Take me back, Britain

Yeah, so…um, Britain? About that whole Independence thing back in 1776? I was kinda hoping you might…you know…look past that and grant me citizenship. I married one of your own. I work in your country. I pay all my taxes. (In fact I paid way more than I should have the last two years. You paid me back but still.) I invested in property here. I eat Curiously Cinnamon cereal rather than importing Cinnamon Toast Crunch cereal. If that is not a sign of my dedication to being an upstanding citizen, I don’t know what is.

So, whaddya think? You’ve got my details. Call me! Whenever, of course, that’s cool. I included a photo on page 9. I couldn’t smile because they told me not to but if I could have — uh, yeah, sure. I’ll just wait here.

——————

This week I had my nationality check (good news everyone – I am who I say I am) and sent off my application to become a British citizen. It was a long application which required I record every time I exited and re-entered the UK in the last three years, two written references, a declaration that I am of “sound mind”, and my pass certificate for the Life in the UK test, among other things. Oh, and let us not forget the whopping fee of £750. On top of the thousands of pounds I’ve spent on visas. (I’m not bitter, Britain.)

So now I wait. And I hope. Because although I never really thought about being another nationality, I can’t see any drawbacks here. I get to keep my American citizenship. I get to be both.

British citizenship means I can come and go whenever I want. I won’t have to worry about visas. If we have children, they can be dual citizens as well. I can move anywhere in the EU. I could go to Cuba if I wanted to.

(I just asked Scott what else I can get with British citizenship – above and beyond the right to vote and serve in the military. And he said, “Prestige.” So I get arrogance as well.)

This doesn’t mean I’m not American anymore or that I won’t feel American. But today, on the 4th of July, I’m a little bit more sad than previous years. Because even though I say British citizenship means I can move back to the US for a period of time and return later and forget about visas and all that hassle, there is a sense of permanency that comes with it.

It is something that I experience more and more each day I am here. I am settling here and I can truthfully say I am letting myself. And it feels good.

Most of the time.

Today I’m missing my family who have all flown to Florida for a family reunion. I couldn’t go because I was applying for citizenship and wouldn’t have my passport to leave the country. I’m telling myself that next year I can go and hey, cheer up! Next time I can go in the fast immigration lane in both countries.

But now I just wait.

I’m going to bake an apple pie and make Scott take me to see My Sister’s Keeper (because that’ll cheer me up.) I think we might even squeeze in a trip to Costco where I can buy Hershey’s Chocolate Syrup and Skippy Peanut Butter in bulk. I’ll buy myself a chocolate soft serve ice cream because – and this is not an exaggeration – it tastes exactly the same as a Wendy’s Frosty.

See, I’m still an American.

(But I can love you both, Britain. Pick me, pick me!)

Girl meets boy Part II

American Pie was on TV the other night. We had it on while we were both on our computers in separate rooms. Scott would come in the living room every few minutes to do one of his many American Pie movie lines. At one point he got very serious, looked over at me and said, “This movie was out 10 years ago. 10 years! Where have the last ten years gone?”

Hey, buddy! Yoohoo…remember me? You spent them with me!

I do know where he’s coming from though. It is crazy to think how the years just fly by.

10 years ago – to the day – this girl met this boy.

And this is where all the time has gone:

Girl meets boy

I have always had crushes on celebrities. I think it’s weird if you haven’t ever had one. What?  You only go for real, attainable men? Weirdos.

For me, it started with Timmy from Lassie and Kirk Cameron from Growing Pains and then progressed to Ralph Macchio in The Karate Kid. But my biggest celebrity crush was Devon Sawa. I had posters covering my walls and I had even created mock-ups of wedding invites for Devon and me.  I actually wrote a letter to him once, asking if he wanted to be pen pals.

I also wrote our initials on the side of the house. On the cement between two bricks. With a pencil. I was so badass, you guys wouldn’t even believe it.

But when I was 14, I became obsessed with Prince William. I was devastated when Diana died because I actually thought she might be my mother-in-law one day.

We had internet access at home but I never used it. I’m not sure I even knew what it all meant. Then we started having classes at school centered around the World Wide Web and all the neat stuff you could find on there.  I used to go to my friend’s house after school and we would go on British chat rooms on the hunt for Prince William. Because, you know, he was probably at his friend’s house playing on this newfangled internet too.

We began chatting to someone named Joey. Turns out he was actually three 18 year old guys who had just moved in together and pooled their money  for a computer. We spent many hours talking to them – we were clearly charmed by their British wit – but one of the guys stood out in particular.

He explained how there were these free email services and how we could write each other messages for free and you could check your email anywhere. I got my first hotmail account and got myself on ICQ too. We talked about growing up in different countries, we told each other about school and our familes, we shared favorite books and songs and films.

In the beginning, it was something to kill the time. It was also a novelty. It was just meant to be a bit of fun, nothing serious. My mom knew it was more than just something to kill time when I started spending a lot more time on the computer. (And these were the days when you waited for five minutes while you listened to the dial up modem whizzing and buzzing away, certain aliens would arrive at any moment. These were the days when we paid by the minute.These were the days when there was no way you could sneak onto the Internet. Kids have it so easy these days.)

I told my mom I was speaking to someone on the web and she responded as any mother would. She was concerned. After all, back then all you heard about were the girls who went missing after meeting their supposedly 17 year old suitors they met on America Online.

Naturally, she was worried and didn’t want me giving out our phone number or address. She asked lots of questions about him and what we talked about for so long. She was just being a mom. (I admit, at the time, I was all,”You just don’t understand me! No one understands what it’s like. My life is so hard!” I’m sorry, Mom.)

We had been chatting for months when he asked if he could send me a mixed tape of songs that he had recorded off the radio. I asked my mom and at first she said no but after I argued my case we agreed that if he was a 50 year old serial killer, he probably would have found me by now. So, yes, he could send the tape but my mom needed to listen to it.

And she did and she was satisfied that there were no sinister messages laced throughout the Sunday night Top 10 singles. She also read some of the letters. I was okay with it too. I knew that if I didn’t include her it would all be over.

We continued chatting and sending tapes and letters. We finally exchanged photos – through snail mail since I probably had never even seen a scanner, never mind a digital camera. It was so strange to see the person I had spent all those months talking to. He was and wasn’t how I imagined him but I was pleasantly surprised.

Then one day he asked if he could call me. I was a nervous wreck. I had talked to boys on the phone. A few of them I even liked but no one like this. I’d like to say the conversation was amazing but it wasn’t. I struggled to understand his broad northern accent. I said “sorry, what was that?” about fifty times and laughed at his jokes 20 seconds after the punch line. He could understand me better because he watched Friends and The Simpsons.

I was falling for a guy I had never even met. I was 16 and wasn’t even allowed to properly date anyone in real life. This guy lived in England. He had just started university. He wasn’t real.

Neither of us really knew what to make of it. We certainly liked each other. We missed each other when we didn’t speak. But we didn’t really know each other and yet you could argue that we knew each other better than anyone.

We talked about meeting up one day. Maybe some day after I graduated college. We could meet up and see where things went from there. I don’t think either of us really believed that would happen.

As the months went on, we talked more and more about how we could meet. I think he was more serious about it than me at first. When I thought about meeting him, I felt sick. I wasn’t ready for that sort of thing. I still had Devon Sawa wedding invitations tucked away in my bedroom. I wasn’t sure I wanted to take the risk and spoil things. I liked having him in my computer, listening to me, asking me questions, caring about me.

And then there was the whole issue of my parents. My dad was stationed in Korea and during his weekly calls, my mom would tell him how serious we were getting and what would she do if I really tried to meet up with this…this man! My dad told her not to worry about it, he was sure it would just wither away. It was a stage. It was a fad. It would never really happen. Then he probably hung up the phone, cursing God for giving him three daughters who had all these icky emotions and trivial problems when he had bigger issues on his mind. Like North Korea.

But it didn’t seem to be a fad. It certainly didn’t feel like I was going through some stage either. One day when I was chatting to this funny and smart Englishman, he suggested that he and a friend come to the US in the summer. They would fly to DC and meet me and my friend and if it was weird and didn’t work out, that would be ok. They would continue on with their vacation in America. No pressure. But what if we never got another chance? What if it was fate? What if we were meant to be together?

And because I was am a hopeless romantic and watched way too many Nora Ephron movies, I said yes. Er, I mean…I said, let me ask my mom. (By this point we had been talking for a year and he still had not abducted me so my mom said ok.)

The lead up to that day in June 1999 was a whole mix of emotions. I was nervous. I was in denial. I was excited. I was, in the only way I knew how, in love. I was terrified.

It was a horrendously hot day in Virginia. I put my hair in velcro curlers the night before and wore a blue shirt. My friend wore a cream skirt. My mom (yep, she had to come) sat on the other side of International Arrivals, reading a magazine. These are the things I remember.

I also remember waiting three hours because their flight was delayed. I remember my friend sitting on an empty luggage carousel and standing up to find black grease across the back of her skirt. I remember my mom telling us she was heading to Starbucks – there was only so much waiting one could do. I remember watching his flight disappear off the board and thinking, he’s not coming. What was I thinking?

And then there they were. The two guys from the photos. Only they looked much younger and much more scared. The look on his face in particular was a look of pure shock, as if he couldn’t believe he just spent all his part-time job earnings on a flight across the ocean to see a girl he had never met before. A girl who wore braces and loved Third Eye Blind and hadn’t yet been allowed to drive with friends in the car. He was as white as a ghost.

I wanted to turn and run away. That sounds horrible but you have to remember I was 16 and terribly self conscious and suddenly faced with what was essentially a blind date. But with so much riding on it.

I didn’t run though. My friend pushed me forward. He saw me. I think a bit of color returned to his face. I actually don’t remember much from those few seconds where he walked out from the big crowd of people. I remember we hugged. I remember he was wearing a grey t-shirt. I remember saying, “You came” in a surprised and totally relieved voice.  I remember looking at him, thinking… is this really you? Is this who I tell my secrets to? Who are you? I hope I know.

The guys checked in to a hotel but came to my house for a BBQ on the first night. We played Scrabble and took my dog for a walk. They charmed my mom with their polite manners and English accents. She let them sleep in the guest room in the basement for the rest of the week. (With a chair under the doorknob, just in case.)

If I were a country singer/songwriter, I could make a killing with a song about that week. It was a week I will remember for the rest of my life. For a week that summer, I felt pretty good. And that’s no small feat for a teenage girl just starting out in the world. I am eternally grateful for those seven days. I am grateful to my mom for listening and acknowledging. I am grateful to my friend who wouldn’t let me run from the baggage claim at Dulles Airport. I am grateful to “Joey”.

In the end, it really did happen. It didn’t wither away. So what if he wasn’t Prince William? Turns out he was something better. He was my first love. He was my future husband.

Devon Sawa, if you are reading this – I’m grateful to you too. Thank you for never writing me back.

Mexican food in London

In an attempt to write about something that’s not as heavy as babies and marriage and my love of vampires (oh, to be that taxi!), I thought I’d write about something equally important but not involving so many feeeeelings. Because this time I’m writing about eating your feelings.

And no better way to do that than with some Mexican food. Who doesn’t feel better after some chips and salsa?

When I was studying here five years ago, it was difficult to find decent Mexican food. The Brits tried. They really did. But it was always a bit off. Even the Old El Paso taco seasoning packets at the supermarket seemed weird. (Curry powder finds its way into so many dishes in this country.)

But I’ve seen the supermarkets’ selection expand over the last few years. Now you can find lowfat sour cream and wholewheat tortillas and guacamole in a jar (which I would never buy but I’m just showing you how much more is on offer these days.)

Sure, they still have the ready-made nachos that they call Authentic Tex-Mex and Crispy Chicken Fajitas that look like something from KFC. And a weird nacho cheese dip from Tesco that is almost entirely mayonnaise. Like I said, they are trying.

We have to keep in mind that a messy kebab after a night out is the British equivalent to a late night run to Taco Bell or the Burrito Buggy (OU students – I’m looking at you). There are great Indian restaurants here – they didn’t know they needed Mexican food.

But I’m happy to report that really good Mexican food does exist in London and you actually have quite a few choices.

Lucky for me and my feelings, I work near a few of these fine establishments where you can get burritos practically the size of your head.

Daddy Donkey

They describe themselves as a “Kick-ass Mexican Grill” and do the “daddy” of burritos, as well as bowls and tacos. I hear they really are kick-ass.

Location:  Leather Lane Market, London,  EC1N 7TE

Freebird

The owner, Carlos, trained at the same culinary institute as the guy who started Chipotle. These burritos are seriously good and taste just like home.

(I couldn’t find a working website for them but follow them on Twitter if you’re one of those people.)

Location: Exmouth Market, Camden, Goodge Street

Beach Burrito (now EatMexicali)

I can’t vouch for this place but I’ve heard good things – they even do breakfast burritos. I’m in.

Location: Notting Hill, Chelsea and Soho.

Tortilla

A small restaurant across from Angel tube station that’s big on taste and value. They seem to understand exactly what “fresh, delicious California-Mexican cuisine” is. More importantly, they use Monterey Jack cheese. I can’t tell you how rare that is.

Location: 13 Islington High Street, London, N1 9LQ

Chilango (used to be Mucho Mas)

I haven’t been here but it looks cute and funky – not a prerequisite for amazing Mexican food but I just thought I’d add that in. They boast “fresh, fabulously tasty Mexican cuisine” and are also near to Angel tube station.

Location: 27 Upper Street, Islington,  N1 0PN

Mestizo

If you’re looking for a truly authentic Mexican menu, try this restaurant. It’s not the type of place you pop in for a take away burrito but it can be a fun night out with friends who appreciate that Tex-Mex is not proper Mexican food.

Location: 103 Hampstead Road, London, NW1 3EL

Wahaca

There was so much hype around this place when it came to London. I admit to being really excited about it too but this was before I knew of all these other places. Wahaca specializes in Mexican street food and I do always enjoy what I order…well, except for the time I ordered a burrito and was put off by all the cabbage stuffed in there. So, I go there for the taquitos and churros instead.

Locations: 66 Chandos Place, Covent Garden, WC2N 4HG and Westfield Shopping Centre, Ariel Way, W12 7GB

Cafe Pacifico

This Mexican cantina does the job as far as enchiladas and chimichangas are concerned. If you’re in Covent Garden, a perfect evening of Mexican goodness would be lite bites at Wahaca followed by margaritas and mains at Cafe Pacifico.

Location: 5 Langley Street, Covent Garden, WC2H 9JA

Taqueria

This “authentic Mexican taco cafe” in West London has a large range of tacos from prawns to chorizo to beer battered fish (I’m not so sure about that one but we’ll go with it). The restaurant is from the same people behind the Cool Chile Co.

Location: 139-143 Westbourne Grove, London, W11 2RS

Cool Chile Co.

For those who would rather make their own Mexican food, Cool Chile Co. has what the supermarkets lack. After a quick scan of their site, I’ll be ordering some fresh corn tortillas and tomatilla salsa. You can order online or visit their stall at Borough Market.

I think this is a fantastic indication of what Mexican food in the UK will be in the future. And if none of these do it for you, have no fear, Chipotle is coming here! They are due to open their first restaurant in London later this year.

(Now, if only I could find some really good queso. Nobody does it like you Austin Grill. I’ll love you forever but please don’t ever redesign your menu again. I almost had a heart attack when I couldn’t find queso under the appetizer section. But you’re right, you know best. It really is a side. It goes with everything.)

On marriage

Go big or go home – that’s how I see this whole blog thing.

I never wanted my blog to just be a collection of vacation photos or a detailed account of what I did each day down to what I had for dinner. Sometimes I want to just share a funny story. Other times I want to write something more serious and I am hopeful that someone somewhere will relate to what I write. I always try to be honest and real.

But every once in awhile I write something that I later decide not to publish. This was one of those pieces before I resurrected it from the “don’t publish for fear of being taken out of context/upsetting your mom” file.

I decided to post it for the following reasons:
1) I think people can relate
2) I just feel like it, plain and simple. That’s the beauty of this whole blog thing
3) I am in a happy, loving marriage with a man who read this and agreed that no husbands were harmed in the making of this post.

———

I’m not sure many people would admit to thinking about how life might have been if things didn’t last with their partners. Think about a time when you fought and how it would have been if you never made up. A moment when you thought it was over and what it would have been like had you let it be.

I believe there are times in a relationship when you or your partner, or both of you, have to make a conscious decision to stick it out or throw in the towel. Have you ever thought about what would have happened if you had chosen differently? Do you ever imagine a different life? Do you ever wonder about where you might have ended up?

I met Scott at 16 and we spent many years apart, working towards a time when we could be together. Maintaining a long distance relationship is one of my greatest accomplishments. I’m really proud of how we did.

But let me tell you, it’s extremely difficult to grow up with someone and not grow apart. I felt myself shaping and I wondered what parts of me were because of him and how I might be different if I were with someone else or with no one at all.

Some days I couldn’t believe my luck. I didn’t understand how I had managed to find a guy like him and to have him love me in return. Other days I questioned whether we were developing into the people we were meant to be or not.

I know we both wondered if the distance – the hardships of doing it for so long – would be too much. I was concerned that one day we’d look at ourselves and who we’d become and we’d be resentful.

We’ve gone on though, completely committed to each other, and we said vows in front of family and friends, promising to be faithful and true to one another.

But after very nearly ten years together, I look at him, looking at me and I can’t help but wonder if he sees me, really sees me. And I look hard at him, searching, wondering, worrying. Has he settled for me? Have we settled along the way?

Usually when I am having one of those days, I pick a fight. I bring up the fact that he never read that book he told me he would. I had asked him to read it so we could talk about it. I want him to ask me about the book, to listen to my thoughts, to share his opinions.

Suddenly we are no longer talking about a book. I want him to get to know me again.

And then he says, Ok, what are you thinking about? What are your thoughts on this book? What do you think about this issue? How do you feel about this event/problem/ TV show?

And before I say anything, I remember that my answers are no different than a year ago, ten years ago. He knows me.

I feel it building up inside me and I want to blurt out, If we were strangers in a bar, would you approach me? Would you pick me out of a crowd?

Maybe he would say yes. Maybe he would say, What does it matter now?

I don’t know.

But I am certain I am not alone in this.

Six months ago, I spent an evening with a dear friend and after half a bottle of red wine, all this came tumbling out. And I saw it. I saw the relief spread across her face. I watched her shoulders relax. Me too, she said. I know exactly what you mean.

We took comfort in each other’s unsettling, niggling feelings. We felt like we could say what we were experiencing without all the judgment, without the looks, without the trouble in paradise comments. We felt normal. We are normal.

Love is the easy part. The hardest is saying I choose you no matter what. I choose you even if you don’t choose me. I choose me with you, me shaped by you.

After ten years, after all the goodbyes, the hellos, the tears and the joy, after moving thousands of miles away, after buying a home together, after leaving family, changing careers, losing loved ones, making friends, after choosing each other over and over again – marriage is hard.

Even if there are no fights, no mean words, no children, no money trouble, no someone else – it’s still something to work at and work for.

You have to be there. For a marriage, for that sort of commitment, you have to be present and aware. You have to just stay in the room.

In all situations, I have a bad habit of thinking the grass is always greener. But the truth is, you’re just as likely to step in a big pile of dog shit whether the grass is green or not.

So I look hard at the grass. And the thing about grass is that it grows and it changes and there’s potential, you know? I try to remember that. I try not to look too hard. I just try to keep looking.

Maybe if we had ended up with other people life wouldn’t have been any less full, any less rich.

But for me, it would have been a life without him. And that…that would just be less.

I know him. He knows me. Sometimes it’s tempting to think about what it could be like meeting someone different, learning new things about them, having them ask your likes and dislikes. Most of the time it seems natural to think about those things. Once in awhile, I worry that it’s not. I worry that it means something more. I worry that he is thinking the same thing. I worry.

But then my hand finds his next to me on the sofa, across the table, under the covers.

He squeezes back.

And my heart settles and I know that’s the very opposite of settling.

I say tomato

Have you heard about Word Time? Basically someone set up a flickr group and came up with a list of words for people to record themselves speaking and then share on this here nifty interweb. Over time the group has grown, hundreds of videos have been added and many more lists were created.

I had wanted to add a video but I never got my act together to actually do it. Which is ridiculous when you think about it because all I needed to do was turn my camera on and say a few words. And words have never been a problem for me!

But then I thought that since the group is a real study on all the different accents around the world, it would be a crying shame not to include Scott.

Of course when I pulled out the camera and told Scott I needed to film him reading a list of words, he was not amused. It may have been down to my impeccable timing – he was nursing a hangover and in the middle of watching tv.

One of the effects of living abroad is that I get really confused about how I say certain things. For example, I forget if I say pay-tronize or pa-tronize. Both sound right and I usually have to ask Scott how he pronounces it and then I know I say the opposite. We probably should have also said the words at the same time because after hearing Scott, I got all screwed up.

We did a few takes, mainly because Scott got very agitated and kept saying, “Why are we doing this again?” and “What is the point of this?” and then I’d burst out laughing. (I laugh when he gets mad. It’s a coping mechanism.)

I decided I’d share the two best takes with you. And by best I mean the only ones with minimal laughter and just one swear word.

(Apologies for the camera work. I blame’s Scott’s complete lack of interest in sharing his Yorkshire accent with the world. But damnit, I won’t be silenced!)

more about "Wordtime – Take 1 on Vimeo", posted with vodpod

more about "Wordtime – Take 2 on Vimeo", posted with vodpod

Ask and ye shall receive IV

And here we are for another installment of Ask and ye shall receive.  (See Part I, Part II, and Part III)

Wow, you people really want to know about Kate Gosselin’s hair, don’t you? I hope you’re not printing out photos and taking them with you to your next hair appointment. It’s also thrilling to see my own name being searched for as well as Chuck Bass, Edward Cullen and Oscar Mayer. (Anyone looking for them on this blog will be thoroughly disappointed. Anyone looking for me? Here I am, Internet!)

1. Zac Efron coming down stairs

This is a no Zac Efron fly zone. Move along.

2. Dips men love

Dips…how do I love thee? Let me count the ways. I’ll be sharing more recipes with you soon but for now, make yourself your man a vat of this. STAT.

3. Has one had their sofa not fit in one’s door

Yes, one has had that problem and one was prepared to throw a royal tantrum if one could not get their sofa through the door. One would recommend measuring before moving in. If one’s husband decides not to and says it will be fine and it’s not, one believes it’s perfectly acceptable grounds for divorce. (One should expect to get the sofa in the divorce settlement.)

4. Playhouse for my kid

Was there anything better than playing pretend when you were a kid? Sometimes we used boxes as a house but more often than not, we draped blankets over chairs or just simply didn’t put up any roof and just got on with it. But kids these days…they want things. They want those $6000 playhouses. What happened to the old’ “Here’s a cardboard box. Go play” attitude?

If that seems too sensible mean, buy them this eco-friendly cardboard playhouse which they can paint and color on. They’ll love it and you can throw it out when they get bored of it.

Though I suppose you could move into the $6000 playhouse when you can’t make payments on your real house.

5. How to get laid in high school

Why are you looking at me?!

Cheaper than couples therapy

Scott has a famous recipe for salsa, which is pretty much my mom’s recipe for salsa, minus the tomatoes and the addition of cucumber. Scott’s salsa is very easy to whip together but it takes some serious chopping time, especially since he makes truckloads of the salsa at one time.

He is so proud of the salsa that no matter what dinner party I have planned he suggests his salsa. The last time we were visiting my parents, they hosted a party and Scott served his salsa and the three kinds of chillis nearly killed a few unsuspecting guests.

This salsa inspired my sister to give us a gift certificate to the cooking school, CulinAerie, on 14th Street in Washington, DC.  She chose the Knife Know How class since we would both find it useful in our cooking adventures and we went to the class back in January.

Unfortunately on the way to the class, we got in an argument. We were early to the class so we sat for awhile in a Starbucks, still upset with one another.  We walked into the cooking class, not speaking to each other, which was actually ok because for the first hour the instructor is taking you through all the best knives and chopping techniques.

Then it was our turn to work together to debone a whole chicken. I don’t do chicken on the bone so this was a very challenging task for me and not one I really wanted to do while Scott sat back, watching me, judging me. It didn’t take him long to see that I was about to do it all wrong (I’m sorry but I could barely look at that blue-ish chicken skin, nevermind touch the damn thing.)

The truth is I needed Scott and he saw it. He took the knife and came to my rescue just before the instructor arrived at our table to inspect our techniques. At that moment, Scott was my Jack Bauer of the culinary world.

We cut oranges and onions together and Scott cut my portion of carrots. We made a great team. Then it was time to cook the chicken and make a thick creamy mustard sauce. Finally my chance to shine!

I took over the sauce and then we watched the chicken pieces closely, waiting and hoping to get it right. We managed to only burn one piece, which we were able to conceal from the instructor* by quickly flipping it over.

Then it was time to serve up the food and it was delicious. Way more tasty than any chicken I’ve ever made and maybe it had to do with the fact that we made it together and actually had fun doing it. Or maybe it was just because it was covered in creamy goodness.

We ate our entirely homemade meal and left the class with some awesome chopping skills, a great recipe, full bellies and content hearts.

Most people wouldn’t suggest handling knives when you’re fighting with your spouse but for us, it was the perfect way to get over it quickly, have some fun and work together to make something we can both enjoy.

Bottom line: Go to a cooking class. It’s cheaper than therapy and you get to eat and drink your way through it.

* Our instructor, Susan Holt, was great. She was so kind and encouraging and she entertained us all night with stories from her restaurant days.

My kind of post-college spring break

Living abroad, for me, usually means spending a great deal of my vacation time visiting family and friends in the US. I’m fortunate to have parents and sisters who love to travel and get to come over here at least once a year.  However, this year my sisters and I decided to do something a bit different and meet…well, not in the middle, but somewhere new.

There were eight of us in total – two Brits and six Americans.We rented a villa on the Costa del Sol in Spain. It sounds impressive to the Americans but to the Brits, Spain is pretty much their equivalent of Florida and the Costa del Sol is Daytona Beach.

We weren’t really looking for that Spring Break experience so we chose to stay in a new development outside a small, sleepy Spanish village called Torre del Mar. The house was great (minus two Spanish plumbing issues) and we mostly spent the week lounging around the pool, bbq-ing, and laughing. Lots of laughing.

As always, it was really sad to say goodbye to my sisters and cousin but I was so grateful to have had a week with them and we’ve vowed to do it again soon. Only this time we’ll know to use less toilet paper.

Now we’re home and I can already see my tan fading. I’ve had enough chorizo to last me for quite some time but definitely not enough Sangria. Never enough Sangria.

I tried to think of something that would make this post more exciting and it seems giving people shiny photos usually works. But you need a cute baby or kittens sleeping in a basket or something equally awww-worthy. I’ve got nothing.

I attempted to post a video of us playing charades because I think there is nothing more entertaining than being forced to watch other people’s home videos. Lucky for you, our Internet connection is too damn slow and I keep getting frustrated/distracted/hungry/thirsty to persevere. Maybe tomorrow.

——————–

UPDATE: Here is a video of the guys playing charades. They just could not get The Bourne Identity.

So when are you having kids?

I slept terribly on Sunday night. I woke up several times even though I was so very tired after staying out too late and drinking entirely too many cocktails for Scott’s 30th.

I kept having these strange dreams involving a baby crying. The first time I woke up, I sensed that Scott was awake too and we murmured to each other about the baby crying.

But it wasn’t a baby crying at all. It wasn’t a little girl screaming either (thank God, that was terrifying there for a minute). The screeching and whining continued.

We realized there were a couple of foxes just outside our window.

The noise went on for hours. I drifted in and out of sleep and when I did sleep, a baby always showed up in my dreams. It was downright creepy.

Turns out Scott was having similar dreams and we both went to work feeling slightly weirded out. (Why do so many scary movies involve a creepy little girl?)

Anyway, this whole baby-crying-thing got me thinking.

I don’t know if I’ve ever been asked if we’re having kids. People always ask “When are you having kids?” And when I shrug and say “in a few years”, they smile and move on to the next subject.

Recently, when asked, I have said, “I’m not sure if we will.”

And they always look so surprised and sad and full of follow-up questions. I’d like to think it’s because they think we’d be great parents but I think it’s more of a surprise because it’s taboo to say you don’t want children. Everyone wants to be a mother. It’s natural. It’s what we’re here for.

I’m not saying I don’t want to have children. I am just saying I don’t know if we will. This was probably not the best reply to my mother after she asked if Scott wanted a baby for his 30th birthday.

While Scott and I are not always on the same page, we’re usually in the same chapter. I knew Scott didn’t want a baby for his birthday. I knew I wouldn’t be giving him a baby for his birthday if he had wanted one.  See, same book at least.

My mom followed her birthday suggestion with the “when are you having kids?” question. My answer is I don’t know. There are no plans except the “not any time soon” plan.

But that never seems like enough for people because I am constantly met with these:

Don’t you want kids?

I always thought I did. I always pictured them in my future. But the older I get, the more I think I don’t feel that strongly about having them. I might feel differently in a couple of years.

Do you like kids?

Yes, I love them. I have been a camp counselor, a preschool assistant, an art teacher, a baby sitter, a summer nanny. I like being around children. At the risk of sounding incredibly cheesy, I think it’s very magical watching a child play, talk, think, and experience life.

What about that ol’ biological clock? Tick tock.

I’m 26. I’m fine, thanks.

Have you ever felt those maternal feelings starting up?

I can remember one summer when I was babysitting a little boy named Dylan. When Dylan would cry and I would go into his room, I’d see him standing, holding onto the sides of the crib. When Dylan saw me, he’d reach his arms out for me.

Dylan clearly just wanted to get out of bed, but for a few seconds, he wanted me and wanted to be held by me.

I know that if his mom had been there, he would have wanted her more. I think that must be an amazing feeling.

Doesn’t your heart nearly explode when you see children?

That depends. When I see them running wild in our parking garage or when I read “We Need to Talk About Kevin” or when they’re laying in the middle of the aisle at Tesco throwing a tantrum? No.

There are more moments when my heart does almost seize up and explode at the sight of something cute and child-related.  But I never think, “Aww, I wish it were me” or “I want one!”

But…you’re married.

I know it’s easy for people to assume first comes love, then comes marriage, then comes baby in a baby carriage. And certainly for us, we’ve got the first two under our belt but what if having a baby is not the next step?

I don’t want to have a child because it feels like the next thing to do. I don’t want to have a child right now because we’re married. I don’t want to have a child because I think it will help my marriage. These are all reasons other people have told me and while the child has brought so much joy to their lives, I can’t help but think…ugh.

How about getting a dog first?

I know people mean this well but a dog is not a good indicator of how I’d do as a parent. I desperately want a dog but I’m not getting a dog. Why? Let’s just get it all out on the table.

I want to go out for drinks after work. I want to sleep over at my friend’s house if I’m out too late. I want to go away and not worry about where the dog will go. I want, I want, I want. I’m allowed to be like this.

And that’s it – I’m too selfish to be able to give selflessly to something else right now.

Are you scared?

Um, yes! Don’t you know having a baby changes everything? If I have a kid, I want to know it was for the right reasons and because we both wanted the child, not because we felt we should.

I know you shouldn’t take life advice from celebrities but I read an interview with Seal about his marriage to Heidi Klum and while I have never really thought of them as the ultimate marriage model, something he said really struck a chord with me.

He said their children don’t come first. He said his wife is his top priority.

Who knows if they will last but personally, I wonder if there is a greater gift to your child than to give them parents who love each other.

I also know that having a baby changes your relationship, so…yeah, I’m scared. I don’t know too many people who got the balance right.

But if you had a kid, you would have lots to blog about.

What, you don’t like talking about biscuits and Twilight and finding cheeseburgers in your handbag? I’m sorry, Internet. This blog is going to be about me – all me, all the time- for a lot longer.

In the meantime, we’ve got foxes and that is a pretty good simulation of what a baby would be like right now. Nightmares and all.