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But Percy was so cute — until he started haunting me.

21 Jul

I’m a candyholic. Until about two years ago, I thought it was completely normal for adults to eat at least one package of candy per day. I still think that the pocket-life of a container of TicTacs is approximately 10 minutes, a sleeve of LifeSavers should last 20 minutes, and a bag of Skittles is lucky to see 30 minutes — and that’s only if I’m consciously TRYING to make them last.

I’ve always marveled at people who offer me an Altoid or pull a tube of Certs from their glove box. WHAT?! You walk around with candy reserves on your person? Or in your glove box? How is this even possible? Does not compute!

At least I seem to come by this trait honestly: my dad has a sweet tooth like no other. He finishes dinner (and often lunch) with a cookie or donut — or both. In a car, he will offer you a hard candy from his bulk-sized Ziploc baggie every time he fishes one himself — which is approximately every seven minutes. And at night, while reading, he mindlessly consumes Halls “Vitamin C” drops — which really have nothing to do with vitamins and everything to do with sugar — by the handful.

And the good news is that — with 30+ years on me, Dad has yet to show any signs of diabetes. SWEET. I’m keeping fingers crossed that this is one more lucky draw from the gene pool.

I tell you this merely to explain why, after visiting Alan in London this spring, a suitcase full of British candy came home with me. I could not stop myself in the checkout line at the Marks & Spencer. Fruit Pastilles, Wine Gums, Fruit Sherbets, Jelly Babies, Very Berry Smoothies, Milk Bottles, Midget Gems, Miracle Comfits…

SERIOUSLY?? Does Willy Wonka run this grocery store? And do the British not have the same sensitivity to the word “midget” that we Americans have?

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My name is Alison, and I am an addict.

12 May

I’m addicted to walking tours. Simply cannot get enough of them. That either means I’m a nerd or a retiree. You do the math.

In any case, there’s a great walking tour company here in London (London Walks) willing to indulge me. Since I’ve been to London before and checked off most of the typical touristy spots in other visits, I’m using these walks to familiarize myself with some of the lesser-explored bits of the city.

King Kong, Elvis and Henry VIII - I like the way they think!

Monday I did the “London’s Secret Village” tour, which had us tromping around in Clerkenwell – in London’s central borough of Islington. Among the highlights:

  • Seeing where William Wallace (you know, the dude from Braveheart?) was beheaded.
  • Visiting a Plague Pit, knowing the soil below me was the resting place for hundreds of bodies from the 1665 plague.
  • Crossing the square where Dickens’ Oliver Twist got nabbed for picking the wrong pocket.
  • Learning that the subterranean River Fleet had so much sewer gas build up that it once exploded.
  • Spotting one of London’s most filmed churches – St. Bartholomew’s Church – known from The Other Boleyn Girl, Sherlock Holmes, Four Weddings & a Funeral, etc. – and learning that Henry VIII is considered the church’s second founder simply for not having it torn down when he was demolishing all things Catholic.

Jesus Hot Tub Time Machine.

Tuesday, Alan joined me for the “Inside the Ancient City” tour, where we weaved around back alleys north of the Tower and St. Paul’s. Among its highlights:

  • Pepys (pronounced “Peeps” like the Easter treat, not some version of Pepsi, which is what I was trying to do) – who wrote an amazing diary during the plague/fire of the 1600s but kept it in code because he was cheating on his wife.
    • Another Pepys reference that made me feel like I knew him: when his place was on the edge of the fire line, he figured he had half a day to save his prized possessions before the place burned. What did he do? Buried cases wine and a wheel of parmesan cheese. (I totally appreciate his priorities.)
  • Leadenhall Market: a cute functioning arcade that served as Diagon Alley in the Harry Potter movies.
  • The most perfect church in London: the church of St. Stephen Walbrook, which looks like nothing on the outside, but is a breath-taking church on the inside. Courtesy of Sir Christopher Wren (as is almost every other church in this city).
    • Odd note: the interior may be gorgeous, but the priest there in the 1970s decided to have a new, central altar commissioned by Henry Moore. I’m sure in an art museum it would look amazing, but in the midst of a 17th century church, it looks a bit odd. Like a Flintstone hot tub.
  • George & Vulture Pub: where Dickens’ family still meets every Christmas Eve to have dinner and raise a toast in his honor.

The thing that made the joint tour with Alan particularly fun was that we had a guy in the tour group who was VOCALLY EXCITED. By which I mean that he would burst out in a loud affirmation occasionally. I nicknamed him “Blurt Reynolds,” but Alan, being a bit more kind, referred to him as, “Joie de Vivre.”

I think London is having a mellowing effect on Alan.

(I’ve also done the Hampstead and Kensington walks, and will summarize them later for my friends who are armchair travelers.)

The moral(s) of this story: walking tours rock, I’m a nerd, and you might actually learn a bit of British trivia from reading this blog. Please humor me.

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Shit that is really not helpful.

22 Apr

Just finished making dinner. Despite the fact that I like to cook, tonight’s meal is Ramen Noodles. That’s right – 33¢ per pack, friends. A staple of college students everywhere. And me. Because I love them. They’re a Friday Night Guilty Pleasure if ever I’ve had one.

Creamy Chicken is my favorite, but most DC stores don’t sell that, so I settle for the shy half-sister, straight-up Chicken flavor. And don’t even get me started on the noodles I remember from my childhood… there were Ramen that were 2-3 times as wide as these, and a bit firmer. They were (sigh) awesome. And are now utterly discontinued. (Double sigh.)

And as one further side note, let’s all send a mental “thank you” to my mother, who taught me that the key to awesome Ramen is to drain off the water and eat them as seasoned noodles rather than soup. For a woman whose other speciality is fried okra, that is what we call VERSATILITY.

So I’m making them (by which I mean BOILING them) with the timer set for three minutes. I know: when something only needs to cook for three minutes, I probably shouldn’t set the timer and go back into the living room to read. I should stand over the stove and wait. Or wash a dish or something while I wait. But I’m OCD so my kitchen is already spotless, and I’m uber-efficient so just standing there seems like a waste of time.

The point is, I set the timer and sat down. And then it beeped. Fair enough. Time to get the noodles. But I wanted to finish the paragraph I was on, and Ramen noodles really aren’t at risk for OVER cooking. Not like you can spoil a 33¢ meal.

But the timer just kept beeping. And beeping. It reminded me of the scene from “Three Amigos” where Steve Martin was  trying to discreetly get Martin Short and Chevy’ Chase’s attention by whistling, “Look up here!” repeatedly, as if he were a bird. (No clue what I’m referencing? Check out this video:)

Hey Mr. Engineer: Not Helpful. Let me guess, your mom was something of a nag? She wouldn’t leave you alone until whatever it was that was on her mind was addressed?

Well guess what? The rest of the world doesn’t function that way. Tell me once that my noodles are ready, then let me be a big girl. If I want to wait until the water has evaporated and they’re stuck to the bottom of the pan, then so be it. Much more preferable than listening to you chirp away harassing me.

On the fourth set of chirps, I finally responded, stomping into my kitchen ready to stab the timer button with one of my new Shun knives and leave it completely immobilized. But guess what? There, in my kitchen, stood Steve Martin, holding a plate of perfectly cooked Ramen for my dinner and glaring at me for not realizing they were waiting.

So I let it slide. Just this once.

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I think my yoga instructor was Brittany Pierce.

3 Apr

Confession: I’m an avid follower of Glee. It’s not for the plots (though I have been impressed with they way they’ve woven gay acceptance into the storyline) and it’s not for the singing (not a big fan of Journey, thanks.).

What’s left? Well, Brittany, of course. If you don’t understand what’s compelling about her, I’ll save you some time: it’s her lines. She is the master of ditzy deadpan.

"I'm pretty sure my cat's been reading my diary."

So it makes me happy when life resembles celluloid and I run into someone who is Brittany-esque. Which is why my Saturday morning yoga class was pretty much awesome. I think my instructor was Brittany S. Pierce.

For starters, she was pretty bad at giving us clear directions, and I’m sure the newer students were scratching their heads through a lot of the sequences. But she called everything out with such exuberance and cheer that it was hard to get frustrated with her. She walked around grinning.

“You guys are doing awesome!” she encouraged us, right before telling us to, “Put your shoulder on your hip… um… I mean thigh!”

And there was definitely more than one, “Step forward with your left foot. I mean your OTHER left foot!”

It was like playing Twister with Gumby.

At some point, the sun came out and we heard her exclaim, “Oh look! The sun! Hi, Sun!”

While most yoga teachers use the sanskrit names for the poses (for example “chaturanga” is essentially a push-up), she didn’t even try. In fact, not only did she not use the sanskrit names, she didn’t use the standard English names either.

At one point she wanted us to lift into Virabhadrasana, known in English as Warrior Three. But instead of calling it either of those things, she said, “Now everybody do airplane!!” We all looked around at each other, confused. She beamed at us and said, “You know, AIRPLANE…” as she lifted up into this pose:

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But unlike every other yoga instructor I had, when she attempted this pose she couldn’t keep her balance. She immediately began wobbling around, and instead of the rest of us following her lead, we all just stood there and watched her as she toe-heeled her way around on her mat trying to keep from falling.

“Oh my gosh!” She exclaimed. “I drank coffee this morning and it’s totally affecting my balance! This is terrible!” Then, after a pause, “Oh wait. It’s not terrible. You’re never supposed to say something is terrible in yoga. But I don’t know what it is. It’s crazy!”

She finally wiped out, just as she finished her rant about coffee.

And then it was our turn to lift off into “airplane.” I think it’s the only time I’ve ever been smiling when I took flight.

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I think I might explode.

8 Mar

Whoa. I finally got around to cutting the fresh bacon slab I ordered from Arganica last week.

(For those of you in the DC area, an Arganica membership is worth it just to get this meat; if you live in Pennsylvania, then you can just walk your sweet ass over to Schmidt’s – assuming you can find Steelton, PA – and pick up a slab.)

And yes, you heard me correctly: the bacon arrived fresh in a slab, meaning it was uncut. That’s why it’s extra fun and super special.

Tonight I hacked the pound into “lardons” (see THIS for an explanation if – like my sister – you think a lardon is a hard-on caused by bacon), and decided to fry up a few to make a Salade Paysanne for dinner. I haven’t had a true Salade Paysanne since I lived in France, but tonight’s meal brought it all back. If only I’d had a glass of Cotes du Rhone to go with it, my memory would be complete.

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