not know this.

So, we spent Christmas hosting a friend from the States who was studying in Spain and a fellow student of mine who was from Belarus (a former Soviet state). I made a big Christmas dinner and Sergei brought as his gift four bottles of vodka and the world's worst cake, which he purchased. I don't remember eating the cake, but I do remember drinking the vodka. And drinking and drinking...

Sergei never seemed to run out of things to toast. At some point I started to throw my shots over my shoulder so I wouldn't have to drink any more. The evening ended with the hostess laying down saying, "Turn the lights out when you leave, would you?"

Sergei left as if he'd never had a drop, but the rest of us were a little less steady. No one was in any shape to clean up, so we left the place a total wreck and went to bed.

Sometime late the next morning we recovered enough to drag ourselves from our beds. Chris, our friend from the States, and Jeff went down into town so Chris could see some of the sights and take some pictures. After they left I debated whether to go back to bed or to clean up.

Now you have to understand that our place was tiny. As in 12x12 tiny. We had one room for sleeping, eating and studying. It was tight quarters! We shared a kitchen and a bathroom down the hall. So when I say the place was a complete mess, I mean the WHOLE place. There wasn't a door to close or a neat room where we could go.

And yet, thanks to our Belarusian friend's hospitality, I almost laid back down in the middle of the mess and went to sleep.

But, I just couldn't do it. I washed all the dishes, threw out the empty bottles, scrubbed the carpet, ran the vacuum, tackled the kitchen and finally took a shower myself. I had just finished getting dressed when the bell rang. I ran downstairs, thinking that Jeff and Chris had forgotten the key.

And there on my doorstep was Jeff's professor John and his lovely wife Mavis, come to visit for Boxing Day. Of course the only polite thing to do was to invite them in and offer tea. But I may have had a series of small strokes when I thought about how awful this could have been had I not cleaned up.

Now John and Mavis are two of the nicest people you could ever hope to meet, and I am certain that they would have politely and graciously ignored the mess. But I'm sure glad I didn't have to leave them on my doorstep while I threw dirty dishes into my closet.

Shortly after I prepared tea for our guests, I heard Jeff on the stairs. I met him in the hallway. He had heard our voices and had a look of absolute horror on his face.

"John and Mavis are here," I said.

He could hardly speak. "In our apartment?"

"Yes, and you owe me one," I said as I opened the door to an immaculate room and a nice tea set out on the table.

We enjoyed a pleasant hour with our company, and breathed a huge sigh of relief when they left.

I'm sure there's a lesson here about always being prepared. Or not overindulging. Or at least knowing the local customs. Or possibly about not drinking with a Russian.

Not that I learned any of those lessons, except possibly the one about local customs.

I actually like the idea of Boxing Day as a day to visit with your friends and neighbors. So come on over.

Just be prepared to take a booster seat off your chair, ignore the fact that the floor in Highchair Alley needs to be scrubbed, and step over a couple dozen My Little Pony pieces when you get here.

Maybe if you're lucky, I'll serve vodka.

Memories of Days Gone By

Right after Jeff and I got married, which was 15 years ago this month, we lived in England while I did my Master's degree. We did some traveling while we were there, including a few trips to France. As anyone who has been there can tell you, the fruit tarts are out of this world!

Excuse my drool, but yum!

Seriously, I have dreams about these tarts. Luscious fruit on a bed of slightly sweet vanilla cream and a crust that's so tender! Mmmmm...

Once when we were overseas, Jeff went to France and left me behind studying. (Unfair!) But, being the WBH (World's Best Husband) even way back then, he brought back a box with two beautiful little fruit tartlets in it. He went to take a shower and when he came back he found an empty box and a very grateful wife.

Unfortunately, both of the tartlets were not for me.

I believe that is as close as we have ever come to divorce.

You think I'm kidding.

I'm not.

What can I say? The French can make pastry like no one else!

Anyway, ever since then I have attempted to recreate The Fruit Tarts That Nearly Led to the End of My Marriage.

When the spring berries appear in the store, I start searching for the perfect recipe. There are thousands out there, and while many were good, none were quite right.

After 15 years, I'd pretty much resigned myself to another swing and a miss. Something that was good enough to make us say, "Almost..." and vow to go back to France again someday.

Paris, 2002. More research!

Then this year rolled around. I had no intentions of making a tart. Too much work! Too much time! But, a 4 lb. carton of strawberries and a 2 lb. carton of blueberries from Costco convinced me that I needed to do something with all that fruit.

Since I am short on time, I decided to forgo trolling the Internet and all of the big name chefs' cookbooks for recipes. I pulled Joy of Cooking off my shelf and looked for a fast, easy fruit tart.

Good, old Joy of Cooking. I've only had my copy for a couple years. Got it for Christmas one year and thought, "I don't really need another cookbook." Then I made a few things out of it and realized how very, very wrong I was! If you don't have this cookbook, get it. Now. Amazon is always open!

Now where was I...? Oh, yes. Short on time. So what's easy? Pat in the pan shortbread crust. Perfect. Nothing to roll out. I'll use that.

Vanilla pastry cream. Sure! Why not? It's about the 40th recipe for cream that I've tried, but it looked simple and fast to make. Though all three babies cried the entire three minutes I had to stir the filling. Of course.

A little tip to moisture proof the crust with an egg yolk glaze during baking and a couple tablespoons of melted jam before adding the cream, some gorgeous fruit on top and...

PERFECTION!

Or, at least close enough to perfection to BEGIN to redeem myself after that critical error I made 15 years ago. (Not that WBH would hold anything like that against me or bring it up annually, especially not for more than a decade. Unless, of course, it meant I'd make this tart more often.)

I'd post a picture, but I'm sure you've all seen an empty pie plate before.