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Sen-Sen Memories
One interesting thing about having grown up in a different country than the one in which I currently live is the fact that I had a totally different childhood experience from my British friends. Even those who are close to my age grew up playing different games. Granted, some were the same games with different names: while I played checkers and Tic-Tac-Toe the Brits played draughts and Noughts & Crosses, and the American fusbol was identical to the British "table football". But Conkers is uniquely British, whereas the basketball game Horse is obviously an American pastime. As to children's television, my British friends are quite familiar with "The Flintstones", "Bugs Bunny", and "Scooby Doo"; but while I and my American peers grew up on programs like "Rocky and Bullwinkle", "Crusader Rabbit", "Captain Kangaroo", "Engineer Bill", and "Romper Room", British children were watching things like "Bagpuss", "The Clangers", "Bill and Ben the Flower Pot Men", and "The Magic Roundabout".
We also grew up in different cultures of sweets. Any Brit considers it normal to get a Flake with one's ice cream, whereas an American would never expect such a garnish. And even though a lot of the chocolate bars were practically identical they were branded differently: Bounty (Mars) vs. Mounds (Hershey's), Marathon vs. Snickers, etc.
But while British kids were getting hyperactive on Kali, Flying Saucers, and boiled sweets, American kids like me were munching Walnettos, Aplets and Cotlets, and salt water taffy.
And then there were, and still are, Sen-Sens. I was reminded of these startling little treats the other night while watching the film The Aviator, where in a 1920s bar scene a cigarette girl offers "cigars, cigarettes, Sen-Sens?" Apparently Sen-Sens never made it across the pond from their birthplace in Rochester, New York, so my British friends missed out on this uniquely wonderful (or horrible) experience.
Sen-Sens are tiny black squares of intensity which come in flat mostly pink foil packets. Developed in the late 1880s by perfume dealers T.B. Dunn & Co., they were first marketed as "breath perfume". The origin of the Japanese-sounding name is unknown, and the ingredients come from all over Europe and Asia.
I was first introduced to Sen-Sens as a teenager when a friend offered one to me. I put it on my tongue and immediately had what's probably a common first reaction: I spit it out and gagged. The taste can best be described as perfumed soap with a vague suggestion of liquorice. But like heroin , sudoku, and Marmite, these little guys are addictive. The next time my friend took out her packet of Sen-Sens I asked for another try, and as quickly as I was revolted by my first taste I fell in love. I couldn't get enough of them. There is something subconsciously nostalgic and indefinably distant and exotic in the overwhelming incense-like atmosphere that fills one's mouth and makes one want to retreat inside one's own oral cavity.
Sen-Sens have been a cultural institution for over a century. When my parents were teenagers doing things teenagers do, they sucked on Sen-Sens to disguise the smell of cigarettes and alcohol on their breath. And for a short time back in California I was in a performance group called the Sen-Sens. So it seems surprising that none of my British friends, young or old, have heard of Sen-Sens. The next time I visit the States I must remember to bring some back home, if only to demonstrate to my British friends just how crazy I really am.
Bagpipes and Apologies
MONDAY: Today's lunch is a homemade trout pate sandwich in a really really chewy rustic roll. I feel a bit like a cat, gnawing and tugging away at my yummy and fragrantly fishy sarnie. If only I could polish this off, give my face a quick wash, and go curl up in a sunny spot for a nap…but alas, I must resume my low-paid human existence.
In a story in a recent Guardian historian and piper Hugh Cheape claimed that Highland bagpipes were invented by the Scottish middle classes in the early 1800s, and therefore they could not have been played at the battles of Culloden in 1745 and Flodden in 1513. This is interesting news to me for the following reason.
As a "Heinz 57" -- as they call us melting-pot Americans with a zillion different nationalities and races in our background -- I suppose I've always considered myself to be a bit more Scottish than I actually am. After all, just because my father's father's father's father's father ad infinitum had a Scottish surname doesn't account for the fact that the Mitchell genes I've inherited have been diluted by my mother's genes, not to mention my mother's father's and mother's genes and my father's mother's genes and all of their various fathers and mothers, on and on throughout the infinite pyramid of genealogy -- and I haven't even taken all the adoptions into account. So that feeling of ancestral pride swelling in my breast whenever I hear the Scottish pipes may be no more than oesophageal reflux. Must have been the Marmite...
I first became excited about bagpipes when I was a young girl. As my father played the trumpet, cornet, and flugelhorn, and my big brother and I were both mutually inclined, I grew up in a house full of musical instruments. One night my father took my brother out to a music shop to see about buying a new guitar. They didn't return until after I'd gone to bed. When I awoke the next morning I told my mother about how I dreamt my brother was standing at the foot of my bed cradling a set of Scottish bagpipes and doing a stunning aural impression of a neighbourhood-wide cat fight. And my mother, with a tired but tolerant smile, told me that was no dream.
Since that time I've become acquainted with the wide world of pipes, especially the Greek pipes or tsambouna of my folk-dancing days and the wonderfully alluring Uilleann pipes of Ireland, both of which are played without blowing into anything. So I suppose my special appreciation of the Scottish pipes may be down simply to an admiration for a strong set of lungs.
WEDNESDAY: Ah, lunch! Lunch yesterday was a wonderful brie from the French cheese stall at the Continental Market last weekend. Sadly they'd run out of what I call "walking camembert", eg. a gloriously fragrant camembert that ages rapidly in the fridge, eventually bursting out and walking across the floor. But the same fromagerie's brie is a good second-best, perhaps not blessed with legs but at least with flippers. Today's lunch is a good strong cheddar with the olive tapenade I bought from a Greek stall. I have to admit it is nearly as good as my own tapenade, which is saying a lot.
I feel like I've lived in the UK long enough to become adept at the British art of apologising. And I'm not referring to the apology as an expression of regret and humility for having offended someone or done someone wrong. I'm referring to the custom of saying "Sorry" in situations where an American would say "Excuse me" -- specifically when trying to maneouvre past others in a crowded or narrow space. Obviously in the UK one finds more crowded and narrow spaces than in a lot of the United States; but the passive "Sorry" as opposed to the active "Excuse me" seems to require a certain amount of timing to execute it properly. For instance, in America, when trying to get past a group of oblivious people on the pavement, I'd simply say "Excuse me" as I push my way through, with my statement acting to alert others as to my presence. This tactic is used all over America, although there are some variations. For instance, an ex-workmate of mine from Detroit told me his family tend to use the more direct "BEEP-BEEP! COMIN' THRU!" as they barge through their obstacles.
But if a person says "Sorry" it really needs to be said either a fraction of a second after the apologiser passes by her obstacles (with a tasteful amount of regret implied), or else said somewhat timidly, as if interrupting a conversation, before attempting to pass. These are simply my general observations and not rules, of course, as sometimes I've witnessed both the obstructed and the obstructers dancing about self-consciously like mating birds, generating an entire chorus of Sorrys.
I've become quite comfortable with "Sorry". But what really irritates me is a phrase I hear over and over again in the library where I work. If I or someone else is slightly blocking an aisle of books and somebody else wants to get through, they often say, "Can I just squeeze past?" To me this is insulting, as if my massive 7-stone-9 girth is obstructing so much of the aisle that another person is forced to make themselves as thin as possible to "squeeze" past me, conjuring up visions of a rat flattening itself into a pancake in order to slip through a locked desk drawer full of biscuits. And when the "squeeze-past" requester happens to be the size of a three-bedroom house, I'm afraid that vision of a wafer-thin rat just flies out the window, and I'm left not insulted but trying to keep myself from bursting out laughing.
No, this "squeezing past" just doesn't cut it. "Sorry" is much better, although I think I'll stick to my very effective "Excuse me", especially when followed by a mildly grateful "Thanks" or "Cheers".
Or perhaps I'll start saying, "BEEP-BEEP! COMIN' THROUGH!"
Marmite on the Moon
TUESDAY: Lunch is mushroom tarragon paté and cream cheese on a sundried tomato rustic roll. I know it sounds a bit odd, but I do like to prove that us pescaveggies can eat a wide variety of fascinating and delicious things.
Speaking of fascinating and delicious brings me to the namesake of this blog: Marmite. For any readers who have never met Marmite, it's a brewer's yeast extract first introduced in 1902 in Burton-on-Trent, from whence Bass Ale and many other famous British ales originated. If you want to know any more, check out my Marmite page or the Marmite FAQ.
The other day I was talking to a workmate about how years ago, after discovering the gooey black magic of Marmite during a holiday in the UK, I was excited to find I could buy Marmite back in America. Perhaps not at the average corner grocery, but at my gourmet liquor deli in California and at an Italian deli in Seattle. (Of course Marmite isn't Italian; but this deli stocked a wide range of European goodies.)
As Marmite is such a unique substance, with their advertising motto saying it all -- you either love it or hate it -- it has become one of those comfort foods from home that Brits sometimes pack when they travel to other countries, along with HP Sauce, Henderson's Relish, and good old fashioned English tea bags. I generally find this habit a bit offensive. I mean, if you're going to visit another culture you should do as they do and not foist your own culture upon them. But in the case of relocating to another country and living there for awhile, I can see how one might be tempted to bring along a treat from home.
Which brings me to the original topic of our conversation: just how far abroad has Marmite actually spread? Further than the edges of an American slice of toast? Do Canadians eat Marmite? Does Vegemite have a monopoly on Australia?
I decided to do a little investigation on the Internet to find out which nationalities speak Marmite. Obviously the French do, as the French marmite is a rounded earthenware cooking pot which inspired the yeasty spread's name. To this day there is still a picture of a marmite on the label. What I learned was that one can purchase Marmite at several shops in Paris, although according to one blogger the French describe Marmite as déguelasse which means "gross". But this comment could relate to the 50% of the French population who would statistically hate Marmite whether they've tried it or not. And the other 50% might love it. This is of course assuming the Marmite love/hate thing has travelled across the Channel.
What impresses me is the fact that Marmite can be purchased all over the world. It can be found at many shops all over the USA, Australia (where it's called OurMate), and South Africa, and at any grocery store in Canada. There are three German cities where one can purchase the black goo; one source in Rome; one shop in Gothenberg, Sweden; two places in Norway; and one shop in Auckland, New Zealand. It can also be purchased in Belgium, the Netherlands, Luxembourg, Switzerland, Spain, Portugal, Gibraltar, Malta, Greece, Denmark, Poland, Romania, Slovenia, Cyprus, Israel (where the more liberal Jews consider it kosher enough), Malaysia, the Philippines, Thailand, Taiwan, Hong Kong, Japan, and all over Singapore. And although it's not strictly sold in the Czech Republic a similar product made by Tesco is available.
Whether you can buy Marmite in Greenland or Antarctica is debatable. And I wouldn't expect to find it in Madagascar or Bolivia or Togo. But who knows? I suppose wherever the Brits travel is fair game. I seriously doubt one can find Marmite on the moon -- unless, of course, one of the astronauts happened to leave a jar up there along with all those Hasselblad cameras.
I wonder if there have been any Marmite-loving astronauts. Imagine if one had accidentally let a jar of Marmite escape into the cosmos, perhaps when she or he was conducting an experiment with Marmite while taking a space walk. Among all the thousands of satellites, objects, tools, gloves, and other debris orbiting the Earth, there might be a jar of Marmite -- a theory I expect you can either love or hate.
