England Rents, Rants, & Raves

Right up our street and right on cue, it's UK:Cue!

2012-01-19T16:53:00.002-05:00

Just discovered a wonderful start-up magazine that’s right up our street. It’s called UK:Cue Magazine and it’s edited by a charming Anglophile and boulevardier of all things British, Larry Jaffee. He’s had the brilliant idea to launch a print and online mag aimed at expats like me, and all chaps and chapesses with a fondness for the Green and Pleasant. UK:Cue will keep us posted about all Brit books, movies, and TV shows heading across the pond. The issue I’m looking at discusses The Iron Lady, the new Dr. Who, BBC America, and even a bit of Shakespeare for the higher-browed among you. Anyway, give it a gander, Larry can say it all a lot better than me so why not follow the link here and check it out! Tell him you’re an EastEnders fan, he’ll like that (my old Mum was a big fan as I mention in the book, had to drag her away from Walford for tea)! Mind you, I’d much rather be tucked up in the snug of the Rovers Return, but that’s another story.

PS: And keep an eye out for the odd Prodigal article in UK:Cue!

It's beginning to feel like Christmas...

2011-12-07T11:53:00.003-05:00

My new Christmas pudding is happily imbibing as I write, happily awaiting the big day. Here is a photo of last year's, before we doused it with brandy. And ate it, of course.
If you'd like to try your hand at this traditional taste of Britain, my recipe is posted here.
It takes a bit of effort, but it's worth it...and Tiptree puds are $30 this year!

Day of service, East End style

2011-09-20T14:38:00.001-04:00

Until the middle of the twentieth century many East Enders, and those who lived south of the river, in the poorer boroughs of London, went hop-picking every year. It was quite an industry and a practical way to earn a few pennies, enjoy a family vacation, albeit a working one, and breathe clean country air. Of course, the descendants of those hop pickers are now barreling down the motorway in their land cruisers, roaring past those old hop fields and disused kilns without a second glance, as they head to the Channel Tunnel and the promise of warmer, richer pickings on the other side.

Look at the view, Doc, the view!

2011-09-18T11:06:00.004-04:00

Prodigal Wife and I have discovered Doc Martin, a quirky Brit show about a surgeon who can't stand the sight of blood so he takes over a small practice in beautiful Cornwall. The villagers aren't exactly warm and friendly, but, oh, the scenery is spectacular!

Dagenham spring

2011-05-24T10:16:00.002-04:00

A gnarly old lemon-colored rose tree gripped a rotting trellis, fighting its way clear of the laburnum. The standard roses, of which there were several, had an easier time getting to the sun. Lined up like sentries with bulbous cockades of crinkly white and red petals, Mum's standards stood to attention right along the dividing fence between our home and the next door neighbor's.
"Look at my roses, look at the foxglove! And look, look at my potentilla!"
It was a huge sunburst of yellow.
"And my hydrangea. That'll be out soon!"
Six feet across, covered in green leafy frond-like leaves, Mum's shockingly pink hydrangea flowers would soon dominate the small garden and might even eclipse the potentilla.

The sun does shine over Whitstable

2011-03-19T11:03:00.003-04:00

Somerset Maugham renamed Whitstable "Blackstable" in one of his first novels. He had grown up there and hated the place. I sort of, understand, visiting a seaside place is nothing like living in it year round. And the sea around the British coastline is mostly mackerel gray, which in summer can be offset by the occasional bluish sky but in the fall and winter or in a rainy spring the grayness is omnipresent, inescapable. But as you can see from this lovely photo we found at twinisles.com, the sun does occasionally shine on Whitstable, which is not without its charms. And, indeed, we very much enjoyed our day in the coastal town.

Hard times at Buck House

2011-03-04T10:13:00.003-05:00

"Oh, Philip, are you sure there's no other way to pay for this wedding? And, really, couldn't I at least go to the other one, you know, the royal one?"

Literary awakening

2011-02-27T08:47:00.000-05:00

I literally threw the book in the corner of the room. Frustrated, angry, and very annoyed. After a few moments, when my seethe had come off the boil, I realized something. The book I was reading was a good one. And something else. I was not annoyed at the book but at the main character’s flaw: his spinelessness. In his quiet, beguiling way, Somerset Maugham had hooked me, lured me into his world. The book was Of Human Bondage, and I carried on reading it, only to admire, in time, the character’s dogged determination. Talk about beguiling.

Old Viking Bay

2011-02-10T12:36:00.003-05:00

I love this old photo we found of Viking Bay in Broadstairs, my favorite English coastal town. Straight ahead is the Albion Hotel, where Dickens once wrote—and where Jesse and Lew imbibed while we ambled up to Bleak House, which we assume is the narrow building all the way to the right on the cliffside. It was obviously expanded later as it is much grander now.

On a personal note

2011-01-05T17:16:00.006-05:00

Well! It's been a year since publication of A Yank Back To England, and it has been quite exciting. I've done over thirty book readings and lectures, ranging from small book clubs in people's houses to bookshops, even a champagne brunch at Fort Meade and dinner at a baronial manor house brought brick by brick from England! Regardless of the venue, the response has been overwhelmingly favorable. Mind you, I have also been brought to earth a couple times, and quite dramatically! One event, for a group of seniors, sticks in my mind. I spoke after lunch and, despite my Dickensian efforts to read with bombast and, dare I say, a certain élan, my audience fell into the arms of Morpheus before I could say Ghrrrr! Most disconcerting. As you can imagine, I wrapped up the reading very quickly. At least, when everyone came to, a few books were sold! So that was all right.

Also, during the past twelve months, Frances and I have been really overwhelmed by the letters (well, emails) we have received and the comments readers have left on our website. Some say they've read the book more than once! We've been especially touched by those readers who fell in love with my funny old folks, along with my extended family and some of the oddballs we met along the way. It is so gratifying to discover the book has hit a familiar cadence with so many. Of course, not everyone has aging Cockney parents, but most everyone seems to have family experiences my story helped evoke.

Apart from the family story, our travels have also resonated with a good many readers. We have received quite a few notes from readers planning to take Yank on their next trip! Very gratifying to think that a lot more people will be discovering the wonderful literary landmarks and fascinating historical sites we found on our travels in Southern England (I encourage everyone to avoid Dagenham though, but few listen to my words of wisdom).

I hope you'll forgive the indulgence, we thought we'd post here a few of the comments and observations we've received (we won't mention names, but these are real quotes from real people). Many were accompanied by personal stories and memories evoked, which we enjoyed very much.

"The perfect blend of humor, poignancy, history, culture, and character. Well BLOODY done!!!!"

"I hated to come to the end, so I have read it over several times...thanks for sharing your family & your travels with us. I fell in love with them all!!"

"Wonderful book, but so painfully close to home as I struggle with my own aging parents and recall my own version of an English childhood. I connected with this on so many levels!! Couldn't put it down."

"I bought (Yank) simply because I like travel writing and it sounded interesting. But your book connected with me in ways I did not expect at all."

"I spent some time in school (in England) and get back every few years... so reading your descriptions of places, food and feelings brought back a lot of good memories--although I don't miss the Archers!"

"Wonderful book, I relished most every part of it."

"As a Brit who became a Yank and now takes his family back to the UK every year to visit family it really struck a chord."

And the very first personal note we received, which said, in part:
"I am almost at the end of A Yank Back to England and I will be sorry when it's over. I have thoroughly enjoyed the book and getting to know your family and your travels." (This lovely reader wrote again when she'd completed the book! Very nice indeed.)

Of course, the book was not everyone's cup of tea. But that's okay by me. After all, not everyone likes tea with milk! But regardless of how you take you tea, thank you all for taking the time and trouble to write to us.

For those of you who haven't heard, I'm also pleased to report the book has now been reprinted. And yes, I'm still doing events. Meanwhile, do continue to write and tell us if the book inspired you to take a trip to the Green and Pleasant. And don't forget to tell your friends! If they can't make the royal wedding, they can still catch up on a couple of royal events and discover the other Kate--the one in A Yank Back To England.

Happy New Year to all,
Denis

Christmas lights

2010-12-14T15:26:00.004-05:00

Admittedly, as many of you know, we are a "mixed" family; but nevertheless Christmas is our favorite time of the year--and my favorite holiday! Sadly we have not put up many lights this year as we have been too busy driving little miss madam to her many activities, but Prodigal Wife did make me a very happy chap when she made one of my favorite Christmas treats: a real fruitcake! Now, no jokes, every American we know loves it and you can see the recipe Friday on Anglotopia.net (will post link after it publishes).
Anyway, we took a photo of the fruit (after it had imbibed quite a bit) and it looked to us like beautiful lights, and it certainly is Christmassy, so here it is.
Enjoy!

Launching Cy's car

2010-11-22T09:27:00.003-05:00

With its huge fins and tail lights, Cy's baby blue Ford Galaxy convertible looked like a relic from either an alien planet junk yard or an unfinished Flash Gordon movie set. As always, it was parked halfway up the curb, more on the sidewalk than off it. A parking ticket fluttered from the windscreen. The car was like Cy in many ways; it was big, outlandish, almost exotic, completely out of place and out of time but still managing to look cool. And the car lumbered just as he did, attracting attention, lots of amused glances and lots of parking tickets. “Christ! I hate getting these!” Cy stuffed the ticket into his ping pong bat bag. “Maureen wants us back for lunch, it’s kinda good she likes you Denis under most other circumstances, she hates the people I drag around the house. But you, she likes you, my young friend. Go figure!”
Cy gently rocked the car back and forth until he had enough room to launch it into the road. He drove so slowly, he looked as if he was prowling, which was just as well because, when Cy was behind the wheel, he insisted on looking at the person he was speaking to, not at the road.
“Cy, look out!”

Afternoon stroll in London

2010-11-17T14:38:00.002-05:00

In the pale gold of the following afternoon we took a stroll in the neighborhood beyond the shopping hordes on the Brompton Road, towards Hans Place. In this the residential part of Knightsbridge, with its soft edged blocks of blood orange colored mansion flats and lovely town houses the area seemed to take on an almost village-like calm, broken only by the occasional soft purring tick of passing cabs. We discovered an elegant mews with cobble stones, a leafy square and Italianate side streets whitewashed and splashed with red carnations and geraniums. And no one seemed to be in sight until we came to Pont Street, filled with locals crisscrossing the road, milling, chatting, doing their bits of shopping, buying everything from baguettes to Beluga caviar. The array of boutique food emporia in Pont Street was truly astonishing. Bright eyed and bright scaled creatures almost flapped with freshness on the fishmongers marble counter, the aroma of fresh bread wafted from the bakery, and vegetables in the green grocers window seemed mounted and displayed like individual jewels in blue tissue paper.

Bit of sweet, Mum?

2010-11-06T18:15:00.002-04:00

"It's lovely," Lew was now fulsome with praise as he slurped down his tea.
"I like a bit of sweet," Mum went on, ignoring Lew's effusive praises.
She finished the cake and washed it down with another big swig of Benedictine. "I'm willing to try anything once, I am."
It was the closest she ever got to complimenting someone else’s cooking.

A lovely English cottage...

2010-10-26T15:18:00.003-04:00

Anyone interested in following in the Prodigal Footsteps might be interested in renting this little (well, large) barn in Suffolk, not far from the coastal town of Alderburgh, where we did indeed have a lovely stay. Of course, our cottages were, if not more interesting than this one, definitely a little older, but we thought we'd share nevertheless.
Not sure if it's stocked with tea or if the house comes with a working phone, but if you're interested, the "balancing barn" is available for a mere $2,300+ for three days from living-architecture.co.uk.

End of the summer shrimp

2010-10-10T12:01:00.002-04:00

I'm the first to admit that it is hard to find an English main course recipe that doesn't start with "take half a pound of lard..." Nothing wrong with that of course, but when the sun is still lovely and warm, we all crave lighter fare, even this true-blue Brit!
So let's turn to the exotic East, the lazy days of the Raj and a lovely Goan-inspired shrimp dish with coconut and cream. I know I'm taking a bit of liberty but then, is not Indian food a cornerstone of English cuisine? In fact, in a recent poll taken in Britain, the second favorite dish nationwide turned out to be chicken tikka! (No prizes if you guess what the number one fave was!*)
I've adapted this recipe over time. It began life as a mussel starter but I've switched in shrimp, added cream or yogurt, toned down the heat for the Americans in my midst, and I now serve it up over a bed of salad as opposed to rice. By increasing the portions I've turned this recipe into a delightfully light supper dish.

Here's what you will need
A pound and half of large shrimp. I use fresh-frozen, but use whatever looks good in the market. Do use large or extra large shrimp, smaller prawns tend to disappear.
You'll also require a "finger" of ginger; use powder if you must, but fresh is so much better. A few cloves of garlic and cup of grated coconut, dried or fresh but unsweetened. One small chili pepper chopped up, or use a few dried pepper flakes. If using fresh chili, do taste a smidge beforehand. You want the dish to have a little kick, but not too much. Chop up half a bunch of green onions. Have a wedge of butter on hand or a little pot of ghee if you're feeling exotic. You'll also need a quarter cup of lemon juice, but do peel the rind from said lemon, chop it up, and keep it to one side.
Now bring out the big guns: a cup of cream, sour cream, or yogurt or a combination of all three. I'm trying to watch my weight so I use low fat yogurt. Mind you, the cream adds a wonderful richness, so it's your choice. You can add a half teaspoon of salt, but it really isn't necessary Last but not least, you'll need a teaspoon of turmeric and coriander. I usually add a few cardamom pods in the final dish to torment the wife.... This of course, is also an optional addition. If you cannot find any of these spices at your local Indian shop, use the light-colored curry powder found in regular grocery stores.
You will also need a bunch of coriander or cilantro, chop half the leaves for the sauce, retain the uncut leaves for the salad. Did I mention salad?

Let's address the salad
This is a simple green affair, you need enough leaves to cover four dinner plates. Make sure the salad is torn into small pieces, Use a spring mix type; rocket, dandelion, watercress, or what have you. Whatever you use, do add small shavings of green olives and grated flecks of lemon peel and mix in the whole leaves of coriander you cleverly kept to one side. Make a one-to-one vinaigrette using lemon juice and olive oil. Toss at the last minute then divide, forming beds of salad on the four plates.
Now let's get to the main attraction, which can easily be prepped in advance of your dinner party. Drinks at six on the patio...we eat in five? No probs!
First peel, de-vein, and sauté the shrimp. Thirty seconds a side. No more. Use butter, oil, or ghee if you want! You just want the little chaps pink on both sides. Add lemon juice to the pan and remove the happily sizzling shrimp to a side dish. They will finish cooking off heat. Prior to service, you pop them into the sauce to warm them up. And that's all. The key thing is not to overcook the shrimp, which can be made ahead and rest in the fridge until you are ready to make the sauce...
If you have the time, you can make a little stock using the shrimp shells. This will add a very nice flavor enhancement to the sauce but it's not essential.
In a mini prep gadget, put in the finger of ginger, the garlic cloves and the green bits from your spring onions. Add half a cup of water. Whir up this mixture.
In the unwashed sauté pan in which you part-cooked the shrimp, soften the remaining chopped onion bits in a pat of butter (or oil or ghee) for a couple of minutes, then add the garlic-ginger mixture, stir fry for half a minute before adding the chili, turmeric and cumin, along with the coconut. Now add the shrimp stock you so cleverly made (or a quarter cup of water) to the sauce and cook over a low heat for a few minutes. Take sauce off the heat and pour in the yogurt, cream, or what have you. Put back on low heat for a minute. When everything is nicely incorporated and the sauce is just coating the back of a spoon, pile in the part cooked shrimp and mix into the sauce for another minute. If the sauce is too thick add a few tablespoons of water, or cream --you naughty thing, you! Then turn off the heat.
Now toss your salad in a simple lemony vinaigrette. Plate up the salad forming beds. Top with shrimp and curry sauce. Serve with nan or pita bread, or nothing at all. Oh, nearly forgot. Once plated, sprinkle the chopped coriander over the shrimp.

So there we are! An Englishman's Goan-style curry dish to beat the last of the summer heat, a little spicy but very fresh tasting, light, and delicious. Do try it, I know you'll like this one!
*Yes, you guessed it --fish and chips!

Made in Dagenham

2010-10-04T10:39:00.002-04:00

Many of you have, very oddly it seems to me, expressed a desire to visit Dagenham after reading A Yank Back to England. Well, this one's for you (don't say I didn't warn you!).

Happy Birthday, Dad!

2010-09-22T22:20:00.001-04:00

All children think their parents are old, but mine always were, exceptionally so. Obviously, they weren’t born old, but they were old when I was born. By the time I became conscious of age and generational differences, they were already in their fifties. That’s the way it was, only the future was always approached with a glance to past horizons that, despite hardship and deprivations, always glowed with the warmth of familiarity.
Because of my parents’ age, I missed several generations of popular culture: Elvis, Marilyn Monroe, Anthony Eden, Ban the Bomb, Big Bands. Beatniks. My parents missed them, too. My points of reference were Fred Astaire, the Gershwins, Bette Davis, Charlie Chaplin, Bob Hope, Bing Crosby. Not a problem unless I ran into a parent of one of my school friends or a friend would meet my parents. That was always a shock for everyone. When my parents dressed up to go out for the evening, they always looked like Nick and Nora or any movie couple from the thirties. Mum wore lots of rabbit fur and hats with feathers and smelled of talc, and Lew always wore double-breasted suits with baggy trousers. He was always clean shaved, always had a short back and sides hair cut brilliantined like Ramon Navarro – whoever he was.

And the winners are...

2010-09-16T16:13:00.003-04:00

I confess, we were too lazy to pull out our lovely roulette wheel this time, so we used random.org to determine the winners of the Todd Charles books. We ended up with 32 valid entries, and the winning numbers were 8 and (surprisingly) 1. So that means our lucky winners are:
*my Goodreads buddy, Jersey Girl, who tagged, posted, voted, and more (thanks, darling!).
*Prodigal Wife's faithful friend Syl, who was the first to enter our giveaway.
We have emails, so getting info for HarperCollins should be easy.
Congratulations!

One little thing--I know we haven't posted as regularly as we might have over the summer. Hopefully that will change as the weather cools...
Cheers,
The Prodigals

Book Giveaway: An Impartial Witness

2010-08-31T16:20:00.006-04:00

We here in the Prodigal Household are big fans of mysteries, as many of you know, and we always have our eyes peeled for a good one! Now, with Prodigal Wife's love of anything historical and my fascination with World War I, we're both anxious to get our hands on Charles Todd's new book, An Impartial Witness. And thanks to HarperCollins, we can now offer all our bloggy friends two free copies of Bess Crawford's second adventure!

This book is barely out but great reviews are already pouring in (OK, green-eyed monster, get back in the closet):
"intricate twists and plenty of viable suspects" (Publishers Weekly)
A "plucky, determined sleuth and a thrilling mystery" (Library Journal)
“A smartly plotted, well-told mystery.” (Booklist on An Impartial Witness )

Here is what the publisher says:

Tending to the soldiers in the trenches of France during the First World War, battlefield nurse Bess Crawford is sent back to England in the early summer of 1917 with a convoy of severely burned men. One of her patients, a young pilot, has clung to a photograph of his wife since his plane went down, and Bess can’t help but notice the photo every time she tends to him. After the patients are transferred to a clinic in Hampshire, Bess is ready for her two-day leave, planning to return to her flat in London to catch up on some much-needed rest. But at the railway station, in a mob of troops leaving for the front, Bess catches a glimpse of a familiar face. Could that be the pilot’s wife? And why is she bidding a very emotional farewell to a soldier who is not her husband?

Back in France, Bess discovers an old newspaper with a drawing of the woman’s face on the front page. Accompanying the drawing is a plea from Scotland Yard looking for information from anyone who has seen her. The woman was murdered-the very day Bess saw her at the terminal. Granted leave to visit Scotland Yard to report what she knows, Bess soon finds herself on the search for a devious and very dangerous killer-a search that will put her own life in jeopardy.

Sounds appealing, yes? If you want to try your hand at one of the two free copies, just leave a comment below before September 15. If you wish, you may earn additional entries in the following ways:
*post/tweet/share this giveaway
*tag my own little tome, A Yank Back to England, on Amazon -- England, memoir, travel, travelogue, and travelogues PLEASE!
*if you've already tagged Yank (THANK YOU!), tagging the Kindle edition works too!
*put Yank on your shelf in Goodreads, Shelfari, or LibraryThing. (one entry each)
*TWO entries if you vote for Yank on Goodreads' Favourite Travel Book list or Have Passport will Travel or Best Traveling Vicariously (FIVE if you do all 3)

That's it! Oh--US only please, sorry. And if we don't have your email yet, please leave it so we can contact you if you win. Winners will be announced on September 16, at which time you'll have 48 hours to send us your address, which we will pass along to HarperCollins.
Good luck everyone!

At the market

2010-08-16T15:44:00.001-04:00

"You’re a long way from home,” said Frances to a woman vendor.
A Gaelic shrug of the mouth. “Wiz ze toon-el... iz no problem.”
We had found a Normandy farmer’s wife, with tight curly black hair an easy smile and an English accent as thick as Camembert. She had a stall with a huge array of French cheeses and not much else. We walked on, past fruit and vegetable stalls, a poultry vendor, a pork butcher, a baker’s stall with different breads as well as fruit and savory pies. There was even a knife grinder selling cutlery, and flatware. I thought I might even find a candlestick maker! It was fun. The noise, the banter, the odd blares from radios volumed up for sale. Kate slept through it all.

Cool, creamy, crunchy: Glorious Eton Mess

2010-07-27T16:27:00.003-04:00

When the weather heats up, my thoughts turn to languid summers and strawberries and cream and... Eton Mess! The dish was invented by the boys attending Eton College-that bastion of privilege in the lovely village of the same name-and usually served up on parents day or at prize-giving ceremonies.

Why, you may ask, is a former secondary modern school kid waxing lyrically about such an upper class treat? Well, the answer is simple: It is delicious. And with the Prodigal addition of chocolate this wonderful confection becomes extra special. Plus, it's so easy to throw together!

Here's what you need for 6-8 servings.

A pound and a half or more of strawberries, nice and ripe, two cups of whipping cream, a tablespoon of sugar, and a drop of vanilla.

Twelve small meringues, or more if you like lots of crunch. If you have the patience, you can, of course, make them yourself, but I prefer to buy them.

One third cup of Kirsch, white rum, or flavorful spirit (optional)

Two ounces of good quality, semi-sweet chocolate, grated or shaved.

Here's what you do.

Put the cleansed and hulled berries in a bowl, halved or sliced or quartered depending on size of the fruits. Now add the booze if you so desire. As we have a child and I don't want the police on my doorstep I don't, and it works very well without. At this point, resist the desire to add sugar to the bowl. If you do, the strawberries will weep and turn your dessert a gooey pink, and you don't want that. Instead, add a tablespoon of sugar to the cream and beat it to soft peaks. Add a little vanilla if you so desire, especially if you abstain on the Kirsch.

Crush/chop the meringues into rough chunks then add to the strawberries and whipped cream, then "mess" everything gently together. And there you have it: Eton Mess. More of an assembly job than a real recipe.

Serve in tall sundae glasses and top each portion with generous sprinkles of chocolate shavings. The addition of the chocolate is mine but it really works a treat.

Even if you're not strolling the playing fields of Eton with the sun glazing the Thames a shimmering gold, it will certainly feel like it when you taste this wonderful concoction. Evocative of summer and lazy afternoons, Eton Mess is destined to become a family favourite.

A dandy hot spot

2010-07-15T15:25:00.003-04:00

We found this wonderful old photo of The Pantiles in Royal Tunbridge Wells, once the retreat of choice of the English upper-crust under the tutelage of Dandy Richard "Beau" Nash, the Tim Gunn of his day. The photo was obviously taken when the floor was actually still tiles (hence the name), which it isn't anymore, sadly. There are considerably less tourists and locals in this photo than were there when we visited! A charming place.

A happy memory, part 2

2010-06-22T15:50:00.001-04:00

I moved a little closer.
"Everything alright, gel?" Lew sounded loud and happy. Yes, yes of course it was. Mary was having a good time. We all were.
"Oh, it's lovely, isn't it, Lew, it weally is. Getting the family together like this, and it's not even a funeral! Ah, ha, ha!" Mary burst out laughing at her own remark. Lew grinned and nodded, unable to speak or even laugh.
"Bloody funny, that is, bloody funny, but you're right!" he finally blurted out.

A happy memory

2010-06-10T16:25:00.000-04:00

The hubbub of the pub was pleasant and, seeping through it, I heard "Roll out the Barrel" from across the bar. Lew was merrily singing along. Jessie was knocking back the red wine, chatting with her sister Mary, as if her memory problems never existed. After finishing his song, Lew tottered around the table and hunkered down with Mary. I didn't quite hear what they said, but Mary laughed and told him what a silly old stick he was. That I heard.

My moment in God's favor

2010-06-01T15:07:00.003-04:00

When I was about thirteen, I wanted to be a missionary. I tried to convert my friends and teachers at school. I prayed for Jessie and Lew. For my brother Tony and my dog Rex. And once, apart from praying to Jesus to forgive my many sins, which I did on a regular basis, once, just once, I had a Denis-of-Lourdes moment. I prayed for a cure. I prayed harder than hard for Jesus to heal my athlete’s foot. When I woke up the following morning, my foot was still inflamed and my toes still horribly cracked. And there had endeth my religious phase. I gave up Sunday school and reverted to being a young teen filled with sinful thoughts and not much else.

Reflections on Rye

2010-05-25T15:22:00.003-04:00

Prodigal Wife found this beautiful photo of Rye at PublicDomainePictures.net, and it made me grin like a happy giraffe! At the end of the street is Lamb House, once the home of E.F. Benson (and Henry James before him)—better known as Mallards to millions of Mapp and Lucia fans like myself. Looking up at the conservatory, I so easily imagine Lucia spying on her neighbors from her music room. And one of the lovely cottages on the right must be George's home, before he became Lucia's husband (in name only, of course). Perhaps the one with the charming pink roses?

An inauspicious beginning

2010-05-19T19:34:00.001-04:00

When England was celebrating the Festival of Britain and cheering for the Queen, I came into the world without many cheers but quite a lot of tears. Mum bawled her eyes out when I turned out to be a boy and not the girl she always wanted. Regardless, after the nurse offered to take me, mum reluctantly assumed the maternal role.

Roast beef on ...?

2010-05-11T17:43:00.003-04:00

The town of Sandwich was first recorded in the seventh century and had Saxon origins, though many believe it was settled much earlier. The name was derived from the Place of Sand, but it was the origin of the edible sandwich that intrigued us most. It all started in the mid-eighteenth century. The illustrious Earl of Sandwich, in order to continue gambling and, presumably, not break a winning streak, called for beef to be placed between two slices of bread so he could eat without getting gravy on his playing cards or ruffled shirt sleeves. Thus a new dish was created. Ironically, the earls of Sandwich had no real connection to the town. The first earl, Edward Montagu, only took the title of Earl of Sandwich because his fleet docked at Sandwich prior to sailing for France to pick up King Charles the Second and return him to the throne of England. Montagu could just as easily taken his title from another town along the coast.
“Anyone for a roast beef portsmouth?” I asked.
We thought about it for a moment; it did not sound as strange as I expected.
“Could work,” said Frances. “Although roast beef ‘rye’ would be better.”
“Rye! Yes. Clever. Very.” I smiled.

Don't knock the stuffing!

2010-05-02T11:43:00.002-04:00

Here’s a refreshing, very simple starter to add to your repertoire. The Stilton cheese make this a very proper English dish. This recipe is enough for at least four servings, with a half a pear per guest. Of course, you might like this so much you’ll need a whole pear!
You need two ounces of Stilton and the same amount of cream cheese. Two ripe pears, salad fixings, a lemon, and olive oil.

Here’s what you do.
Crumble the Stilton (no nibbling!), then combine with the cream cheese and whip—we use a mini food-processor for this—until well blended. Use any pears that look and feels nice and ripe. Chill down the pears for an hour or two, then peel and slice in half. Use a spoon to core them out, then spoon the cheese mixture into the hollows you have so cleverly created. I serve the pear halves on a little bed of lettuce garnished with endive spears, and walnut halves that have been sautéed in butter for just a minute.

The pear halves and salad bits are dressed with a vinaigrette made of lemon juice, olive oil, a pinch of salt, and a little sugar. Freshly ground pepper is the final touch.

This is a refreshing and delicious starter, and so simple to put together. Too simple? Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it!

Not so Bleak House

2010-04-28T10:34:00.001-04:00

Here is a fabulous view of our favorite seaside town, Broadstairs—with Charles Dickens' Bleak House in the background as a literary bonus. Sadly we did not have time to go inside when we visited, but we understand it's now available for rental. Wouldn't that be the perfect spot for a Prodigal reunion? Or the perfect setting for a murder mystery...

My imagination takes off

2010-04-20T17:09:00.003-04:00

“The airport we saw – much air traffic, is there?” I asked nervously.
“God, no. One plane a day. Maybe two. Been there for ages, that airport, it’s right close to a Battle of Britain station. Spitfires.”
“Spitfires?” My interest rose as my support for airplane noise abatement declined.
“The old airfield runs almost parallel with the new one. But the new one never caught on. Hardly anyone uses it.” Then he turned and said, “Oh, I’m Roy by the way. If you need anything, just come by, I’m always around. No problem.”

My favorite Brit radio

2010-04-15T16:58:00.002-04:00

The Archers was an institution. There were Archer Addicts. Fan clubs. Archer get-togethers. Many a flagging dinner party conversation could be enlivened by simply voicing a concern for one of the principal characters, such as, “I’m very worried about Shula.” During the year, Lew would airmail cassette tapes every two weeks, and I would try to listen to the recorded show at nine thirty on Sunday mornings, the same time the show’s omnibus edition was broadcast in England.

"Oh, there was a crooked house,..."

2010-04-12T15:34:00.001-04:00

We ambled back up the hill into the high street, where we found the Old Crooked House. Whether this was the original old crooked house from the famous nursery song, we had no clue, but the very tiny abode, warped and deformed with age, certainly deserved its name. The house looked as if it had tried to uproot itself and gotten twisted and bent in the process. We walked around it and saw a tiny window in the arched curved roof. Amazingly there was a room upstairs, perhaps with an even tinier bedroom! Not much bigger than a child’s tree house, this fabulous building had been converted into a shop for expensive pottery.

No, Kev, it's not you...

2010-04-09T12:13:00.003-04:00

Cousin Kevin (The Repairman Cometh) thought he'd had one too many when he spotted the door of this lovely book shop in Canterbury. He might have, of course, but in terms of the door it was just age taking its toll on the former Old King's School Shop, which was founded so many years ago everyone's forgotten exactly when. If you look closely, it says "circa" 1647 above the door!
Doesn't this look like a great spot for a book signing?

"This is not a car, madam!"

2010-04-05T15:21:00.001-04:00

I was in a giddy fog, quite like Mister Toad, totally in thrall to the hum of a hot roadster. Frances was shocked. She never imagined me much of a car man and, the truth was, I never had been. Cars were a convenient mode of transport, nothing more. But this was more. This was a speedy beast posing as a car. And I was posing as its trainer. But it did not last long. The euphoric fog lifted and reality set in. I knew it would not be fair, or nice, to encumber my poor old parents with bags on laps while I sat up front like Stirling, or Mario, or Jackie, or Graham, or—

East End...to East Side

2010-03-30T18:40:00.006-04:00

During our fabulous weekend in New York, we stayed on the ritzy East Side and yet, and yet, what do we see as we're walking down the street? A Barking Dog sign! Oh, no! Where are we again? Is this the East Side or the East End? This Barking Dog is a restaurant attached to a hotel, and probably a lot nicer than the pub in Barking, but nevertheless...
We also saw a Baker Street Pub with a charming Sherlock Holmes sign, but were running late and did not take a photo.

Start spreading the news...

2010-03-23T16:11:00.005-04:00

Our New York events are finally upon us, and we can't wait! We hope anyone in the area will join us—it'd be so wonderful to meet some of our cyber-friends! Here are the details:

Friday March 26, 7:30 pm
Barnes & Noble at Lincoln Triangle (Broadway & 66)
Professional actors take on all your favorite characters from A Yank Back to England in a theatrical interpretation of one expat’s rediscovery of his former homeland. Plus, don't miss a chance to win one of three fish & chip dinners for two at the ChipShop!
If you come early, pop into the cafe on the 4th floor and say hi to the old Prodigal Wife, who will be there with the little one.

Sunday March 28, 2-4 pm
Connolly’s Pub and Restaurant
14 East 47th Street (between Madison and 5th)
The Daughters of the British Empire invite you to a afternoon of nibbles, drinkies, and humour with the entire Prodigal Clan—and a raffle! Tickets are $30, with all profits benefiting the Victoria Home. For more info & reservations, call Vicki Downey (646) 220 2309 or email Vickilou67@aol.com

Hope to see some of you this weekend!

Bubble, bubble without trouble

2010-03-18T17:29:00.003-04:00

Stuck with leftover St. Patrick's Day cabbage and spud? Here's my home version of another cornerstone of English cuisine: Bubble and Squeak. So easy, not a real recipe really. I cook up some bacon and fry up the chopped, leftover spuds and greens in the rendered fat. I let everything brown for a few minutes without touching, then stir up and brown the other sides. That's it! It all goes down very well with everyone, even Kate, though we keep her away from the Guiness...just kidding, Prodigal Wife is not a Guiness fan either.

On the battlements

2010-03-15T17:53:00.002-04:00

Walking across a castle tower, we peeked out from the battlements, watching the Arun river as it curved around the shadow of the castle before snaking out into the countryside beyond. About a hundred feet below us, we saw a graveled driveway that led to a private entrance to the castle. As if on cue, a raffishly muddied Land Rover pulled up and young blond children, a pretty blonde woman, and a tousle-haired fellow in a check shirt and crumpled corduroy trousers piled out. They all looked like models from an L.L Bean catalog. But as no photographer appeared, we concluded they might well be the current lord, his lady, and heirs apparent. We walked back inside, descended another staircase past more family portraits, and tried to look for a family resemblance. We found none, but we did find Jessie and Lew patiently waiting for us.
“Gasping for a cuppa tea, son,” said Lew.

Broadcast muse

2010-03-12T17:21:00.004-05:00

Trying to repeat the success of my BBC America interview (which sent my little tome flying off the ether-shelves!), we thought we'd put together some "B-roll" before reaching out to some media outlets. Here is what we came up with--what do you think?
It's only 60 seconds, please check it out and let us know!

One sherry too many

2010-03-10T16:35:00.002-05:00

“Is Mum alright, Dad?”
“Don’t wake her, for Gawd’s sake!” Lew’s face registered fear. “She’ll start doing a ‘knees up’ or get all funny. Either way, I’ll never hear the end of it.”
“A knees up?” Frances whispered. I explained it was an East London dance that is only difficult to do if very drunk, which is the only time it is ever performed. A “knees up” requires the linkage of arms, the stomping of feet, and high-kicking legs in order to get the required “knees up” while singing “Knees Up Mother Brown.”
The image of my drunken aunts performing like inebriated Rockettes, trampling on each other’s feet, was not far from my mind.

Sunset in Windsor

2010-03-04T15:44:00.003-05:00

Kate and I love to feed the Queen's swans whenever we're in England; once in a while we get a fabulous sunset too, as we did in Windsor.
For other beautiful skies, visit Skywatch.

Troubles at immigration

2010-03-01T15:27:00.003-05:00

We've received lots of notes/comments saying how wonderful the old Prodigal Wife is, taking everything in stride, smiling, smoothing things over... I thought it was time to set the record straight: Prodigal Wife has her moments too. Specifically, she has trouble with bureaucrats and their silly rules, as you'll see in this encounter with an officious official at Heathrow. (Must be the six months she spent in the Soviet Union.)

Adelard’s disappointed. Again.

2010-02-25T09:35:00.000-05:00

“What you lot been up to? Any trips? Any fab hols?” Adelard sucked on his drink between questions.
“Not really. What about you?” Frances asked.
“Well, I went off with some friends and we did Italy. Madly impressed that we were going to stay in a fourteenth century turret, until I discovered everyone stays in fourteenth century Tuscan turrets. So I didn’t feel quite as spesh as I thought I might. And now we’re all here.” He looked around. “In Tunbridge Wells. Hmm.”

Diamonds are a... well, anyone's best friend

2010-02-22T16:30:00.002-05:00

“We always liked the West End. Going up to the theatre,” Jessie was saying.
“Come on, Mum, you don’t like the theatre,” I jumped in, gently teasing her. “When was the last time you went to the theatre?”
“The Palladium, the London Palladium! We saw Liberace!”
“Years ago, it was. She wanted to see him.” Lew pointed to Jessie.
“Well, of course I did, a wonderful man, he was. An entertainer, a real entertainer.”
“A showman, he was that alright,” Lew conceded.
“He had all these outfits, diamonds, furs. And then he was all lit up. Lovely!”
“Well, he appealed to old ducks like you, Mum.”
“What’d you mean?” She looked taken aback.
“Well, you tell me, who was in the audience apart from funny old things like you. I bet there weren’t any men there.”
“There was men, remember, Lew? There was men there. Up in the balcony, lots of young men, all dressed up! Just like Liberace!” said Mum innocently.
Lew pulled a face and raised his eyes to the ceiling. Diplomatically, he said nothing.

New Canterbury Tales

2010-02-16T16:46:00.003-05:00

Surrounded by snow, we're definitely ready for a trip...at least mentally. To get in the mood, here's a lovely shot Prodigal Wife took in Canterbury on one of our annual visits.

Snow Special!

2010-02-13T11:54:00.003-05:00

Aren't the folks at Amazon lovely? Just in time for Valentine's Day--or is it to cheer those of us who are still surrounded by mountains and mountains of the white stuff--they have reduced the price of A Yank Back to England to frumpence over $11! So if any of you were meaning to purchase my little tome but did not quite get around to it yet, this is the perfect time! You'll save money--and cheer Prodigal Wife up just in time for the big day (and thank you)!
And don't forget your friends--really, where can you get six trips to England for less than $12!!
Click here to check it out.

Freaking? Have a cuppa.

2010-02-09T17:23:00.003-05:00

“I don’t want to know!” I babbled on, “Oh, Christ. We’re not equipped, I’m not good at this! And if there’s an emergency, the bloody phone doesn’t work! And there’s my parents in there, and the other lot. Oh, God!” I started laughing.
Frances told me to get a grip, but I continued laughing. With thoughtful eagerness, she offered to smack me. I declined her kindly offer and took deep breaths instead.
“Better?” asked Frances, sounding a little disappointed, then asked me to help put out the tea things. Good idea. So that’s what I did, and my hysteria gradually subsided.

New York Chippie Sighting

2010-02-02T12:29:00.004-05:00

Know we usually post England photos, but we loved this photo our buddy Chris sent us of his chippie's 1975 Reliant Robin, which he keeps in New York to attract fish Brits and other fish lovers. And we're sure it does--love the color!
Chris has kindly donated three fish and chips dinners for two to be raffled off at the Yank Back to England New York event on Friday March 26, at the Lincoln Center Barnes & Noble.
So everyone in the tristate area: come on out! It's going to be fun, we're finalizing the actors now. In the meantime, if you pop into one of Chris' Chip Shops, tell him we sent you.

Kate's first flight

2010-01-30T16:26:00.001-05:00

On this first flight to England the baby, there were three other blue plastic boxes, occupied by children far more animated than mine. The one farthest away contained a true screamer; the one next to me, much to the father’s delight, was a mass of whiny wiggles. Every five minutes or so, a tiny, limp, damp hand would appear from the box, move back and forth, then disappear again. The father seemed delighted by this sign of life. But I, for one, found it rather disconcerting to see a disembodied hand appearing periodically like Thing in the Adams Family. My baby slept like, well, like a baby. A good baby. I was being well plied with wine, my wife was sleeping, so all was right with the world.

Wine tasting in the Kentish countryside

2010-01-17T17:14:00.002-05:00

Leaving Kate and Frances at the cottage, I wound my way to a local winery.

Just toast for me...

2010-01-11T16:44:00.007-05:00

"I'll just have some coffee, that will do me," I murmured pitifully.
"I know what's going to happen. You're going to eat all my food!"
"No, I won't - I'm still feeling rather fragile."
"Serves you right."
How can we loathe those we love? Besides my headache, the price of the full English breakfast had also curbed my appetite. "Maybe toast - that'll be enough for me."
"Let's order some extra sausages," suggested Frances. "That way, you'll have something in case you change your mind."
"I said, a little toast will be fine," I insisted, stubbornly.
"Fine, have toast then. Look, Kate, look! Ponies!" said Frances. Much excitement.
A silvered canopy was whisked away with a flourish, revealing two large, juicy Cumberland sausages. Kate's eyes and smile widened accordingly. A vast platter showed up for Frances, with eggs, sausages, bacon, fried bread, baked beans, and hash browns. Then toast triangles were placed before me, imprisoned within a wire frame.
"Oh, splendid." I tried to sound nonchalant and not as hungry as I was beginning to feel.
"I told you-" said Frances, knowingly.
I grumbled and mumbled as I freed toast from its silver cage. Kate was madly happy with her sausages. Her English side was obviously asserting itself. Then we both started dipping buttered toast into Frances' baked beans. I was now feeling much better and bitterly regretting my cheap moment. Frances felt the same, as Kate and I picked continuously at her plate. But it all worked out. I consumed lashings of buttered toast and marmalade and drank endless cups of excellent coffee. By the time we finished we all felt revived enough for a long nap.
(Note: In the spirit of full disclosure, photo is from the English breakfast-brunch I cooked recently for a couple of close friends who braved the snow rather than cancel. We don't fry bread, sadly.)

Yanked back, again

2010-01-06T16:51:00.001-05:00

I stopped the car, got out, threw up on the side of the road. Vowed never to drink at high altitudes again. I swallowed some headache pills, guzzled water, and sat in silence behind the wheel. Kate, now three and a half, was asleep. I wished I were, too. Frances looked a bit concerned, a bit wary. Fortunately, the clanging in my head began to lessen and, from what I could see in the rear view mirror, the death-mask pallor on my face had started to fade. Slowly, color seeped back into my cheeks.

A bedtime story

2010-01-04T16:14:00.005-05:00

Hello, my name is Riley, the handsome red tabby. Little Daggers is my protege--I met him through my mum, Agnes, who met the young master (a.k.a. the Prodigal Tourist) in that electronic book club, Shelfari. Anyway, me mum has temporarily put aside her Kindle to read a bedtime story to me and my feline companion, Precious.
Agnes and the Cats in the Evening 
Cast 
A Agnes, the Mama Cat 
P Precious, the Siamese tabby 
R Riley, the famous red tabby  

P: Mama, Mama, I sink its bedtime. 
A: Okay, let's read a little first. (Fluffs pillows and lies against them. Reaches for A Yank Back to England.) 
P: Goody, goody! A real book. I love how they smell. (Rubs face across the pages, then lies down sweetly at A's side.) 
R: Hey! That's my place! (Considers the situation; then sits on A's chest, purring deeply.) 
A: Riley, sweetheart, I can't see the book. (Holds tome up above R and proceeds to read. After first paragraph gets up, trots into library, and returns with DK Great Britain.) To self: Oomph, this is even heavier. 
P: I can't hear it. 
A: No, dear, this is a real book. We're being old-fashioned tonight. 
P: Oh goody! Costumes and horses! 
R: Purrrrrrrr!
 A: Riley, honey, don't sit on the book. Now, how do I get it to turn the page? Where's the button? Oh, right. 
R: Purrrrrrrr! 
A: LOL. 
P: What, Mama? 
A: LOL. These blokes are really funny! Especially the younger male. 
R: Scritch, scritch, scritch. 
A: LOL. I feel as if I'm really there. (Gets up and heads for bathroom.)
 P: Mum! Mum! Come back!
 A: Okay, where was I? 
R: Purrrrrrr! 
A: Oh, right. 
P: I want my tea, right now! 
A: Lie down, sweetie. Let me read to you for a while. 
R: Purrrrrrr! 
A: The heater for the bath water! This reminds me of Enchanted April. Only the bath part, though. Close your eyes, Precious! 
R: Can we have some of that gravy on our Fancy Feast tomorrow? 
A: No, dear. Only in England. 
P: I wants milk in my tea.
 A: Tomorrow. 
R: And can we do this again tomorrow?
 A: Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow. Now get down into the knee basket and let's all sleep. We're going touring tomorrow. 
R and P: Purrrrrrrrr!

Thanks Agnes, for sending this to us--we loved it!

In Winnie's studio

2009-12-28T17:21:00.004-05:00

Deep in the garden, we found Sir Winston’s art studio. Venturing inside, we found a compact room, rather like a small cottage without a bedroom level, with paintings lining the walls. Despite the obvious contrivance of a cigar left in an ashtray and a paint-stained smock across a chair, there was one very authentic touch beside the easel: stacks and stacks of Havana cigar boxes filled with tubes of paint. Churchill’s paintings were bold, brash, energetic, exuberant South of France landscapes. To me, they all seemed to be tantalizing self-portraits, yet only partly revealing.

A spoonful of Christmas

2009-12-18T17:21:00.002-05:00

My recipe for Christmas mincemeat differs a bit from the traditional ones because I believe in using what is around your pantry. Basically, you'll need a combination of dried fruits-raisins, sultanas, currants, dates, figs, etc.-but, I think it matters not what kind of dried fruits you use. In the nut department, you are expected to use slivered almonds, but I used walnuts this year, and a few leftover pecan bits, with no ill effect. Same goes with the drinkie element. Brandy is traditional but I had rum and a little amaretto lying around, so I used that. Candied peel I omit altogether because, frankly, I don't like it. In short, feel free to improvise-you may even come up with a unique recipe!

For the mincemeat you will need
Two large Granny Smith apples. Instead of boiling them into a mush I peel and quarter the apples and sauté them in a little butter, before chopping the apple bits up. Now finely chop a heaped cup of your chosen nuts-almonds, walnuts, pecans, or what-have-you. Then grate the rind of a lemon and orange and chop. Reserve the juice from both fruits. You'll also need a heaped teaspoon of ground spices. Choose the spices you like best; cloves, cinnamon, star anise, nutmeg. My family likes lots of cinnamon, not much nutmeg. Or add some grated ginger, now there's a thought...
You will also need three cups of mixed dried fruit. This year I used a cup each of raisins, sultanas, and chopped up dried apricots. Use whatever you want, or have to hand but remember, larger fruit should be chopped. Now add two cups of brown sugar and half a cup of brandy or other favored libation.
Fear not about the uncooked alcohol content if, indeed, you worry about such things. The demon drink will evaporate within a few days. And besides, you'll probably cook your mincemeat in a pastry or some such before eating it, which will "cook out" the booze. Unless you're naughty like me, and spoon it right out of the jar! Yum! Yum! (I get scolded though.)
Into all this stuff, grate a stick of butter. I suggest you freeze the stick first, makes life easier. If you're feeling daring or traditional, go right ahead and use 1/2 cup good quality beef fat instead, instead of butter. Whatever fat you use, don't forget to freeze it first before attempting to grate.
Now combine all the ingredients and liquids in a glass bowl and mix very well but gently. The mixture should be quite stiff. The spoon should be able to stand up in the mixture unaided, but not break! If it is too thick, add a little more rum, sherry, apple juice, or other tasty liquid. Now pop the bowl in the fridge and chill at least a day before plunking this classic confection into those clever airtight jars with the metal clamps and rubber rings. Alternatively, you can go right ahead and use the mixture for mince tarts or turnovers. Prodigal Wife folds little rounds of pastry over a bit of mincemeat, wonton-style but, as you see in the photo, I just plop a spoonful of the stuff on a molded round of pastry and bake till it's all bubbly.

Try to be patient!
Mincemeat improves with a little age. Try and give it a week or two. The difference is startling! This stuff will happily reside in your fridge for six months or more. But if you're like me, you'll find your mincemeat far too irresistible to last beyond the season to be jolly....and why should it? After all, a spoonful of Christmas...

"All I want for Christmas..."

2009-12-15T16:51:00.003-05:00

Cousin Kevin writes that Santa came early this year, and that he and the charming Maxine are taking turns reading (he said "fighting over it"). You'll notice the suprisingly healthful drink next to him, but Kev says he's going to make up for that tomorrow, when he goes for a traditional English meal: A Curry.
What is on our wishlist this Christmas? Many more photos like this one...

"You did what to Tony?"

2009-12-09T17:31:00.004-05:00

Here's another bit I read from A Yank Back to England. We dined on this story for a long time; a little bit obvious but it still makes us laugh. And yes, that's just what Mum said...

Quick walk 'round Dagenham

2009-12-07T19:06:00.000-05:00

But first, Frances insisted on exploring the immediate vicinity. A quick walk before dinner. It was where I grew up, she said. She was curious. I was not. But then, maybe I was. A little.
The landscape in Dagenham had no contours, except for the occasional tarmac hillock to accommodate London Transport on its bold thrust eastwards. Yet, even with its flatness, Dagenham didn’t have a big sky like Aldeburgh. It narrowed at the edges of one’s horizon, cowering in one corner and skulking in the other. And so it was with Castle Green, the vast playing fields located a few blocks from my old home. Frances and I went for a walk there, following the path I took years ago with Rex, our family dog. We headed diagonally across an empty expanse, past a muddy soccer field and the sagging narrowness of an unkempt cricket pitch. Past the brick sports building that was always locked and always reeked of pee because the local soccer players could never get to the inside toilet. Past the wooden notice board with pasted-over information of long-gone events. Nothing new to announce. Nothing I did not know about.

My Aunt Vi

2009-12-02T09:54:00.000-05:00

Vi was one of my favorite aunts. She was my mum’s younger sister but looked on first glance to be older. She had silvery gold hair spun as thin as cotton candy and set on a vivid pink skull. She had a wizened chin, rounded at the end like a small doughnut. And when she smiled, her jaws caved in thanks to ill-fitting dentures. But her eyes twinkled with the mischief of a sixteen year old. Vi quickly changed the subject back to things meteorological.
“I bet the weather’s all lovely where you are, Denis, ay? Ay? In America, isn’t it, Denis? Like in the pictures, innit? Hollywood. Lovely. Love it over there, don’t you, Denis?”
I had never lived in Hollywood, or in California for that matter, but when Vi thought of America, she thought of sunshine and glamour and excitement. I suppose anywhere in America was a kind of Hollywood back-lot, if you had not been there.

The Best Fish and Chips in Windsor

2009-11-27T16:48:00.004-05:00

Here is another bit I read from A Yank Back to England. We're having lunch in Windsor--this is one of our favorite stories! Hope you like...

Side dish? Pass the gin...

2009-11-25T20:20:00.002-05:00

In America, Thanksgiving focuses on family and turkey. In England, we didn’t have Thanksgiving; but in my family, all get-togethers focused on drinking. Just before emigrating to the States, I organized a farewell party. My mum and all her sisters, Vi, Flo, Mary, and May showed up armed with bottles of gin. Way past midnight, the five ladies were dead drunk—they sang and swayed their arms, laughed and cried, but they could not move. I made several phone calls and their sons, the cousins I had not seen in years, arrived, much later, to winkle their respective mothers out of my flat. Drinks parties in my extended family went on and on. Nobody ever left until the booze ran out. And, even then, one relative always had the bright idea of making tea and cheese sandwiches to ‘soak up’ the gin the old girls had consumed.
Happy Thanksgiving everyone!

Duck race to the finish

2009-11-22T20:08:00.006-05:00

Mike, a Brit expat who spends most of the year in Thailand taking photos and blogging, sent us this charming photo of his hometown of Oxton, Nottinghamshire. If you're wondering what everyone's doing, they're trying to see whose little rubber duckie will make it to the finish line first. Mike says the biannual event has strict rules—no interfering with your duck!—and the course is 800 yards along the village brook, which includes a couple of bridges.
You know we love to say "only in England," but a friend of ours recently entered a duckie in a similar event in... West Virginia.
You can see Mike's great photos of Thailand at his photo blog. And many of you read my life-as-a-Yank interview on one of his other blogs, British Expats Directory.
If you have a great photo of England, send it on (72 dpi please)! If we post it, we'll link back to you.

Of smugglers, real and fictional

2009-11-17T21:29:00.005-05:00

The Mermaid was replete with secret passageways, a hide-out for contraband and a meeting place for smugglers! According to the walking guide Frances had picked up at the hotel, as Rye’s importance as a seafaring port diminished, its importance as a smuggler’s haven increased. The notorious Hawkhurst Gang used to hang out at the Inn, no doubt sipping their illicit contraband while keeping a watchful eye out for revenue officers. However, the hostelry’s most famous smuggler was fictional, Thorndike’s Doctor Syn, the vicar of Dymchurch! Frances rolled her eyes as I again rambled on about all his yarns, many of which featured Rye’s Mermaid Inn. For me, those fictional memories were suddenly anchored in reality.

A classic side to give thanks for

2009-11-13T20:14:00.005-05:00

We posted this last winter, but several people have asked me recently about Cauliflower Cheese—and it's on our menu for Thanksgiving—so we thought we'd post the recipe again. This is a classic English staple and when it’s done well, it’s a wonderful thing. Sadly the reputation for this dish has waned over the years and been relegated to the realm of ghastly pub food, made en masse for the lunch crowd because it keeps its heat, like shepherd’s pie with its layer of crisped mash. Even now, this maligned dish is usually found rubbing shoulders with a tray of baked beans and bangers, all held under the ubiquitous glass coffin atop near the beer pumps. And so after an hour or so, the cheese sauce turns into a rubberized cap, the kind a grandmother would swim in. This of course does nothing for the taste but it does act as a heat-sealant.
This is a culinary tragedy. Done right, Cauliflower Cheese is a truly wonderful dish, good enough to be savored alone. But when it accompanies a prime rib roast...you are in God’s own country.
Here’s how to turn a travesty into a culinary triumph.

Cauliflower Cheese, prodigal-style
Break up the cauliflower into florets, chop up bits of stalks if you are feeling virtuous, frugal, or both. Steam until crisp-tender, or cover and microwave for about 5 minutes. (If you use the microwave and value your fingers, leave the florets alone in the microwave for a few minutes to calm down. Anyway, you'll be kept busy making the sauce. )
Put 4 tablespoons of butter and 3 tablespoons of flour in a small saucepan; melt butter with the flour, whisk until no white bits remain. Take saucepan off the fire and let the flour cook off the heat. Add a little salt, a good pinch of nutmeg, and a 1/2 teaspoon of Coleman’s powder mustard (or a couple of shakes of powdered white pepper). Throw in a bay leaf if you must; I never do, I find bay leaves overrated. By now it should be safe to remove the cauliflower from the microwave, which you will use to warm up two cups of milk, either fat-free or whole if you are feeling naughty. Mind you, if you’re feeling particularly decadent (and I know there are one or two of you out there) add a little cream. Now put the saucepan back on the fire, whisk in the warmed milk, keep whisking for a minute or two until the concoction thickens. You have now made a Béchamel sauce. Congratulations. I don’t tell Frances but I now add a dollop of cream cheese, about a large tablespoonful, for extra enrichment and flavor. To your creamy cheese sauce add a large teaspoon of Dijon style mustard and a shot of Worcestershire sauce. (And by the way, this is pronounced Wooster Sauce. Wooster as in Bertie Wooster. No shire. No cester. Just Wooster.) Whisk your sauce again then set aside.
Butter a large glass dish and turf in the cauliflower florets and edible stalk bits. If you have a 1/4 cup of cauliflower water residing aimlessly in the bottom of your glass dish or steam pot, add it to your sauce. I now sprinkle a generous amount of grated Swiss cheese over the florets, but you could use any grated mousetrap you happen to have kicking around. Then enrobe the cauliflower with your lovely sauce. The experts pour, but I prefer to spoon it on gently, making sure the sauce covers the cauliflower evenly. Now put the dish in the fridge for 24 hours to rest. No, no, I’m only kidding!
But you do need to top the dish with parmesan cheese before going any further. For additional flavor and crunch I also add fresh breadcrumbs toasted in butter--it’s worth the extra step. Now you’re almost there. Mix a couple of tablespoons of the crumbs with an equal amount of Parmesan cheese and sprinkle this mixture over the sauced cauliflower. Pop the dish into a 350 F oven for 1/2 hour or so, uncovered. When the sauce bubbles and the top is a gold, mahogany brown ––et voila! Do let your cauliflower cheese repose for a few minutes before serving.
This wonderful dish can be prepared ahead, and kept covered in the fridge for hours even overnight. Just don’t sprinkle the crumb mixture until you’re ready to bake. And no, it really doesn’t need any additional salt, the cheese takes care of that. And you can adjust the pepper and dry mustard to your taste. But do use the Worcestershire Sauce, especially now you know how to pronounce it. Enjoy!

My Youtube debut

2009-11-09T17:28:00.004-05:00

After some initial misgivings, I was talked into doing a little video for Youtube (sneaky Prodigal Wife said it was "practice" for a reading!)... and here it is! Let me know what you think, but please be gentle...the grease paint is barely off my training wheels!
(PS: If you find it amusing, please rate it/favorite it and pass it along...if you all like it, I'll do some more.)

Bonfires of the Martyrs

2009-11-07T07:19:00.003-05:00

In the better-late-than-never category, here is a spectacular photo of the Lewes Bonfires sent to us by our friend Gareth at What England Means to Me (some of you may have read the essay I submitted to this site). The bonfires at Lewes are quite famous and probably the largest in England, and I believe they combine several commemorations into one explosive sight.
Have a great photo of England? Send it to us at aprodigaltourist@gmail.com.

Time for a quick drinkie...

2009-11-03T16:28:00.000-05:00

Momentarily confused, our waitress quickly regained her composure. I told her to lead the way and together we managed to get Kate and her stroller downstairs without waking her. We sipped wine and ordered lunch in a surprisingly airy cellar restaurant, blissfully devoid of cigarette smoke. We had half an hour to go before we had to pry my parents out of the pub. Time to be alone and relax. Kate woke up, a bit groggy, but after a change and a bottle, she obligingly went back to sleep while we ate and finished our own bottle.

Last of the currant jam

2009-10-30T21:08:00.003-04:00

Lew busied himself making tea while Mum sorted out two jars of her better-than-Harrods jam. Marvelous. Mum did not think she would be able to make it anymore. Picking the berries had become a very hard chore for them both.
“All that bending. Too old for it now, son. Not worth it,” Lew explained.
“Still, never mind, eh?” Mum was happy to move on and leave jam-making behind, somewhat resilient to the limitations age placed upon her.
“How’s the blackcurrant bush doing?” I inquired, smiling, trying to make conversation, trying to ignore what Lew was saying.
“Bigger than ever. Running wild it is, right, Jessie?”
“But who can pick ‘em?” she said, again with a slight nervous laugh.
I admired the two jars Mum had given to us. The tops were covered in parchment paper and tied with string. I held them up and studied them like bottles of fine wine, the last of the vintage.

Calling all directors and helpful friends...

2009-10-28T19:55:00.006-04:00

Okay, everyone, I've been asked to supply a photo for a large poster that will be displayed in a bookstore (!). So we took a bunch of photos and narrowed it down to these four.
What do you think? Should I go friendly like the top ones (with/without glasses), or more author-y like the lower ones (with / without glasses.
We all have a different favorite, so please help! What do you think? We'd appreciate some input... or should we scrap these and start again?

We have winners...

2009-10-26T19:54:00.006-04:00

Before we get to our giveaway winners, I wanted to say how much I appreciated the comments about the What England Means to Me posts (see below). I had never really spent much time (any time) thinking about it, so I wasn't sure how it would turn out, so I was delighted to see that a lot of you enjoyed the piece and saw themselves or their situation reflected in it. So, my thanks to all of you who left me such heartfelt. even moving comments.

Now, to business!
We ended up with 36 entries for the Great British Journeys book—and thanks for pushing A Yank Back to England to page one on Amazon's travelogue/travelogues communities, by the way—so we used the old roulette wheel again. As you can see, the winner was number 2, Melissa at Smitten by Britain! Very appropriate, it seems to us, as Melissa went through all the hoops and had more entries than anyone else. So congratulations, Melissa!
We had two entries for the journal, so we went with odd/even on that (though, as it turns out, #2 would have worked), and the winner is Mrs Apple at Apple Tree Academy.
Last but not least, Emm in London wins the Orioles shirt, even though this is clearly the Yankees' week.
Congratulations to our winners!

What England means to me, part II

2009-10-23T16:20:00.004-04:00

(The following is the second half of an essay I wrote for What England Reads to Me. For Part I, see previous post.)

And yet...
Once I got settled, the pull of England, the occasional tugs homeward, became more frequent. I found myself listening to more Vaughan Williams, more Britten and Holst than ever before. And I rediscovered meat puds and toad in the hole; even beans on toast made it back on the menu. I started to garden. To garden! (The world may think all Englishmen are itching to leap out of the closet but I think we're more prone to come out of the woodshed in a pair of wellies.)
Anyhow, this Englishness grew. And now it knows no bounds. I even find myself riding my bike and singing along to the chorus of The English are Best. I'm glued to the telly whenever the most insipid period drama is aired. Just as long as it's English. On the box recently, I heard someone say, "Oooh you are awful...but I like you!" And, quite suddenly, marvelous Dick Emery dug a smiley faced crease in my memory.

It gets worse.
I can't hear Jerusalem without getting a wet glob in the eye. And Churchill's wartime words embarrass me with a feeling of pride-or is it that odd, misunderstood emotion expats label as misplaced patriotism? I've started re-reading Mapp and Lucia, Saki, Somerset Maugham; and rediscovering the glories of Golding, Durrell, Fowles, and Bainbridge, to name but a few.
Time for tea? I found local shops that import PG Tips, even Typhoo! Assorted British sauces, pickles, sweets, and sundries. Gentleman's relish? Piccalilli. You can get it all here. And I do.
Somehow, America has become a receptive, dimensional canvas cleverly shaped liked that familiar little spec in the North Atlantic. So I happily dip into a paint box labeled Albion and splogged on the oils in big thick swirls, brushing out the unpleasant bits from the green and pleasant. Yet, for all that, my picture of England isn't as bland as one might expect. The colours ring true. They are as vibrant and lush as the music of England's countryside, as dense as a sherry-soaked fruitcake, as majestic as our literature, as lyrical as our poetry, and as magical as a kid's memory of a Christmas panto with Arthur Askey.
England means more to me now than it ever would have if I had stayed. Moving back, I think I might lose my exuberant imagining of the place I once called home. I would take it all for granted again. And long for other landscapes I would rather not imagine, let alone paint, let alone call home.

What England means to me, part I

2009-10-21T19:41:00.004-04:00

(The following is the first half of an essay I wrote for What England Means to Me.)
I left England at time when gainful employment was not all that easy to gain. Mind you, I was quite happy to gad about surviving on the odd song royalty or the occasional writing job. Reaching the dangerous age of thirty, I suddenly realized I had better try and get that thing I had, until then, steadfastly refused to search for: a proper job. Besides, several adventurous but potentially lucrative projects in music, film, and theatre had either crashed and burned or simply petered out rather ingloriously. So the time had come to look.
I tried to get into advertising as a junior copywriter. Unfortunately my spotty resume as a lyricist, magician, and aspiring playwright impressed no one. Even being a member of a prestigious writers’ workshop did nothing to improve matters. “Fink you can amble out the Aldwych and get a job in advertising, who do you fink you are –– Jack the bleedin’ lad?” I thought I was an out of work writer, and certainly not one bit of a lad, Jack or otherwise. But I was thought to be slumming. Oh well.
I could have emigrated to Canada or Australia, but I came to America and the Washington D.C. area. I liked Washington from the time I had spent there a decade before, as a kid in the magic game. And there was another reason: Washington was on the Eastern seaboard, which gave me a foot in the pond, an uninterrupted horizon, with good old Blighty hiding just beyond it.
Americans I met were friendly, supportive, and very encouraging. Even my threadbare resume raised interest instead of hackles. Yes, the accent helped a lot. I sounded cleverer than I was. But folks gave me a chance, and I took it: I got a job. I was allowed to try things, be creative, and within a couple of years, I was senior writer at a major agency. Five years later I met Frances, we formed a small marketing business of our own, got married, had a lovely child. And now live happily in suburban Maryland. All’s well that lands well, as they say.
And yet…

Generation gap—or culture shock?

2009-10-19T21:45:00.000-04:00

“Oooh-oooh! It’s Nanny! Hello Katie! Hello Katie!”
Morning brought forth the sun, and Mum was ebullient in bright pinks and smiles. Kate took a running jump at Jessie’s legs, gave her a big hug, and started tugging, dragging her towards the patio.
“Where’s your mother, where’s your mother?” asked Jessie, a little nervous in the face of Kate’s exuberance. As Kate tottered after a ball, Jessie tottered in the opposite direction.

Ready for a lovely weekend!

2009-10-16T18:15:00.000-04:00

Even though it was raining hard, I was looking forward to going somewhere different for a few days after a hectic week of hosting. It would be a time to unwind, negate the responsibilities of cooking, cleaning, chauffeuring, and entertaining. For a few days at least, I intended to play the unencumbered tourist, gliding through any visit Frances had planned for us.

Hurray, a giveaway!

2009-10-12T17:13:00.001-04:00

We've been very remiss about visiting everyone lately, but we have been a little crazed! We promise to catch up soon, and hope you all forgive us—and, in the meantime, help us celebrate. We finally got our new website up (well, mostly)—and we're finally done with proofing! Hip, hip... So we wanted to share our excitement (and relief!) with all our bloggy friends. And how better to celebrate than with a giveaway? A couple, actually.
Great British Journeys by Nicholas Crane
Residents of the US and Canada: We're giving away a hardcover copy of Great British Journeys by BBC-TV's Nicholas Crane. You'll follow not the prodigal footsteps (couldn't resist) but those of eight explorers who set out to chronicle the state of the British nation, including Gerald of Wales, H.V. Morton, Celia Fiennes, Daniel Defoe, and William Cobbett. On foot, on bicycle, on horseback, and by boat—share their passion, imagination, and curiosity. Lots of photos too!
Orioles shirt
We wanted to make sure to include my former countrymen (and women) this time, as well as our friends down under and beyond, so we decided to make this a true cultural exchange. While readers on this side of the Atlantic enjoy this great book about England (and hopefully get in the mood for another book about England, hint, hint!), I'd like to share a bit of what I've found in America with the rest of you. Some of you may know that Prodigal Daughter is quite the little softball player, and she has introduced me to the game of baseball! I actually quite enjoy it and, I confess, sometimes watch it on the telly without her prodding. I know it's not cricket, but... So we thought we'd give away an Orioles shirt. The Orioles are Baltimore's professional baseball team and, while DC now has the Nationals, we've stuck with the Os. The fact that they lose quite often endears them to me even more—must be my English side making me root for the loser, well done and all that. (Note: this sleeveless shirt is man's large, which in US athletic wear is quite large. Perfect for a nightie, ladies!)
And for the kiddies
We want to get the little ones involved too! So we're giving away a travel journal for the budding tourists in your midst. (Sorry, this one's for US/Canada residents only. Postage is quite silly now.)

Enough chitchat, how do I enter?
OK, OK, here are the rules. Quite simple really, and there are lots of opportunities to enter.

*For the book & shirt: You can only enter for one or the other, based on where you are. North American residents, you're in for the book; others for the shirt. (Please say!)
*One entry for each of the following:

A comment in post below--make it exciting, we're celebrating!
One entry for signing the guestbook at ayankbacktoengland.com (it helps us climb in the search engines plus, it makes me look popular!)
A link to this giveaway on your blog, facebook page, twitter, or other networking site you might have. You must come back and leave another comment with link.
One entry for putting my book on your shelf at Shelfari, LibraryThing, and/or GoodReads. Must come back and leave another comment. (One bonus entry for Melissa at SmittenByBritain for having my book on her shelf before we'd even heard of Shelfari—thanks, darling!)
One entry for tagging my book "travelogue" and "travelogues" at amazon.com (you have to enter the actual words in the little box). Then come back and let me know...
One entry if you email us a lovely England photo (72 dpi please); photos that were submitted before or during our last giveaway do not count.

*For the travel journal: Just leave a comment in this post saying who it's for—and where they might be going! One entry per person (finish, as Lew would say).
*We have to be able to reach you: if you don't have a blog, please leave an email in your comment.
*Depending on the number of entries, we'll use the roulette wheel again, the bingo cage, or some other random method. (Will separate by prize first, of course!)
*Contest will run until October 24, 2009 (midnight Eastern Time). Winners to be posted/contacted on Monday, October 26. If we haven't heard back in 72 hours, another winner(s) will be drawn.

That's it! Look forward to hearing from lots of you...

Set in Stonehenge

2009-10-09T17:05:00.003-04:00

Haven't made it out to Stonehenge yet, but as the old Prodigal Wife is always on the trail of Merlin and all things Druid, I'm sure we will someday! In the meantime, Mary Ellen at mefoley sent us this great shot of this mysterious monument, which has apparently stood in place for millennia (must talk to our fixit man about that!).
Mary Ellen says that she likes this photo because "the clouds were outstanding that day," but in my opinion, the best thing about this photo is—no tourists like us! She must have friends in high places.
If you have a great photo of England, share! Email us and we’ll link back to you if we post it. (72 dpi please!)

The Grand Old Duke of York—uncensored

2009-10-07T17:37:00.002-04:00

Along the way, Jessie and Lew entertained Kate with old nursery rhymes.
“Oh, the Grand old Duke of York, he had ten thousand men—”
The second verse surprised us: they sang about putting the fox in a box and never letting him go. Quite unlike the version we played for Kate, where the fox is freed and nothing nasty happens. Times change. Kate liked her grandparents’ version and applauded. It certainly made more sense.

Catch of the day

2009-10-05T20:24:00.001-04:00

At the end of the harbor we saw a couple of chefs in white smocks and blue checkered trousers deep in conversation. Suddenly they stopped talking and made their way to the wooden stairs, something had caught their attention, all we could hear was the soft soggy swish of gold brown seaweed that clung to the underside of the stairs, then from around the sea wall, we heard what they must have heard, a soft hum and popping gurgle of an engine. A moment later, a small red hulled tug-like fishing boat came into view with an entourage of seabirds squawking and squealing at one other.
On the prow of the boat, one of the crew stood holding a couple of flat fish and a striped silver fish.
“What yer got?” one of the chefs yelled out.
“Got any sole?” asked the other chef.
“No sole. Got plaice.” The fisherman yelled back.
As the boat bobbed up and down, the engine gurgled, idling in place.
“Is that bass?” asked the first chef.
“Yeah. bass.”
“Don’t want bass.”

Roast lamb worth the gambol

2009-10-02T19:09:00.004-04:00

We have a wonderful variety of seafood and meats here in the States. For instance, beef here is so good, I used to pack a rib roast and bring it to Blighty to share with my folks. They just loved it! That being said, I must confess, I do miss English or Welsh lamb. Sadly, Americans are not big lamb eaters. And no wonder. Most American lamb is derived from sheep that ceased to gambol a long time past. The lamb here is a bit long in the tooth, a bit tough, and it smells gamey. The other lamb widely available is Australian lamb but, though better, this too tends to be a little tough and just a bit too gamey for my taste.
Now, I’ve long been brining turkey and pork. So I thought, why not give the lamb a brine bath? So I did. And the result? Beyond my wildest expectations. The meat was moist, with the aromas of thyme and rosemary. The color was wonderfully pink, and it was a joy to carve. The meat tasted delicate and not a bit gamey. In short the brining turned American mutton into a sweet facsimile of the young, tender English lamb I fondly remember.

Preparing the meat
First, let’s make the brine. This is good for any size leg, small or large. You need 1 cup of sugar, ¼ cup of salt, 15-20 peppercorns, bay leaves if you must, fresh rosemary, and stalks of thyme or oregano. You can, of course, use dried herbs if you haven’t got the fresh ones. I’ve also used a couple of lavender stalks in this recipe, but don’t use many as the flavor is quite pronounced. Combine all these ingredients into a saucepan with a quart of water. Boil up. When the sugar and salt have dissolved, pour the contents into a glass, Pyrex-type dish with 3 quarts of cold water.
Now put the lamb in the brine. Don’t worry if it isn’t completely submerged. Just turn the meat every few hours, and don’t forget to turn it once before going to bed and again in the morning. You want the lamb to brine for 24- to 36 hours, then drain and proceed as you would for any roast lamb recipe.

Roasting the lamb
As we’re going for the English thing, proceed as follows. Coat the lamb with a little butter, mixed with bits of apricot. Mind you, if you have Provencal leanings, you might prefer to anoint the beast with olive oil, garlic, and herbs but…that’s your choice.
Pop the lamb into a 425 F oven at 10-12 minutes per pound for medium rare or 15 minutes a pound for medium. We prefer lamb on the rare side of medium so I go with 10 minutes a pound.

Greek-style brined lamb on the grill
This year I decided to barbeque the lamb Greek-style, with great results. It goes like this. Keep the herbs from the brine. String up the lamb with butcher’s string, and thread and weave the herbs around the leg so it looks as if the beast had a greenish coat. Then skewer the lamb with two spear-like sticks.
Using a Weber-type grill, bank up a good stack of coals on either side, then forage about for a couple of bricks. Now place your bricks opposite each other on the grill, by each of the two banks of coals. Set coals afire and wait until the coals turn white hot. Position the lamb so the ends of the skewers rest on the bricks and the lamb hangs suspended between the coals. I do this for two reasons: I don’t want the lamb to touch the grill and risk burning, and I really want to try and duplicate the Greek fire thing even though I do not possess a turning spit.
Barbecue the lamb for 15 minutes, covered. Because you pronged it with two skewers, you’ll be able to turn the beast over quite easily. Lacking asbestos fingers, I use gloves to execute this maneuver. I suggest you do the same. Then lightly baste the cooked side of the lamb with a little of the brining mixture you so cleverly retained.
Cover the grill and cook for another 15 minutes. Uncover the lamb and let it roast for another 20 minutes or so. The heat will be intense, and you do not want to overcook the meat. Check for doneness at this point. I had a big leg of lamb and the whole thing was cooked in less than an hour (this little roast in the photo took 40 minutes on our indoor grill, which gives off considerably less heat than the trusty old Weber). For medium, grill the lamb for no more than an hour. Remove from the grill, tent it with foil and let it rest for at least half an hour. Actually, you can leave the lamb to rest for as long as an hour without ill effects. Lamb can be barely warm and still be delicious and succulent.
With all that heat residual heat in the grill, go head and grill up a heap of summery veggies to garnish your wonderful English/Greek style lamb.
Do try grilling your lamb outdoors if the weather holds—it’s quite spectacular and tastes superb. But however you decide to cook your lamb, do brine it first. The brine will rejuvenate a lamb and put the spring back in the step of even the most muttony beasts. So do take a gambol on brining! Believe me, you’ll be roasting a winner.

This bit's too tour-guidey...

2009-09-30T18:05:00.000-04:00

Kent has some dramatically rocky and jagged coastline, punctuated by a few Victorian seaside resorts seemingly preserved in briny aspic. Here, in this southeasterly part of England, a visitor can easily discover oyster beds laid down by the Romans, forts with crumbling battlements, the grassy foundations and outlines of Roman temples and soldiers’ barracks, and part of a road that runs as straight and true as the shadow Caesar once cast over this part of Britain.

No milk in your tea?

2009-09-28T18:07:00.000-04:00

“And you never have milk in your tea?” Mum said it sympathetically, finding it hard to believe.
“Never. Tastes better. Really. You should try it,” said Frances.
“At my age! Tea without milk.” She laughed, then tried one more time. “Frances, you never had milk in your tea? Not ever?”
Frances confessed to drinking her coffee black too.
“Oh, well, coffee, yes, but tea? Funny, really. Oh, well.”

Daggers in America

2009-09-25T15:40:00.002-04:00

Those of you who've been following this blog for a while know we lost our handsome and well-loved Oscar Wilde earlier this year. Well, Prodigal Wife's birthday came around, bringing along a lovely new kitten. We've named him Daggers (see last post). It's the perfect name for him--he's a tough little lad, even though he's not much bigger than my hand. He's friendly though and, at least so far, we haven't seen any English-style reticence (a little bit of demure wouldn't be so bad!). So join me in welcoming our new family member--and wishing Happy Birthday to the Prodigal Wife, of course!

Dagenham? You come from ... where?

2009-09-23T18:49:00.002-04:00

“Dagenham? You can’t possibly come from Dagenham!” a flamboyant acquaintance in the West End of London once told me. “You simply must tell people you come from ‘Darn-em’ and you must place your hand over your mouth as you say it, just in case.”
Just in case? In case of what? I felt an urge to defend the place, but then thought better of it.
Dagenham. “Call it Daggers,” said another wag. Well, I called it home.

Random meanderings

2009-09-21T17:34:00.002-04:00

“Let’s order some wine?” I said.
“Thought you’d never ask! God, it's hot, isn’t it? Or is it me?”
“No air conditioning,” I said.
“Oh, I’m used to it now. Well, I should be. I’ve lived in England, what – twenty years?” Adelard was originally from Canada. “You have to get used to it. But I’ve come prepared. I’m Roget-Gallaired from stem to stern. And, as Bette Davis would say—” Adelard puffed on an imaginary cigarette and whisked the air with his paw. “Body odor offends me!” Adelard emitted a long, theatrical sigh quivering with happy recollections. “Aaaah, we don’t have stars like that anymore, do we? And the ones we have left – dropping off like flies, aren’t they?”

And the award goes to...

2009-09-18T18:13:00.015-04:00

We have been hoarding wonderful awards like squirrels hide nuts before winter, but now it's time to reveal all...

The lovely Helen, A.K.A. The Machinist’s Wife, awarded me the "Honest Scrap" award, which really made me smile. You're supposed to list ten honest things about yourself, then pass it on to ten other deserving souls. Well, the reason it made me smile is, since we're being honest, I've already revealed quite a bit about myself on this blog and anyone who wants to get in deeper is going to have to, well, read the book!

I was honored to discover that the Transylvania-loving Rebecca of Living a Life of Writing me worthy of the Tao of the zombie chicken – excellence, grace and persistence in all situations, even in the midst of a zombie apocalypse. Apparently, these amazing bloggers regularly produce content so remarkable that their readers would brave a raving pack of zombie chickens just to be able to read their inspiring words. What can I say other than thank you!

The lovely Michelloui at Mid-Atlantic English , who is living my life in reverse—she's even married to an Essex boy like me—and whose blog we admire very much gave us this coveted award, which is given to writers with a “continually creative (“kreativ”) way of keeping their blogs interesting." Thank you very much—and ditto.

And, last but in no way least, our book-loving friend Carol at The Writer’s Porch gave us the "your blog is bloody brilliant" award, which is for bloggers who inspire, whether through laughter, grace or just darn good writing. This award, of course, was originated by the wonderful Melissa at Smitten by Britain, who is our first nominee for the Kreativ Award. (And wasn't I clever, picking the cupful of roses—now I have both!)

In fact, since some of these awards have been out and about, I think I will follow Melissa's lead and let our nominees pick their own award (though I do have some thoughts about this, let me know what you pick so I'll see if I was right!). So here we go. The award of choice goes to:

*Eternally Distracted
* Linens and Royals
*Mrs. Bee at Bee Content
*Jo at A Brit in Tennessee
* Brit Fancy
* Anglophile in LA
*and Her Grace, the Duchess of Tea, at Rose Tea Cottage
I believe that is eight, so I now add the lady bloggers in my life:
*Prodigal Wife at A Slide of Life
*Prodigal Daughter at Games Class
Congratulations, everyone, keep up the great work! And to those who nominated this blog for these wonderful honours, thank you very much—may you long continue to visit!
Cheers,
The Prodigals

A taste of Rome in Old Britannia

2009-09-16T21:21:00.001-04:00

Beyond the main exhibits, near the entrance, was a gift shop. Among the various bits of Roman memorabilia were genuine individual oil lamps, found onsite. There were hundreds of them and quite reasonably priced. The shop also sold recipe books and jars of condiments locally made from original Roman recipes. One contained a kind of poultice of compressed raisins and apples, another was an intense anchovy paste with a musty flavor. Bravely, we took a chance and got a few jars as souvenirs.

A ruin by any another name...

2009-09-14T17:47:00.004-04:00

Despite Frances’ enthusiasm, I was not all that keen to explore another ruin. Roman arenas and aqueducts and arches were one thing, mosaics under glass quite another. But I kept my thoughts to myself. Frances had been such a good sport about hosting my parents, I could hardly complain about a little sightseeing. And, I had to admit, some of the sites she’d picked had turned out to be a better kettle of fish than I had imagined.

A view of the beer-after

2009-09-11T18:48:00.007-04:00

Gareth at What England Means to Me sent us this lovely photo of The Jacobean Bell Inn in Burwash (Sussex), which was featured in Rudyard Kipling’s Puck of Pook’s Hill:

“And while I am tearing my hair over this, Ticehurst Will, my best mason, comes to me shaking, and vowing that the Devil, horned, tailed, and chained, has run out on him from the church-tower, and the men would work there no more. So I took ‘em off the foundations, which we were strengthening, and went into the Bell Tavern for a cup of ale.”

Kipling lived at Bateman's in Burwash, of course, and you know how much we love literary travel!
If you're wondering about the proximity of the graveyard to the pub, you see that a lot in English villages, where the pub and the church are right next to each other and the heart of the community. And of course, old pubs in England invariably started life as inns, where weary travelers rested their heads and their horses.

Kate meets T-rex

2009-09-09T18:45:00.003-04:00

From Thurloe Square, it was a short walk to the Natural History Museum. Our timing was perfect. It was after four o’clock, and the entry was free.
This famous Victorian museum was enormous and smelled as old as the fossils and dinosaur bones it contained. We walked around one of the newer exhibitions featuring dinosaurs covered in plastic skin that roared and clicked and made slobbering sounds. Kate was fascinated by dinosaurs, as most young children are, but even so, she was a little disturbed by their realistic look. And yet she was quite unperturbed, once I picked her up, by the huge, life-sized, animated Tyrannosaurus Rex we encountered in the high-ceilinged atrium by the museum teashop. Odd to see a fearsome dinosaur swishing a huge tail, roaring and swooping about as weary museum-goers drank their tea and did their level best to ignore it. In England, dinosaurs should not make scenes in tearooms. It just isn’t done.

In the Queen's gardens...almost

2009-09-07T17:38:00.001-04:00

We parked the car back at the hotel and strolled to the old part of Windsor, just ten minutes away. We swung by a sedate Regency street that led to Windsor Great Park, in fact Windsor Castle’s back garden. And what a garden it was, seemingly going for miles. The road from the castle to the park was covered in tiny yellow pebbles and not open to the public. Cars speeding down that thoroughfare probably contain a royal. At the end of the road, and across it, we noticed garlands of spiky chain, just in case someone did not understand royal protocol.

Champagne? How civilised!

2009-09-04T17:53:00.004-04:00

OK, this is not exactly the type of England photo we usually post but, as you know, the Prodigal household has been celebrating the lovely endorsement from Michael York, and it's a holiday weekend too, so... when Meagan of Lady Whole Lunches sent on this photo it seemed like just the thing.
Here's what Meagan says:
"It was a particularly sunny day in May at a wedding in the Clearwell Castle in Gloucestershire. The champagne had been delivered to the table, but no one was there to drink it, as they all went to watch the attempt at cricket. I love how it is the older men who are off running to get the ball, and the children seem to be idly inching forward."
Thanks Meagan--and Happy Labor Day weekend everyone!

A math lesson to remember

2009-09-02T20:22:00.003-04:00

“I was good at maths,” Lew said, casually.
“You what?” I blurted,
“Didn’t I tell you? When I was in the artillery, I calculated gun angles, so the shell would land on the target. Six guns, I had. Different elevations, different targets, distances... Lot of things to take into account. Logarithms – did all the calculations an’ that in my head. We had a contest. I had my guns set up and ready to fire when everyone else was farting about trying to calculate the range. I won. Monty himself came up to me personally, congratulated me, he did.”
“You never told me.”
“About Montgomery?”
“About the math.”
“It was a long time ago. Mind you, I can still do all your mother’s bets.”

Fellow expat Michael York says...

2009-08-31T17:17:00.005-04:00

I know Brits are not supposed to show emotion (stiff upper lip and all that) but you know me better than that by now! Plus, what can I say? Michael York thinks the characters in my book -- my family in other words -- are rather Dickensian! Well! Well, I'm not in the least offended, in fact I totally agree and I love it! Anyway, Michael finished reading A Yank Back to England: The Prodigal Tourist Returns, and here is what he said:

"A perceptive, engaging and informative take on contemporary England as seen through the eyes of a fellow expatriate who writes with humor and affection. The cast of characters has an almost Dickensian vivacity." Michael York

What a gentleman! I always knew I liked him. Now the ball is in your court--I hope you'll give the book a read and enjoy it too!

A cool and peppery starter at summer's end

2009-08-28T17:20:00.005-04:00

Being a Brit, I’ve always had a fondness for watercress sandwiches, the kind one has for tea with the crusts cut off, but I’ve always wanted to take their sophisticated, contrasting flavors from the tea table to the dinner table. Here, then, is my take on an old favorite, now transformed into an elegant cold soup for a lovely summertime lunch or dinner.

Choose your weapons
The hardware. A chopping/mashing machine of your choice—luddite that I am, I like to use a pestle and mortar, but this is not necessary. Also a hand-held blender/whirring machine, and You a couple of glass bowls.
The ingredients. A bunch of watercress, an avocado, and a ripe pear, three cups of light chicken stock, four-five thick slices of crustless country bread, a good dash of salt, a garlic clove, three tablespoons white wine or cider vinegar, and a lemon from which to squeeze a few tablespoons of juice. You’ll also need a quarter cup of olive oil, plus a teaspoon or two. If you feel so inclined, a tablespoonful of whipping cream won’t hurt.

Let’s get cracking
Peel and chop up the pear into very small dice, squirt with lemon juice, and set aside. Now wash and chop up the watercress leaves and just the tenderest stalks, put into a glass bowl, reserving a little for garnish. There, simple.

Onward!
While your chicken stock is coming to a low boil, mash up the bread, olive oil, salt, vinegar and tablespoon of lemon juice in your pestle or other mashing implement. Drop the garlic clove in the stock, blanch for 30 seconds, then fish out and add to your sloppy bread mixture. Mash up well. Tip the just-boiled chicken stock over the watercress leaves; this blanches them and adds to the vibrancy of the finished dish. Mix in the bread mixture. Chop up the avocado and add to your mixture. Now whirr everything up with your hand mixer (or food processor). If your soup is too thin, add a bit more bread and whir it into the soup to thicken.
Now chill the concoction for a few hours, and you will end up with a vibrant, peppery, creamy soup. Check for salt, it may need a little more; if you’re concerned about salt add a little more lemon juice instead.
Serve up in little bowls and sprinkle with the tiny pear fruitions––voila! You make of course make bread croutons if you’d rather, but ripe pear adds a luscious contrast. Top with a sprinkling of chopped watercress and, if desired, drizzle on a little cream—et voila! You have a cold, elegant soup with a hint of teatimes past, just perfect for a warm summer’s eve.

Washed out in Sissinghurst

2009-08-26T18:09:00.001-04:00

Just as we arrived, the sky opened up and poured down buckets. I could barely see anything.
“Go check it out, see if it’s worth going in,” said Frances.
I felt no great desire to get out of the car. “If we go in, we’ll still be outside. It is a garden,” I said, trying for once to use logic on Frances.
After a bit more prodding, I got out to reconnoiter. I peeked over a fence for a free look.
In good weather, the crumbling monastery sprouting plants and shrubs and flower beds must have looked quite delightful, but all I saw was an overgrown, sprawling, crumbling mess awaiting demolition. Only the keenest of enthusiasts could derive any joy from the garden in that downpour. And some did. I saw a flock of old ducks in see-through plastic bonnets, pointing out specimens to each other with unabashed excitement. Oblivious to the weather, they even smiled.
Straddling large puddles, I hurried back to the car and explained the situation to Frances, who was now in the back seat entertaining Kate. I suggested she check the place out for herself. Wisely, Frances declined to leave the warmth of the car. As we pulled out, a coach was pulling in, with obviously hardier types than us.

Another English garden

2009-08-24T17:18:00.001-04:00

One of England’s most famed gardens, Sissinghurst was created by the writer Vita Sackville West and her essayist-publisher husband Harold Nicholson, two members of the Bloomsbury Set who, after sowing their gayest and wildest oats, decided to take up gardening. The English either come out of the closet or the woodshed. Vita and Harold came out of both. Not exactly faithful to each other, they were faithful to their garden. Ironically, long after their deaths, with books and scandals all but forgotten, the garden they created became their most enduring legacy.

England's "most beautiful garden"

2009-08-21T17:09:00.005-04:00

One of the things I've come to love about England is its fabulous gardens. So I was delighted when the lovely Teresa Inside the Mind of a MiniMadWoman sent on this wonderfully inviting photo of Hidcote Manor in Gloucestershire. Hidcote Gardens are considered by many afficionados to be the most beautiful in England—a definite must-see! (The manor looks pretty nice too!)

If you have a great photo of England, share! Email us and we’ll link back to you if we post it. (72 dpi please!)

Laps 'round the grounds

2009-08-19T20:19:00.004-04:00

We went around to the stables. The manager was merry and enthusiastic, and said she was looking forward to taking Kate on her first pony ride, a very important event in a young girl’s life.
“Wonderful view. You must have some great rides here.” I indicated the rolling countryside, framed by poplars and willow trees around a pond.
“Unfortunately, the hotel’s property ends at that line of trees.”
“Really? I thought they owned acres and acres.”
“They did, but they sold it. Think they regret it now, selling it off, you know. Still, we’ve got enough space for the younger riders, so it’s not too bad, is it, Kate!”
Kate beamed. After having a gander at the ponies and horses, we strolled through the grounds and ended up at the indoor swimming pool, an oasis with palms and large glass windows looking onto the park-like setting. Kate splashed about in the tiny paddle pool with Frances, I managed a couple of languid laps, thinking all the while about the racing turns I intended to make in our enormous bathtub back in the room. Couldn’t wait!