Daily Habits
Sledgehammer Fantasies
TUESDAY: Lunch is a bakery-fresh granary breadcake with currently rare Haas avocado and mature cheddar flavoured with chilli powder, cumin, cayenne, and spring onion. I say "rare" because avocados are currently well over a pound each, so I can't justify treating myself too often. This particular one was only 69p, which is a bargain.
There have been so many news reports lately on the increase in urban crime, specifically of the violent sort. A range of factors are blamed for this rise: an expanded population and hence more crowded conditions, information overload, the failing economy, the widening gap between the haves and the have-nots, poor education, and impatient generations growing up with television as nanny and video games and the Internet as playmates.
But let's not forget one of the major causes of urban violence, particularly in the case of normally peace-loving citizens who suddenly snap and lash out, even going so far as to shoot up a post office or a McDonald's. I'm talking, of course, about faulty alarms. After being kept awake all night by a wailing and whooping car alarm set off by nothing more than a passing cat, who hasn't had fantasies of taking sledge hammer in hand and going forth into the street and smashing said wailing and whooping car into oblivion? And if, after the former vehicle is no longer recognisable as a three-dimensional object, the alarm still insists on blaring, then nobody on the street is safe from the sledgehammer wielder's completely justifiable rage.
Let's start with the most basic of alarm nuisances: the poorly placed smoke detector. I thought the single detector in my rented Seattle house was inconvenient enough, because every time we boiled water or opened a jar of Marmite we would have to throw a tea towel over the infernal thing. But I had yet to experience the home I currently rent in Sheffield. The landlord seems like a nice normal guy, aside from being an obsessive pyrophobe, as there are no less than 5 smoke detectors in our very cosy 3-story terrace house. That means there are 3 detectors on one floor alone. And of course all but one are situated on the high ceilings in impossible-to-reach locations, and they're all wired into the mains so we can't unplug them. Whenever one of us dares to turn on the cooker, Horace -- as we fondly call the detector at the top of the main stairs -- starts beeping away; and if one of us doesn't drop whatever we're doing and charge up the stairs to push Horace's snooze button, the rest of the detectors soon join in with a terrifying chorus of "BEEPBEEP! BEEPBEEP! GET OUT FAST! FIRE! FIRE! THE SKY IS FALLING! THE SKY IS FALLING!"
At least the only nervous wrecks the paranoid smoke detector creates are the building's inhabitants. The detector's big brother, the car alarm, has the power to turn an entire neighbourhood into a posse of screaming vigilantes. One afternoon years ago in Seattle when I was working at home, I was so engrossed in my computer that it took me probably a good hour to notice the whee-ooh-whee-ooh-ing of a nearby car alarm. As this was late in the afternoon when people are coming and going I figured the alarm would either turn itself off or its owner would arrive home from work and disconnect it. After another 2 hours my nerves were ravaged to such an extreme that my body had become one massive facial tic. After another half hour I quickly scrawled an angry note with my shaking hand and stomped outside in search of the offending car. I had intended to tap my note to the windscreen; but quite a few other neighbours had got there before me, as the windscreen was plastered in notes, some polite but firm and some satisfyingly obscene. Like a war veteran placing a wreath on a memorial I solemnly and proudly added my note to the angry collage.
What prompted me to write about alarms is the fact that I had very little sleep last night. In my dreams I kept hearing a chorus of birds warbling. When, at 1:00am, I finally became conscious, I realised the warbling was much too regular and mechanical to have been produced by living things, and I gradually realised it was a house alarm from just down the road. As there was no variation to the pitch or tempo I found it impossible to fall back into Slumberland. By the time I arose at 7:00 the alarm was still warbling loudly and strongly in perfect time with my gnashing teeth.
It really makes me wonder: is the potential reduction in car thefts and house burglaries really worth the increase in gross violence inflicted on car and house owners? It doesn't make much sense to me. But then I'm feeling pretty sleep-deprived at the moment.
Caravan Memories and Bathroom Doors
MONDAY: Lunch on this quiet Monday in the student-sparse library is Wensleydale with cranberries on a sunflower breadcake from a local shop. I had no sandwich makings at home, so I was forced to treat myself. Ahhh, what a shame...
The other night I was staring vacantly at the television. (I say "staring at vacantly" because most times when I find myself sitting on the sofa and the TV's on I'm really not interested in watching it and I just wish it would go away. "Right," says 26-inch Panasonic, "I'm off t' pub. Don't wait up for me." But alas, it's only a dream…)
Anyway, I was staring at a repeat of QI, Stephen Fry's more intelligent than average celebrity game show. The question came up about what links Airstream, Sierra, Fleetwood, Sandpiper, and a few others names…and instantly, propelled by an excited prodding in the childhood section of my memory, I blurted out "TRAILERS! They're all trailers!" As the celebrities all seemed stumped Stephen Fry gave the answer: "They're all makes of caravans." (Which, of course, are trailers in America.) Andrew, who was sitting next to me and usually knows most everything but not this, was impressed that I replied so fast. I explained that my grandparents once lived in an Airstream, and I had a friend who lived in a Sierra and another who camped out in a Sandpiper.
Still, I'm rather perplexed. Why do I know so much about trailers? My Uncle Tom, who's the genealogist of the Mitchell family, informs me at various times during his research travels of new bloodlines, races, and nationalities to add to my already hugely diverse ancestral tree. It could be the touch of Gypsy from way back that has etched all the makes of caravans into my brain. But on the other hand I'm dying to ask him -- proudly, of course -- if he's located any trailer trash in our ancestry.
That might explain why I think of pink flamingos as desirable decor.
TUESDAY: I brought my lunch today. It's only cheddar and spring onion with English mustard on a Somerfield equivalent to a whole wheat bolo roll. But my fruit includes fresh nectarine, fresh local strawberries, and intensely ripe cantaloupe.
Something I've been meaning to complain about is this closed-door policy in Britain. And I'm not referring to immigration or trade or anything so newsworthy; I'm talking about bathroom doors. Why do so many Brits, including the younger generations, leave the bathroom door closed when nobody is in there? How do they expect people to know if the bathroom's in use or not? It's not like there's a door latch which, when engaged, changes an indicator from VACANT to OCCUPIED -- at least not on the domestic bathrooms I've seen.
When I first visited England I still lived in sunny Southern California where the fact that I didn't have central heating wasn't much of a problem. And then I visited the huge stately home of some non-wealthy Sussex acquaintances who simply couldn't afford to thaw the late November chill from their castle by turning on the heating. So I could understand why they closed off all the doors to the lounge in which we were being entertained: it was to keep the heat from the roaring fire in the room with us, instead of letting it waft off and dissipate in the freezer of a kitchen where even the Marmite had probably turned to ice, or into the frozen wasteland of the upstairs rooms. If one had to pop out to use the loo, one could simply don one's coat, hat, and gloves and pretend one was on a camping trip.
In cases like that, door-closing makes sense: to conserve heat and reduce fuel costs. But this does not explain the infuriating habit of keeping the door closed to an empty bathroom. And it's not the elderly Brits I'm railing at, because they may have been brought up with the toilet outside away from the house, and therefore they may still harbour the opinion that a toilet belongs out of sight and not displayed as a feature of one's house. All well and good, although some people actually have this attitude about their children and pets -- but I won't start on that one. The door closers I object to are mostly young people I've known who have no logical reason to leave the bathroom door closed when they vacate the room. My god, it's the 21st century, and top Italian designers enjoy the rewards of well-attended exhibits of their gorgeous and sensual bathtub, sink, and toilet designs. There's nothing to be ashamed of -- everyone has to use the toilet now and then, even the Queen and the Pope. I suppose androids wouldn't necessarily have to, but if there were androids I would think they'd have much better things to do than to come over to my house and make sure my bathroom door is shut.
I'm sorry -- bathroom doors are meant to be open and inviting when the room's not in use. If the bathroom has a window the sun can shin in, providing money-saving solar heat, and the air stays fresh and healthier.
Okay, I'm going to stop talking about this now because I'm in danger of becoming so obsessive I might start going around opening bathroom doors that are closed for a good reason. So consider yourself warned…
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.
Sandwiches and Mexican Food
MONDAY: I have to mention my lunch today because it is purely a result of leftovers of a meal prepared by friends. Not only is this the very first time I have ever eaten a sandwich with vegetarian duck -- "vegetarian mock duck", as my friend referred to it -- with cream cheese, avocado, red pepper, and spring onion in a crusty French roll, but it will probably be the last. Not because it isn't good, but the sandwich dice may never roll quite the same way again.
THURSDAY: Lunch is another French roll with haloumi cheese and fresh basil and my usual red pepper/spring onion garnish. As a pescavegetarian I like haloumi sandwiches because they taste and feel substantial. The sliced cold haloumi looks a bit like sliced boiled egg whites, but oh, what a surprise when you bite in: it's definitely more exciting than egg whites.
One thing I really like about living in England is that when you buy a sandwich, whether it's premade in a shop or fresh prepared in a café or pub, it's always the right size with a civilised amount of filling. As a thin active woman with a medium-to-light appetite I can easily eat an entire English sandwich, which is something I could never do with American sandwiches because the sandwiches tend to be the size of houses. If I ordered a sandwich in Seattle or California I had two options: either share it with a friend or take half of it home in a doggy bag. There was a rare place in my Seattle neighbourhood which served great sandwiches on freshly baked bread, and they sold both sandwiches and half-sandwiches. I thought this was brilliant because I could be my own self and choose my own sandwich without having to rely on compromising with a sandwich partner.
In England no one would dream of selling half sandwiches. I mean, who would order them? The average sandwich is so small even the lightest eaters I've known can polish off at least three quarters, and the average young man will simply pack multiple sandwiches for lunch. If anybody in America dared to eat two American sandwiches for lunch, everybody would consider him or her to be a gluttonous pig.
On the subject of basic food, all is not in the UK's favour. As much as I look forward to tackling my own sandwiches I am appalled at the UK's poor excuse for Mexican food. First of all, what are referred to as "corn tortillas" bear absolutely no resemblance to the humble Mexican flatbread. I mean, a corn tortilla is a simple creation made of masa harina (corn flour cooked in lime) and water. That's it. It has no wheat flour, no wheat gluten, no hydrogenated vegetable oil, no raising agents, and no glycerol. An authentic Mexican corn tortilla is perfect safe for anybody with a gluten intolerance. In stark contrast the second ingredient listed for Old El Paso Corn Tortillas is wheat flour. When I tried an Old El Paso corn tortilla I was appalled because not only was it tasteless but the texture was like floury cardboard. Anyone who's had a freshly made corn tortilla in a Mexican restaurant would never in a million years think of floury cardboard. Oh, how I wish Trader Joe's could deliver their handmade corn tortillas directly to my Yorkshire door...
Tortilla chips are another great disappointment. In America, at least on the Pacific Coast, Doritos are considered a salty junk-food snack not really in the same category as proper Mexican restaurant tortilla chips, which also have a very simple ingredient list: masa harina and vegetable oil for frying. Along with corn and vegetable oil the Doritos sold in the UK also contain artificial colourings, soya oil, at least one additive beginning with "disodium", cheese solids, milk proteins, and MSG. So when I opened a package of American tortillas chips sent to me by a Seattle friend, my English mealmates were very impressed by the difference.
And then there's the subject of chilli beans and refried beans. I'm sorry, but they absolutely must be pinto beans. Never kidney beans. Never, never, never!
I have spoken. Now it's back, sadly, to my non-Mexican lunch...
Wednesday 24th September 2003: Whistling Kangaroos
It didn't start out as a particularly outstanding morning. But at 9:11am, as I was eating my breakfast (crumpets with Marmite) and reading yesterday's Times, I came across a story about a pet kangaroo who rescued her injured owner by hopping back to the farm house to get help. And as I read I found myself whistling the theme song to "Lassie". This may not sound so unusual in itself. But I've never been able to whistle before! And there it was, emanating from my pursed lips and filling the room: pure, crystal clear, canarylike notes. I began to experiment, first with "Zippity Doo Dah", then "Whistle While You Work", then on through "Jesu Joy of Man's Desire", "Dirty Old Town", "The Blue Danube Waltz", "My Sharona", "The Good, Bad, and the Ugly", and they all worked! At the age of 50 I've turned into a friggin' jukebox!
I figured this was as good as the day would get -- but then the post came, and in it was my visa from the Home Office which finally grants me residency. So stay tuned for my employment search...
