Kate meets T-rex

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

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!

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

“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...

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

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

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

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"

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

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!

A room in the attic

We reported back at the front desk. Our room was ready. Perfect. Need help with bags? Thank you. The hotel was three stories high, apparently not worth installing elevators, so we followed our porter up a staircase becoming less salubrious and narrower as we ascended. We were heading for the old servants’ quarters. No matter, our room was big with a ceiling high enough to throw an echo. The bathroom was long and skinny and incredibly ornate, with a tub I could stretch out in. Big tubs – one of the things I loved about coming back to England. But first a nap. Two hours later, we were up and about. I felt human again, Frances was smiling, and Kate was eager to go out and run around.

'Tis the season to be fruity

With summer coming to a close, I wanted to tempt you with a lovely English fruit pud called, most aptly, summer pudding. I must confess, Prodigal Wife and Daughter never quite took to the cooling charms of this quintessential English dessert. They said it was too bready, too pudding-like, and just a bit too splodgy. And I really could not blame them: apart from fresh fruit, the standard recipe is mostly day-old white bread and gelatin.
So here is a lighter version of this classic summer stand-by, one that has found favor in the Prodigal household. Unlike the traditional sweet, which is large and hard to cut into portions, I create individual puds crammed with fruit filling and devoid of gelatin, encased in a very thin layer of raisin bread! The resulting concoction is lighter, fruitier, and just a little more fun to eat—and everyone has their own pud, which is a great plus.
This is a no-cook dessert (almost), another boon in the summer, but it does require at least 24 hours to set up. In fact, I’ve left them for 48 hours in the fridge, and the bread casing almost disappeared; the flavors meld, becoming richer and even more delectable. What a great do-ahead recipe to round off a special dinner party. Let’s begin.

What you’ll need
Equipment: Six ramekins or custard cups, whatever they may be (Prodigal Wife says Americans know what a custard cup is). You will also need teacup saucers, a couple of cans for weights, and two cookie sheets or large trays. Also, you’ll need a sieve, a glass bowl, and plastic wrap.
The edibles: Purchase or pluck a lemon, a pannet of strawberries, and a carton of blueberries. If you use a combination of berries you won’t need gelatin (strawberries don’t have much pectin, so it doesn’t set up so well on its own). You can of course use other berries, such as raspberries and blackberries, but I find them outrageously expensive and don’t think they add that much. You’ll also need a loaf of raisin bread, sliced thinly or uncut and preferably not flavored with cinnamon. Or else use brioche of challah. Or panetone--I’ve never used that but I think the end result would be quite superb.

Now let’s do it!
Roughly slice the strawberries and place in a saucepan with the blueberries and some lemon zest. Add a squeeze of lemon. You could also add a dash of leftover dessert wine, which is nice but not essential. Now add six tablespoons of sugar. Before adding the sugar, taste the fruits, if both are tart use a little more sugar. Use your judgment on this, but you’ll need some sugar or syrup won’t set up.
As soon as mixture boils, take off the heat and let the cool. Slice the raisin bread as thinly as possible. Cut off the crusts. Recipes I’ve seen always call for day-old bread, but why wait? I don’t. Cut the bread slices into inch-wide strips. Line the bottom and sides of your ramekins with the strips, making sure enough bread sticks out at the top to fold back over. Overlap the bread strips a little and press down, making sure there are no gaps.
Put the fruit mixture into the sieve over a glass bowl. Now wait an hour to let the lovely juices drain. Although you want to capture as much juice as possible, resist the temptation to press down on the fruit or you’ll ends up with pip bits between teeth. Now carefully spoon the fruit mixture into the ramekins until they crest the very top. Fold over the extra flaps of bread, and press down. Now draw the plastic wrap tightly over each ramekin. This will help set the mould. Place ramekins on the tray then place a tea saucer, ridge part down, on top of each wrapped ramekin. Put the other tray or cookie sheet atop the saucers, and weigh the tray down with the cans. Place all this in the fridge. I’ve taken a long time to describe what is in fact a very simple procedure. It does take a little longer because instead of making one large summer pudding you are making (I hope) individual ones. Much nicer. Now boil up the collected juices and reduce a little. You want to end up with a thick, rich, but pourable sauce, not a jam.
Now you wait for a day, then... Remove ramekins from the fridge. Peel away the plastic wrap. Using a sharp knife, go around the edge of the pudding. Turn the ramekin over and turn out your pud onto a small pretty plate — Royal Worcester, of course! You will notice the juices have seeped through, giving the pud a lovely purple color that glistens on the plate. Dab any uncoated bits with the lovely reserved juices. Moat the plate with a little of the purple fruit sauce, add a dollop of whipped cream, and garnish with a sprig of mint, if you must. Now tuck in and discover just how delicious this classic English treat really is. Summer will fade but sweet memories of this fruity indulgence will not.
Try it and see!

"And one staircase going nowhere, just for show..."

As our room was not ready, we decided to explore. The staircases went up and went down at various levels and ended in totally different locations. Most odd. The bedrooms – those we could peer into – were not uniform in size, and neither were the public lounges. The walls were dotted with photo portraits of the hotel’s original owners, dressed in formal dinner wear, outfitted for country walks with Norfolk jackets, casually resplendent for tea, or in gauntlets and flat hats, roaring to go for daring trips by horseless carriage.

Roast beef portsmouth, anyone?

On the ride back to Deal, Lew read snippets from the pamphlet Frances had picked up. 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 one, Edward Montagu, only took the title 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.

Is anybody out there?

Prodigal Daughter, who is much more technically savvy than we are, encouraged us old folks to get onto Goodreads and Shelfari. Which we did--but we can't figure out who's out there (Shelfari's search engine is particularly weak)! If any of our bloggy friends would like to join us, we would love that! If you can figure out the system, our user names and email on both sites are:
Denis L aprodigaltouristATgmailDOTcom
Frances E prodigalwifeATgmailDOTcom
Hope to see you in the shelves!
Denis & Frances
PS: Signed up on Librarything too but haven't put any books there. Is that one as popular?

Our blogger's cup runneth over

Now here's what I call a lovely cup of rosie lea! We were honored by this charming cup of roses from our friend Melissa at Smitten by Britain, which she says she created to recognize "bloggers who inspire, whether through laughter, grace or just darn good writing." If this is the case, we should give one back to her, because her blog is a breath of fresh air, and we always enjoy our visits. However, the idea is to pass it forward, so here goes.
*More of a share than a pass-along, my first choice is Prodigal Wife, whose photos always inspire me (she turned me into a tourist, right?). The rosy cup will look lovely on her blog, A Slide of Life.
*My "real life" friend Paul at See Me. Hear Me. Touch Me, because I want to encourage him with his new, non-theatrical venture, just as he has always encouraged me. Plus, his blog looks rather bare, I think.
And, of course, due to the nature of the lovely award, I want to recognize these fellow tea lovers, because nothing is more inspiring than a real cup of tea:
* ParTea Lady at Tea and Talk
* Linda J. at Friendship Tea
* Bernideen at Bernideen’s Tea Time Blog
* Angela at Tea with Friends
Just the name of their blogs make me smile--and there's always tea waiting when you visit.
Well done everyone, and thanks again, Melissa!

A truly golden hill in Dorset

Our thanks to Jonathan at Anglotopia for sending on this gorgeous photo of Gold Hill in Shaftesbury, Dorset.
If you have a great photo of England, email us — we'll link back to you if we post it!

A toasted Sandwich

We asked Cousin Kevin to take some piccies in Sandwich, that wonderful medieval town we discovered on our travels, almost by accident. He came up trumps with this weird and wonderful structure we vaguely recalled seeing near the river’s edge, but we could not quite remember its purpose. It looked like one of those cages naughty villeins were put in to rot! So Kevin put us to rights: It was a pole beacon.
The structure was filled with wood, rags, and kindling, all to be set ablaze as an ancient first alert system. Prior to the arrival of the mighty Spanish Armada, these pole beacons were built, set up, and made ready all along the southern coast of England. When the invasion fleet was sighted in 1588 the beacons were lit, one after the other.
This amazing sight of crackling fire and billowing smoke was the signal for all mannish men to assemble at their local church, armed and ready, and await instructions. The incident is recalled in history books of the time: “Sir Walter Raleigh sailed out to engage the dastardly Spanish in the Channel and Kicked their Arse.”
Cousin Kevin adds, “And that’s why we all speak English today! See... I was listening during history lesson at school, instead of staring out the window.” And we are pleased you were paying attention, old chap!

It's all relative, even in Cambridge

For hundreds of years young men had been gaining a higher education just a few yards from where Lew sat. He left school at fourteen, a working class lad, not lacking intelligence, just lacking the encouragement and confidence such places of learning seem to bestow. I don’t think he looked around him and saw a missed opportunity for himself. It was a world in which he felt he could never belong. This, he imagined, was the world of Milton, Tennyson, Hawking, a world beyond his horizons, his class. But not beyond the ambitions of his family.
“Your granddaughter may study here one day, Dad.”
Lew’s face crinkled into the semblance of a smile. He nodded, I prepared myself for a bitter comment, a wistful phrase tinged with regret.
“I’m knackered. I’m truly knackered,” he growled as he got to his feet. “There’s a pub up the road. We’ll go for that, me and your mother. Come on!”

A bastion of faith set in stone for all time

And speaking of great English architectural feats... John and Kathy of casa dolce sent us this fabulous photo of the gothic Lincoln Cathedral in Lincolnshire. Built some 900 years ago, the massive structure can be seen from miles away, as the surrounding countryside is, conversely, quite flat. Read Kathy's post about their "daytripping" experience here.
Have a great photo of England? Email it to us and we'll link back to you!

No punt intended

We walked towards the river Cam and crossed a small, hump-backed bridge. Beneath it were several young men in straw boaters with neckties swung around their waists to hold up their white flannel trousers. These would-be tour guides, local students, playfully accosted us as we passed by, extolling the virtues of viewing the River Cam from the inside of a punt. Clutching and jerking poles around, especially in public, was not my cup of tea. Punting was not for the uncoordinated, the inexperienced, or indeed, for me. Much better to watch. And so we did, from a hotel conveniently located just over the bridge.
The hotel had a lovely terrace and verandah, and from there we happily nibbled toast, slurped tea, and gazed upon the tranquil river traffic and the ancient spires of Cambridge. A little later, we ambled back over the Cam and made our slow progress across a large lawn, towards those hallowed halls of academe. Lew prepared for the march with all the resolve and determination of Scott returning from the South Pole.

In the path of famous footfalls

The streets surrounding the colleges gave way to warren-like passageways filled with cobblestone, bottle glass, and wrought iron work. We spotted the occasional gas lamp and flower baskets that dripped with pansies and geraniums. Dark and mysterious, the pedestrian byways of Cambridge were inviting, but where did they lead? Cambridge was indeed a town to wander. These were the same streets and turnings that Isaac Newton, Lord Byron, and Charles Darwin ambled down. Where would they lead?

Free advice is worth...

“Don’t go to Cambridge in the winter! Or even early spring. Ghastly.” A friend who had gone to Cambridge tried to put me wise. “The wind comes howling down across the fens, the land is completely flat. No protection. Bitterly cold. Winter. Even early spring. As I said, ghastly.” He had shaken his head, looking every inch like a wet bulldog, and offered no further explanation. We went there anyway, hoping the early May weather would turn favorably warm. My friend had been right, the approach to Cambridge was flat. Reminiscent of approaching Dayton, Ohio! Suddenly, it’s there. And so were we.

No time to chew our cud!

Prodigal Wife is hosting tomorrow's Skywatch Friday (how cool is that?), so it seemed a good time to introduce everyone to her new photo blog, A Slide of Life, where's she's sharing some of the fabulous photos she's taken on her many travels.
Of course, I exerted some of that mannish charm everyone's talking about this week to save her pictures of England for us--and you've already seen quite a few here--like this peaceful shot of Cambridge.

Lunch in Long Melford

We walked past the village green, framed by a couple of pubs, and stopped to get our bearings. On closer inspection, one of the pubs was not a pub at all, having been completely converted into an interesting looking restaurant. Inside, the decor was bright blues and yellows, and looked very Mediterranean. Surprisingly, the food was English and good. I had a succulent rack of lamb and a trendy salad of tender young leafy things that, left to grow, would turn into stinging nettles and foul-smelling weeds. Frances had a veal chop and spinach. Kate had her normal one-course meal of formula. If the weather had been better we might have lingered around the antique shops, but it was getting cold and we were still pretty damp from the previous downpour. We decided to head home.

I've had enough!

When we came outside into the insipid daylight, I looked up. Clouds, I noticed, were still gathering like a mighty armada of gray battleships waiting to attack once more. We started to look for somewhere to eat. Quickly. Across the street, we saw another large stately home, but I had seen enough for one morning. Even Frances did not press me to see more.

Back to windy Reculver...

“It can get worse than this! No question!”
We had stopped by the abbey to talk to a cyclist taking a breather and, like us, seeking a little protection from the elements. He showed us the winding path that stretched around the ancient fortifications along the top of the cliff, towards Whitstable in one direction, Margate in the other.
“Are you are visitor?” I asked.
“No, no, I live here. Retired.” He waved his paw into the wind.
Retired or not, with his weather-beaten face divided by lemon specs, Spandex top and pants, and huge calves narrowing to tiny ankles, I could tell he was a serious biker.
“The going’s mostly flat, once you get up here. Got to watch for the wind, though!”
He waved, then rode off into the wind, prudently veering away from the cliff’s edge.

A "guest" from across the pond

Cousins Kevin and Maxine of The Repairman Cometh took us at our word and raised a glass (or two) when they heard the news about the book. We laughed so hard at Kevin's note we decided to share it here (well, most of it), our first "guest blogger," so to speak.

I've poked around in the piggy bank with my knife and dug out some coppers so I can pre-order my hot-off-the-press copy of A Yank Back to England! Well done--the longest book I ever wrote was a thousand lines at school. Delivery is estimated 8th Feb in UK, do tell the publicist to get out the ol'caxton press and bang out some early copies...
We've just recently returned from a two-week holiday caravan rally in the Vendee, France. A long drive but well worth it. We've flogged our holiday stories to death but have heard there's some new victims across the pond... My French is much improved: "Un beer pretty darn quick'o!"
Lots of love to all (said in my deep straight voice),
Kev & Max

The Prodigal Tourist finds a home

You may have heard, the Prodigal household is celebrating--we've found a publisher for my book about my rediscovery of my old home! It's to be called A Yank Back to England: The Prodigal Tourist Returns and will be out in December in Washington, everywhere else in January.
We were holding off on the happy news (not on the celebrating, as you can see from the pic) until the website was ready, but we got scooped by our friend Melissa at Smitten by Britain , who already put the book in her Amazon store! (You are naughty, and we love you for it!) so... here we are! Site-less but thrilled! Until we're ready, we will link to Amazon on the side column (US, UK, Canada, & Europe) for anyone who wants to take advantage of the low pre-order price. (And tar very much!)
For those of you who are unsure, or new to the blog, we do have a wonderful testimonial from Pulitzer-prize winning critic Michael Dirda, who read the mss and wrote:

“Half memoir, half travel book, A Yank Back to England never stints the reader: Here is England seen entire, from inside out, from bottom to top, as Denis Lipman returns from America to his working-class family home in blighted Dagenham. From there he, his young American wife, and his cockney Mum and Dad embark on a series of funny, touching, madcap and even surreal adventures as they visit celebrated landmarks and holiday spots in England—as well as a good many pubs. The result is an absolutely wonderful book, not only about going home again but also about love and family and tradition and the passage of the years.”

Couldn't ask for a better quote from a wonderful critic and author. Now one more thing: I want to thank all of you who have supported and encouraged us over the otherwise-bleak last few months--reading your comments and emails has been most wonderful and cheering, and I mean this most sincerely.
So celebrate with us! Lift a glass to A Yank Back to England, to me, and to the long-suffering Prodigal Wife!
Cheers,
Denis (a.k.a., The Prodigal Tourist)

A guiding light at the edge of empire

Reculver Fort stood atop a grassy, wind-blown headland, cobbled together from the remains of Regulbium, the Roman watchtower, and an old Saxon abbey. Christian and pagan ruins occupied the same site, still holding their own, sharing a similar aspect and an equal amount of respect. From a distance the Roman part of the edifice appeared stooped, near crumbling. But up close the fort looked like the head of a beast rising up from the land, strong and permanent. Gusts blew through the grass, first revealing then concealing the fort’s bone-colored foundations. Reculver was originally built by the Romans to monitor shipping and protect the inlaid channels and waterways that veined this part of Thanet. A thousand years later, single mast ships dipped their sails as they passed, acknowledging Reculver as a beacon and trusted landmark. Now, two thousand years on, it was protecting the three of us from strong broadsides of wind blown from the sea.

Oh, what a lovely pier!

The talented Jo at Urban Cynic sent us this dramatic photo of the Palace Pier in "London by the Sea," the famous seaside resort town of Brighton. This is the pier Richard Attenborough used as a liefmotif in his wonderful adapation of Joan Littlewood's "Oh, What a Lovely War," starring my old friend Victor Spinetti. This gathering, almost ominous sky would have fit in perfectly!
Want to share a photo of England? Email us!

Kate avoids licensing laws

We were obviously expected to take the pathway to the cathedral, but its cobbles, like endless rows of tortoises pressed together, were huge and quite impractical for a stroller. We set out across the grass. Along one side were a few ancient inns, originally built for overnight pilgrims and now catering to “day trippers” – sightseers like us – and locals. We stopped by one.
“Sorry, can’t let her in,” the landlord said, pointing to Kate.
“It’s okay, she doesn’t drink,” I said, trying for humor. “Well, nothing you would sell, anyway.”
“Licensing laws,” the landlord said, shrugging. “What can you do?” He sighed and turned away.
It was a beautiful, sunny day, and sitting at one of the outdoor picnic tables was no punishment. Even so, Kate climbed on our bench and poked her smiling face through the ground floor window, much to the amusement of the patrons inside and mild consternation of the landlord.

Teaching Frances Cockney rhyming slang

“I’m just going up the apples and pears,” said Lew, without explanation.
Frances looked puzzled. Lew pointed to me for the answer.
“You know, Cockney rhyming slang. He gets into it sometimes,” I said, still a bit morose.
“Oh, apples and pears, stairs – I got it.”
“She’s got it,” said Lew, chuckling to himself as he mounted the stairs.
“Where you off to then?” I asked.
“Just got to see a man about a dog.”
“A man about a dog?” asked Frances.
I pointed to the closing toilet door. Frances asked what was the rhyme in “man about a dog.” I told her, I did not have a clue. My old man and his expressions! But at least that one had caught me smiling again.

A little cottage in the country...

Our bloggy friend Melissa at Smitten by Britain sent us this beautiful (and award-winning!) photo of Anne Hathaway's cottage in Stratford-upon-Avon. Parts of this fabulous building are apparently pre-15th century, though of course many changes and improvements have been made over the years, including the addition of fireplaces in the 16th century. A far cry from our tiny thatched cottage in Rattlesden, though the two are probably contemporary!
Email us your best shot of England! If we post it, we'll link back of course. Thanks Melissa!

Our cast of characters

We've gone through all our pictures from our various journeys to Blighty, and came across only one with all of our "regulars." We thought you might enjoy putting faces to the stories, so we decided to post it here. In shoes, from left to right, are Lew (Dad), Frances (Prodigal Wife), Denis (TPT), and Jessie (Mum). The little one is Kate (Prodigal Daughter?) at six months or so. The photo was taken in front of my brother Tony's house, in Chelmsford, the county town of Essex. Not much to see there, don't stopover!

Not a knees up, for Gawd's sake!

“Is Mum alright, Dad?” I asked.
“Don’t wake her, for Gawd’s sake!” Lew’s face registered fear and concern. “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” required 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.

When life hands you lemons...

The charming Sandi K at Sandi-K.blogspot thinks we have good attitude and has left us the delightful lemonade stand award. Thank you so much!
We would like to pass this award along to:
*XPAT at Xpatriate Games, because anyone who calls the hubcap "Big Roo" and the young one "Little Roo" has great attitude;
*Sophia at Scotland for the Senses because our attitude certainly improved when we found her little corner of Scotland;
*Maggie at Do these shoes match my purse?, because we love her attitude (enough said).
*Amy at Amy's Daily Photo because she keeps an eye on New York for us; and
*Her grace, the Duchess of Tea at Rose Tea Cottage, because, although we just found her blog, we're still smiling.
Thanks to all of you for your great attitude--and thanks, Sandi, for the award!

As American as... tandoori on the grill

Indian food is as English as bangers and mash, probably the best vestige of the British Raj. There’s nothing quite like the scent of basmati rice spiked with cloves and silky threads of saffron perfuming the air. But, much to Mum’s chagrin, sometimes I deviate from pukkah curry and sample other exotic Indian dishes. And sometimes I even prepare them.

After tasting tandoori chicken for the first time, I was shown a tandoori oven, a large clay contraption that is shaped like a medieval oubliette and fired up to a heat that far exceeds conventional ovens. Marinated chickens are skewered onto large iron spears and quickly thrust in. Then the chef jumps back! The heat is so intense, the birds are cooked in just eight to ten minutes. Quite amazing. Not possessing a tandoor, for years I only ever had this exquisite dish in restaurants—until I came to America and discovered the grill. You can of course try setting your oven to the highest possible temperature, but it’s so delicious this way! And in the height of summer who wants to heat up the kitchen heating? So the grill it is—perfect for the Fourth of July!

My recipe
First a word of caution: The chicken must marinate in lovely spices and juices for at least 24 hours. So definitely do ahead food—but worth it!

Let us begin. Hack up a chicken into eight pieces, thighs, drumsticks, wings, and breasts. You may cut the breasts in half if they are particularly fulsome. Now skin the chicken. You see, healthy already! Then, psycho-style, slash deep gashes into the meat with a sharp knife. Place pieces in a glass dish, top with squeezed lemon juice and sprinkle with garlic powder. Most recipes call for salt but for health concerns I use garlic instead and no one knows ever notices. Now put the dish in the fridge and let the chicken grow acquainted with the lemon and garlic while you make the spice mix.

You can buy a prepared tandoori spice mix, such as Sharwoods, but if you have access to an enlightened supermarket or an Asian market you can easily make your own. With the leftover spices you’ll have new and exotic flavors and aromas ready for future feasts! You’ll need
2 teaspoons each of: Garam Marsala, cumin, garlic powder, ginger powder, onion powder, and paprika. If you like a bit of heat, add hot chili powder, but I never do. You can also exchange fresh ginger and garlic for the powdered stuff but I never bother. Mix spices together. Add 3 tablespoons of yogurt (I use non-fat) and 3 tablespoons of malt vinegar. This is called fish’n chip vinegar over here. And yes, I enjoy spraying my fries with the stuff, if only to see my family run off in horror and disgust. But I digress. If you cannot locate said condiment, use cider or apple vinegar. Most recipes also call for 3-4 tablespoons of oil in the mix. I’ve tried it with and without and found no noticeable difference, so I don’t use the oil and feel quite virtuous about it. Also add 3 tablespoons of lemon juice. Now mix a bit of red and yellow food coloring and tip it into the mixture. This gives the dish its traditional reddish orangey color, not essential but quite festive.

Retrieve chickkie from fridge and coat every bit of meat with the spice mix. Make sure you get some into the various slits and exposed pieces of bone. Cover with plastic wrap and pop back in the fridge overnight. I made this once and forgot about it for 48 hours–tasted even better, but it’s not necessary. But leaving it overnight is important.

And the next day… fire up your grill
If, like me, you have a Weber-type grill, bank up the coals on one side. When the embers are good and hot, place your chicken pieces on the grill, directly over the coals. Do not cover. Sear the chicken for a few minutes on each side, turning, turning. Watch the meat like a hawk. You want tiny black flecks on the flesh but that’s all. After a few minutes, put the chicken as far away from the coals as possible and cover the grill. Let the chicken cook another 10 minutes for the breast and 15 for the legs and thighs.

Place the finished product on a bed of lettuce and fresh cilantro/coriander, squeeze some lemon juice onto the chicken—this is quite important—decorate with lemon wedges, and you're done. Serve with a mint raita, a yoghurt-cucumber mixture.

As you see in the piccy, this dish looks spectacular. It also tastes wonderful, smells exotic, and it’s quite healthy! So head East, young blogger, go feast and feel good about it! Definitely the pukkah way to eat fowl––even the memsahib likes it!

"But it's a curry house!"

Mum looked a trifle lost, but she smiled at me.
“What are you having, son?”
“Don’t know yet, Mum, but I don’t think I’ll have a curry.”
“But this is a curry house. Gotta have curry in a curry house.” Mum was emphatic.
I said I might have the tandoori chicken instead. She wanted to know what that was. I explained it was chicken marinated overnight in yogurt, lemon, and various spices, then thrust into a specially constructed oven for a few minutes. I enthused and said it was delicious. Mum appeared distrustful and reiterated her previous observation.
“But this is a curry house!” She implored me to see sense.
“Let him have what he wants, if that’s what he wants. He’s big enough and ugly enough to decide for himself. I know what I want. King Prawn Madras!”

The culinary jewel in the crown

By eight thirty we were perusing the vast and varied menu of the Taj Mahal Indian Restaurant. Kate was fast asleep in her stroller. I cannot remember if, in fact, it was the Taj Mahal Restaurant; it could well have been the Star of India. But it certainly was the first restaurant we came to in Stowmarket. Indian music, akin to the sound of a cat being gently throttled, played in the background. Red velvet flock paper with shiny gold bits adorned the walls. Sparkly beaded curtains covered a few doorways. A picture of the Taj Mahal was framed and lit in a plastic wooden box with plastic foliage sprouting beneath it, all pleasantly fake except for the aromas that came from the kitchen. These were pungent, exotic, delightful, authentic. Lew peered intently at the menu. I’m not sure why, because he always had the same dish, but he studied the menu nonetheless.

A tree grows in Dagenham

“See that! First tree planted in our street! I did that,” I said. Through the gaps in houses I pointed out a rusty red, wooden telegraph pole. This was implanted in the early seventies, when I ordered a phone for my parents’ home, the first on our road. At the time, the arrival, the hoisting and planting of the pole had caused no little stir. Our neighbors and people from nearby streets stood on the sidewalks and watched. In total silence. Even when wires were cast from the pole to the outside wall of our house. Fascinated and disinterested in equal measure, nobody asked what was going on, and we did not tell them. They might have thought we were bragging. Now of course, there were wires leading to other houses. And somehow, I don’t think the purchase of a cell phone today would have the same impact we created back then. Even in Dagenham.

And the winner is...

The deadline for our first giveaway has come and gone, and we have a winner! Before we proceed with the drum roll, we wish to thank everyone for all the tea stories and the fabulous birthday wishes--so sweet (and what a surprise!). Too bad I didn't ask for cake!
Also, we are thrilled to have several new followers, and lots of new visitors. We love new bloggy friends.
How we picked the lucky winner
After we took out the tea drinkers who snuck in from the other side of the pond (coals to Newcastle, sorry!), the coffee-totallers, and the under-age blogger, we assigned numbers starting with "1" to all remaining entries. Then we added in the photo senders. We ended up with 30 entries--very respectable, what--so we used the roulette wheel. And the winner of our English tea giveaway is...our stitchy friend Daffycat. Congratulations--well done, and thanks for the link too!
Come and get it! Well, email us your address, and it will come to you.
Thanks to all who entered, and keep visiting!
Cheers,
Denis & Frances

It's not the Med, is it, Denis?

Somerset Maugham renamed Whitstable “Blackstable” in one of his first novels. He had grown up here and hated the place. I understood. Visiting the seaside in the summer is nothing like living there year-round. I remembered the sea around the British coastline as mostly mackerel gray, offset by startling blue skies in the summer. But when it rained, or threatened to rain, the grayness was omnipresent, inescapable. Although it was not raining now, the air was damp and chilly.
“June the first,” I said. “All looks a bit bleak.”
“Well, it’s not the Med, is it? This is England. Denis, you are so funny.”
As we approached the harbor area, however, the bleakness softened a bit, with hints of sunlight again piercing the dulled silver sky.

Last chance for English tea giveaway

Only three days left to enter our first giveaway and win the ingredients for a perfect cup of rosie lea: a tin of Twinings Earl Grey and a packet of Typhoo teabags. Three ways to enter:
*leave a birthday wish (can't get enough of those!) or a tea story

*send us a lovely photo of Southern England or East Anglia
*link back to us
One more thing: must be in US--silly to start shipping tea back to Blighty! For more details and to enter,
click here.

He thinks we done him in!

“So, how’s Tom?” asked Frances.
“Oh, worse than ever!” It was Aunt Flo. Perfect timing. She smiled at us with some satisfaction. Pam went over to help her onto the patio. The welcome change of subject always raised eyebrows from Pam and caustic remarks from Flo. Although Frances had never met my diminutive uncle, she felt as if she knew Flo’s husband, a thorn in his eldest daughter’s side but long a tickle stick in mine.
“Tell them, Pam!” Flo could not wait to reach us. “You wouldn’t credit it, Denis!”
“He thinks we’re trying to poison him,” said Pam, with weary indifference.
Flo sat down carefully, straightening her dress. She sighed with a smile and went on, “I’d do a much better job of it, if I wanted to poison him!” Flo laughed with mocking disdain.

Searching for Beatrix Potter

Down a corridor, an elderly lady in a black cardigan sat alongside one of the bedrooms open to the public. She looked quite still and very official, but rather too old and frail to be a security guard. I assumed she was a guide of sorts, brimming with facts and fables and historical anecdotes.
“Excuse me,” I said. “Can you tell me something about the house? The connection with Beatrix Potter?”
“No.” She smiled vacantly, eyes unblinking, then went on proudly, “Don’t know the first thing about it.”
I thanked her, if not for her knowledge, at least for her honesty.

Forget the booze--smuggle me out!

By happy coincidence, Carol of istitchaholic, who lives in Deal, has just sent us this lovely photo of Middle Street, showing lots of colorful old houses. Apparently, many are joined up by smugglers' tunnels--wish we had known that when we were there, we could have used a quick escape route from our rental house!
If you have a photo of England you want to share, email us! If we post it, we'll link back to you.

Deal us in!

In the annals of literature, Deal has not been viewed too kindly. A Regency travel book described the town as “a villainous place filled with filthy looking people.” A century or so before, the diarist Samuel Pepys called Deal “pitiful.” Well. We enjoyed our walk in a delightful part of the old town Pepys must have missed. Especially when the sun quite unexpectedly took a shine to us.
Some of the smaller streets and alleys were cobbled and the houses at least two hundred years old. With Kate in her stroller, we spent a pleasant hour zigzagging from the high street hubbub down to those quieter, more picturesque alleys and turnings, before finding ourselves back on the front looking out at the emerald-gray sea.

Deux, trois, quatre... "sink"?

I explained to Frances that the “Cinque Ports” were, originally, a cluster of five ports dotting the south coast of England, established and reinforced by the Plantagenet kings in the thirteenth century to protect the realm from sneaky and persistent French attacks. The ruling class in those days, descended from William the Conqueror, spoke mostly French, and “cinque” had been derived from the French word for “five.” Even so, no attempt at French pronunciation was ever made or even countenanced. It just wouldn’t be cricket.
“So a ‘cinque’ port becomes a ‘sink’ port? That’s odd,” said Frances.
“Odd? Doesn’t sound odd to me! English pronunciation of French – get it?”

Our first giveaway--English tea!

It has been brought to our attention that the teas we mentioned in a perfect cup of rosie lea may be hard to find in some parts of the country. Therefore, in honor of the Prodigal Birthday, and to ensure everyone in the United States (sorry!) an opportunity to try my favorite blend, we are giving away a packet of Typhoo teabags and a tin of Twinings Earl Grey loose tea.
The rules are simple. For a chance at this lovely prize, just leave me a birthday wish or a tea story (one per person, US only). For an additional entry,
*mention the giveaway on your blog and link back (please notify us); and/or
*email us (aprodigaltourist@gmail.com) a lovely photo of Southern England or East Anglia (not London, please) we may post with a link back to you.
*if you wish us to notify you if your win, please leave or send us your email; otherwise, we will post and give the lucky winner 72 hours to notify us.
How long do these things run? Yikes, no idea. How about we accept entries until June 15 (12 am EDT) and draw a winner on June 16. We will assign numbers in order of entry; if we have less than 64 entries, we will use our roulette table or bingo cage to pick a winner. If we have more than 64 entries, we will be old-fashioned and use a hat and paper.
Good luck and enjoy the rest of my birthday!

A perfect cup of rosie lea

Americans are fascinated by the English ritual of tea making and drinking. So here are some guidelines for a perfect pot of Prodigal Tea. First you need a teapot, a tea strainer, and a whistling kettle. (If you don’t have a teapot, you can use a Pyrex container, but the tea won’t stay as hot while it brews.) Any kind of milk can be used but not cream or creamer, please!
And you’ll need tea of course. I use Brooke Bond PG Tips or Typhoo. Both Brit brands are not the highest grade but they are workmanlike, everyday breakfast teas that give a flavorful, robust, caramel-colored brew. Definitely a step up from local leaves that shall remain nameless. Boston Harbor should be full of the stuff, as far as I’m concerned!
I like to add a large pinch of Earl Grey to the pot, to mellow out the breakfast tea and provide an additional burst of flavor. This is the everyday Prodigal Blend. (I think a pot of just Earl Grey is a little too much.)
Prodigal Tea for two!
First put the kettle on until it whistles. Splash some hot water in the teapot to warm it, then empty out. Put one heaping teaspoon of loose tea (or one teabag of strong tea) in the pot, plus a good pinch of Earl Grey. I prefer the Earl Grey with the citrus bergamot flavor as opposed to the more smoky version of the blend, but that’s a matter of taste. Now reboil the water and pour a couple of cupfuls in the pot. Let the brew stand for a few minutes and there you are. I let it brew for at least five minutes. The longer you wait the stronger it gets.
Frances likes her tea without sugar or milk. So odd! For the rest of us, put a splash of milk in the cup first, warm 15 seconds in the microwave, then add the nicely brewed tea. Don’t forget to use a strainer when pouring! The holes in the spout of your teapot are not there to catch unwanted leaves, they just help regulate the flow of tea. By the way, you can use Irish tea brands, these are good too. Add sugar to taste, although I don’t.
I’ve been told by posher Brit chums that putting milk in first is a very working class thing to do, and not the done thing in upper class society. Not that I’m against societal aspirations but, at the risk of betraying my origins, I put in the milk first because it gives you a better mix of liquids. So there. And if you’re American, who cares anyway, just enjoy your cuppa!

Lush and beautiful in London

Our new friend Sophia from Scotland For The Senses did more than send us this beautiful photo of Lord Leighton's former house in London — she sent us a taste of Scotland, a delicious vanilla tablet that we ate in very small pieces! We had nothing like that in Dagenham, that's for sure.
If you have a photo of England you want to share, email us! And look out for our first giveaway, in honor of the Prodigal Birthday.

I'm a Limey Doodle Dandy

When I was about ten years old, I wanted my best friend to be a kid from an American TV show. Whether all of America was like Hollywood, or the other way around, I did not know or care. I just wanted to audition for it. I tried to be more American. I practiced for my role. I chewed gum, which I hated. I wore high top colored sneakers, which we called baseball boots and which got very smelly. I yearned for the blue jeans Mum would never buy me. Too rough, she said, look like a laborer! At least I could see the TV shows and avoid pullovers when I went out to play, even if it meant duckings of cold damp air.

A memory for Memorial Day

Across the dip, I climbed up to the church, a modestly imposing structure made of limestone. The musty fragrance of the flowers that decorated the pews from the previous Sunday’s service still permeated the air. The church was deserted, but I sensed the presence of people, a small congregation. The pews smelled of fresh wax. The candlesticks smelled of metal polish. Everywhere were plaques in memory of various villagers long gone. Tucked away in a small enclave, I found a brass eagle with an inscription beneath it. This plaque had been placed there by the village, in memory of the American airmen stationed nearby who were killed in combat during the Second World War. The eagle gleamed a little in the scant deflected light. The plaque had been recently polished.

Only in England...

Shelley, the wry churchwarden of St. Mary's , is pretty sure that only in Rye would a sitting mayor have been allowed to put his little dog into a church's stained glass window--front and center, no less! Of course, we're talking about E.F. Benson, author of Prodigal favorite, Mapp and Lucia, who, when he was mayor of Rye, had his black dog Taffy immortalized in the newly redesigned West Window. The chap in red in the bottom right corner represents the author in his mayoral robes, perhaps begging forgiveness for his irreverence.

Prodigal Toad: Nothing to croak about

This delicious dish, as you can imagine, has nothing to do with greenish amphibians. Toad in the Hole is a classic of English cookery, in which banger-like sausages are set and baked within a large Yorkshire pudding. Kate and I like our Toad with baked beans. If you’re feeling healthy have yours with a salad.
So let’s begin. First you need to make a Prodigal Pudding batter. Instead of pudding pans, though, use a large oval or oblong glass dish that can easily accommodate a half dozen sausages or more. One sausage per person probably suffices but I tend to bake five, so the Prodigal Family can have seconds. You’ll also need four tablespoonfuls of your favorite fat: duck, goose, beef, or canola. And, of course, you need bangers!
I suppose you could use an Italian sausage but I prefer not to. I do deviate from the traditional recipe by using wonderful apple sausages we buy from the Amish market and studing the dish with sautéed apple segments. It’s a bit like have the main course and dessert all rolled into one. Oooh, I am naughty––but you’ll like it!
Making the Toad
First heat the oven to 450F. Add the fat of your choice to the glass dish and pop it into the center of the oven .
Two granny smith type apples need to be cored, peeled, and quartered. Sounds a bit medieval but carry on regardless. Gently saute apples in a little butter. Watch them like a hawk. Once they start to color, sprinkle with a little sugar and cinnamon then take them off the fire, remove apples but keep handy. Now brown the sausages in the remaining butter. No need to cook through, just make sure they get lightly browned on all sides. Now place sausages, apples, and residual fat into the toad dish, spread the wealth and close the oven door. Remove your Yorkshire batter from the fridge, Re-whisk. After three minutes or so, your glass dish will be smoky hot and the sausages and apples will be ready to receive the enrobing batter.
Open the oven. Warning: don’t pour the batter into the dish tsunami-fashion. If you do, the hot fat will make your sausages and apples slip and slide until they clump together in one unappetizing mass. Not good. You want the batter to moat around all those lovely nibble bits. To accomplish this successfully, I anoint the dish using a ladle, carefully but quickly. The batter mixture will start to set up almost immediately, anchoring the contents throughout the dish. Close the oven door. Cook for 20 minutes at 450F. The sides of the Toad will have risen at this point quite beautifully but the center will not be cooked through. If the bangers are browning too quickly, cover them with a bit of foil. Lower the temperature to 400F and cook for another 15-20 minutes until set.
Here’s how I serve it
When Frances isn’t looking, I purloin the elongated spatula she uses for baking, then slide the Toad onto a nice platter, leaving any excess fat behind in the glass dish.
Do try this grand and surprisingly economical treat. It’s a Prodigal Family favorite and I’m sure if you try it once, it will be a hit with your crew, too.
Enjoy!

A new Mapp and Lucia book!

I have just discovered that a new Mapp and Lucia book was recently released. No, no, obviously not by the illustrious (and deceased) E.F. Benson, but by English author Guy Fraser-Sampson, who has channeled the outrageous Major Benjy for a series of new adventures as twisty as the streets of Rye. Captain Puffin can't be far behind—fingers crossed!
Now, I haven't read it yet (I've left Prodigal Wife a hint regarding my upcoming birthday), but this sounds like a worthy addition to a great canon of comic literature. I believe the story unfolds while Miss Mapp holds reign in Tilling.
For any Luciaphiles out there, Major Benjy is available at Amazon and Amazon UK.
Qui-hi!

Hunting for Mallards'

A notable writer who set his novels in Rye was E.F. Benson. He lived just at the top of Mermaid Street, in Lamb House, renamed Mallards in his Mapp and Lucia novels. Here, Queen Lucia held reign. The streets and settings were all unchanged by time, just as Benson described them. I counted houses to where Georgie Pillson would have lived before he became – in name only – Lucia’s husband. I picked out the places where my favorite characters had done their marketing. The street corners where they sniped and spied and gently but cruelly admonished one another, scoring points where they could, forming alliances and fighting social battles much to the delight of generations of fans.

"More love from across the Briney"

Cousin Kevin was tickled we posted his photo of Chertsey Bridge so he sent on this lovely shot of the Cinque (that's pronounced "sink") port of Rye. Frances and I loved Rye, where we had the best meal we've ever had in Old Blighty. Of course, that's where we met a nutter in a graveyard, but that's for another time.
If you have a photo of England you'd like to share, email us and we may post it with a link back to your blog. No links for Cousin Kevin--he's waiting for the book to come out for his fifteen minutes of fame!

Under the Queen's wing

Kate and I walked down to a small gate that led onto the embankment. Feeding ducks or swans had become one of those things we did together when we were in England.
“They’re owned by the Queen, you know.”
A squat little girl with a suspicious look had sidled up close to us. Her red socks were rumpled and she wore a PVC rain mac over a print dress.
“Which ones are the Queen’s?” I asked, trying to be friendly.
“They are all owned by the Queen. Every one,” the girl said, darkly.
“Really?”
“If you kill one of them, the penalty is death!” The child pronounced “death” as in “deaf.”
Kate gazed anxiously at the girl. I told her to carry on feeding the swans.
“Well, we’ll be sure not kill any, just feed them, alright?”
“I suppose—” The sullen girl began kicking pebbles into the water.
“Do you want some bread?” asked Kate.
The child shook her head, then turned and walked away. Odd. Kate shrugged and carried on throwing brioche at the birds.

A dressing down at Harrods

The side entrance to Harrods had steps and, as I struggled with Kate’s stroller, a young man in morning coat and gray-striped trousers rushed out to me.
“Oh, thanks so much, I was having a bit of a—”
“I’m sorry, sir, I can’t let you in.”
“Excuse me?”
“I can’t let you into ‘Arrods,” he said, blocking my path politely but firmly. “I’m sorry, sir, but cut down jeans are not allowed in ‘Arrods, sir.”
“You must be joking.”
“It’s the ‘Arrods dress code. Sir.”
“A dress code? In a store?”
“This is priceless.” Frances was amazed but, unlike me, she was smiling.

Buck House in the Shires

Clive at Find Your Ideal Holiday got up early on a frosty morning in Buckinghamshire to capture this beautiful photo of Tyringham House across the River Ouse. Thanks Clive!

Inspired and in great company

Lovely Josephine at A Brit In Tennesse surprised us last week with the wonderful Renee Award and, while we were extremely pleased, we were rather unsure about whether we should accept at all because, while the Prodigal is English, he is, well, a he; and this award "honors someone who is incredibly inspirational in her intelligent and witty writing."
Josephine further states, "this award celebrates women's smart, strong and inspirational spirit! It honors women who spread joy and love like an Acorn......a small package growing into a tall and sturdy oak tree which gives more acorns......." So you can see our dilemma. Should Frances alone accept (this blog is her baby, really)? Should we gender bend? Should we decline? Then we thought, why not? If Josephine saw fit to bend the rules a bit, who are we to quibble? Why not accept this great honor, allowing us to pass it along to others who inspire us?
So we humbly pass this award along to:
* Sharon at It's Daffy Cat for inspring us with her creativity (and we love that dancing cat);
* Denise An English Girl Rambles for inspring us to look twice when we walk around;
* Melissa at Smitten by Britten because she inspires us to smile when we think about Britain; and
* Toni at Expat Mum for blazing the trail.
Last but not least, we wish to acknowledge Kate, our very own little acorn, at Softball Whisperer , for getting an early start in her writing career.
Great job, ladies! Keep up the great work! And thank you Josephine--you inspire us every time we visit.
Cyber hugs from Denis and Frances

The proof is in...

Apparently, Yorkshire pudding first came about, not surprisingly, in Yorkshire, in Victorian times when meat was scarce and people were poor. Puds were served as a first course to fill people up. Today, things are a little better, and nothing is better than a slice of rare beef with a Yorkshire pud. Yum, yum! What a combination. Here’s a surefire way to bake the perfect Yorkshire Pudding.
First off, equipment. The last post showed three pudding pans; the best of these is the one with shallow oval bottoms (the one from Mummy-in-Law). If these pans cannot be found, try small cupcake Pyrex glass containers. Alternatively, you could use a single roasting or pie pan, which will produce one large pudding. This looks quite spectacular, but I feel individual puddings are more fun and you get more crispy bits.
Yorkshire pudding is essentially a batter recipe. People add things like parsley, and thyme and rosemary, extra pepper, even bacon. Jacques Pepin adds leeks. I’ve tried all these additional ingredients and, personally, I feel none add a hill of beans of difference.
The key ingredient is the type of fat you use. The best puddings are made in beef fat, ideally rendered from your Sunday rib roast. But standing rib roast is a big treat in the Prodigal household, so for a non-holidays feast, we use eye of round, a lean cut with very little fat. So I conserve fat from previous meals. Let me explain.
If you’re having a steak or even a stew, just trim the fat, and wrap and freeze it. When you have a bit of time, render your collected bits of fat in a little water. You’ll need about a teaspoonful of fat per individual pudding dish, and what you don’t use can be safely re-frozen (as it’s now cooked). Alternatively, rendered goose or duck fat is delicious too. The key thing is: these fats have loads of flavor and can take high cooking temperatures.

Prodigal Puddings
This recipe makes eight individual puddings. In the Prodigal household, we are only three, but some of us love a second pud. And so will you! If you have leftovers, worry not––cold puds are great topped with your favorite jam as a breakfast treat.
Right, let’s get to it. Before you do anything else, prep your pudding (or Pyrex) pans with a teaspoon of fat in each hollow.
Now make the batter. Combine 3/4 cup of all-purpose flour, a pinch of salt, a cup milk, and a 1/4 cup of water in a glass bowl. We use skimmed milk but use whatever milk you have on hand. Now, add two or three eggs, one at a time. Whisk by hand or machine until everything is nicely incorporated. Then whisk some more. I whisk for the count of sixty. I’m looking for a part-bubbly, fluid mixture. At this point, add some pepper (and other items from above list if you must). Then cover your bowl and put it in the fridge to rest for at least half an hour. Because I get flummoxed when I cook, I’ve been known to get my pudding mixture ready before the meat is even in the oven. It matters not. Just make sure the mixture sits for at least half an hour.
When your roast beast is ready, remove it from the oven, cover, and let it rest. Now crank up the oven to 450 F degrees. Put your pudding pans, with fat in the hollows, at the back of the oven. When the temperature reaches 450, check your pans. The fat should be smoky hot. If not, wait another minute or two. Close oven. Remove pudding mixture from the fridge and whisk quickly to re-incorporate everything. Have a small ladle handy; I sometimes use a 1/4 cup measure.
The next step is important.
Open the oven and slide out the rack. Don’t removes the pans. Ladle the batter mixture into the hot pans right in the oven. Work as briskly as you can. When the pans are filled, gently push back the rack and close the oven. After 15 minutes, reduce oven temp to 425 and cook puds for another fifteen minutes. Then reduce oven temp. to 350. Within the next 10 minutes, depending on the ferocity of your oven, your puds will be baked and ready. Do check, during this final ten minutes, if the puds slide freely in the pans, they’re done.
I switch off the oven at this point and let the puddings be while I carve the meat. I spread the meat on as large platter then garnish with the puds. There is no more sublime a sight! Traditionally, we anoint the hollow of our puddings with gravy. Or not. Either way is lovely.
Enjoy your Yorkshire Puddings!

A spot of tea--and shopping

After being in the car for almost an hour, my folks were gasping for tea and some toast or cake. So finding a teashop took first priority. We found a cafeteria in a large, old fashioned department store that sold tweedy suits and jackets with leather patches, checkered shirts, cloth caps, and similarly sensible clothing for women. There was also a large gardening supplies center and a department dedicated to cooking paraphernalia, where we bought Yorkshire pudding pans. A Yorkshire pudding is our version of a popover, and is usually served as an accompaniment to roast beef for the traditional Sunday lunch. Sometimes made in a large tin, it is best made in a pan with small indentations that proffer individual servings. This way everyone gets a pudding that resembles a golden, crusty well just waiting for a spoonful of beef gravy, preferably ungranulated.
(Thanks, Kate, for the photo work!)

Keeping an eye on London

Just back from four months in London, Amy sent on this lovely shot she took from the London Eye on the South Bank of the Thames. See more of her photos at Amy's Daily Photo. Thanks Amy!
Got a great shot of England? email us; if we post it, we'll link back to you! (Please, one at a time and 100k max!)