Cor... get a bus through there!

It's soft, chewy, squoosy... it's Malt Bread

My husband went to England with the goal of gaining weight. Yes, gaining. Yay.

Even though he did not grow up on its carby-meaty-goodness, and regardless of its bad rep, my husband loves British food. Cream buns, bangers and mash, marmite, steak and kidney pie... and now malt bread.

I had forgotten about this heavy, moist, sweet and raisiny delight I loved in my childhood. First, you have to try to cut a slice without squashing it into a condensed brown slab - impossible - then slather it with full cream butter and swill it down with a mug of hot tea and... mmmm!

Apparently other ex-pats crave the taste of their childhood. When I Googled "malt bread," at least two results came back from former Brits wondering how to get it or at least find a recipe. When I find Golden Syrup and fresh yeast state-side I will attempt to make a loaf or two, but meanwhile my husband and I will be fighting over the butt end of the solitary loaf we brought back with us.

I should mention that despite the XL portion of fish and chips eaten on the beach, cheese and onion pasties, and multiple pints of ale, my husband did not gain any weight. How? By doing the other thing Brits know how to do better than Americans (ahem) - we walked everywhere!

Day one: AM: down the lane and along the estuary. PM: all around the town (Newton Abbot) where all homes, stores and restaurants are in one area.

Day two: AM: along a river and around a country estate (Dartington). PM: contra-danced at my aunt's birthday bash.

Day three: on Dartmoor and around the village below (Widdecombe).

Day four: AM: around and around a castle ruin (Berry Pomeroy). PM: along the beach (Teignmouth).

Day five: all over another town (Exeter), its central green, cathedral, shopping streets, and along its river.

Day six: AM: along the beach and around the shops of another coastal town (Sidmouth).

Whew!

And that's how I got away with eating toasted tea cakes, very milky coffee (with full cream sometimes), Cadbury's chocolate, pork pie with mustard mashed potato, lamb curry, and ice cream with a chocolate flake, and drinking shandies and cider as if I was, well, English.

Damn, I think my jeans shrunk...

No words needed

Checkin' out?

I had intended to write a little piece on the "fun" of preparing myself, my children, my house, and my mother-in-law for my week out of the country, but we leave tomorrow and needless to say those preparations took priority over telling you all about it.

But I must thank my new naturopath physician who got me through the madness. I am so calm I am fretting that I'm not fretting. I keep wondering when the ball is going to drop. Each morning I squirt a dropper of this foul concoction of root and herbs into my juice (it fizzes like acid) and after I get feeling back in my tongue I go about my day as if I have nothing in the world to worry about. Don't get me wrong, I'm not in some drugged haze - quite the opposite - I can actually see straight because my brain has quit trying to analyze every thought that goes whizzing by. You know those twirly things that short order cooks hang the orders on? That's how my brain usually works - everything I have to keep track of is stuck up in front of me and spinning very fast, too fast to read, let alone take care of. Well, the twirly thing has slowed down and there are fewer "orders" at a time. I take one at a time and I accomplish so much more. Yay, tastebud-dissolving root juice!

I also have to mention that I was asked to write an essay to be included in a book proposal (yes!) - another reason I haven't had any time to write here.

So, the countdown has begun. 24 hours from now I will have (tearfully) hugged my children goodbye and will be headed to the airport. I'm not taking my laptop, just my trusty journal and fountain pen. So, I am checking out for a couple of weeks...

England (spring, flowers, tea, pasties), here I come!

In search of the baguette

In one month I am going to England... and France! I was born in England and lived there until I was 13. I have been back three times in 22 years. But I have never been to France. Although I have never walked the streets or sipped wine in the cafes of Paris, and god knows, my parlez-vous n'est pas, I believe my soul belongs there. I am drawn to French design, architecture and decor, I sing along to Carmen, Anais Nin is my muse, Renoir and Monet were the painters of choice for most of my 20s, and cream sauces - oh la la! My vision of a perfect day would most definitely include sitting outside a cafe with a book or my journal watching beautiful people walk by.

Did I mention the kids aren't joining us?

Ah, c'est tres, tres bon.

Oh, bad mother that I am! At first I didn't even think of attending the family reunion in Southern England - how could I? Work, kids, expense... then I told a co-worker about it. Are you insane? You HAVE to go!! She even offered to look after the kids. But could I really leave my two preciousnesses with someone else for a whole week? Someone who doesn't do things exactly as I do? Wouldn't they miss me too much? What if something happened? What if...? What if...?

What if I passed up this opportunity to see cousins I haven't in 30 years, to visit the home I still hold dear to my heart? For my husband to see where I was crafted?

When my mother-in-law called that very night to question when it would be a good time to visit from Mississippi and replied without hesitation that she would love to stay with the children, and why don't you take the Chunnel over to France while you're there?, I was decided. Forget the kids, I'm going to Paris!!

OK, I do still have twinges of guilt that I could so easily leave my offspring in the dust in search of baguettes and fromage, but they will be just fine, maybe a little over-sugared and saying ya'll and gur-url when we return, but fine. Sometimes you have to walk through a door when it flies open, especially when there is croissant or, even better, a cuppa and a bickie* on the other side.

*translation: cup of sweet, milky tea and a hard cookie to dip in it.