Leaving out food for Santa

After watching a commercial advertising food to leave out for Santa Claus on Christmas Eve, I asked Scott what he left for Santa when he was a kid.

“Mince pies and beer.”

“No cookies?” I asked. He knows I mean biscuits. (You know what they say about being married for awhile…you stop making the effort.)

“No!” he balks.

“Hmm…” I say, thoughtfully. I’m thinking about how much I dislike mince pies. But I do like those little apple –

Then he continues, “I swear, Santa must have hated America. Cookies and milk? After a hard day’s graft? What?!”

Shaking his head, he mutters, “Cookies and milk…ha!”

So, readers from all over the world, if you celebrated Christmas…and you did the whole Santa thing…what did you leave for Santa?

This is not my vision

Thanksgiving as an adult isn’t what I imagined it would be.

For starters, I have to work on Thanksgiving. This makes cooking a Thanksgiving dinner very difficult unless you move the celebrations to the weekend or you somehow manage to cook a turkey in less than four hours. I have hosted two Thanksgivings in the UK and my turkey has always taken way longer than expected. Yes, I have a thermometer and yes, I’m following the instructions. It may have something to do with the small ovens and the one oven shelf but it’s Thanksgiving and I’m trying to be thankful here.

I’m also not usually able to go back to the US for Thanksgiving. This will come as a surprise to non-Americans but Christmas is actually bigger than Thanksgiving, not the other way around like you think. (Where did they get this idea?) So I’d rather spend Christmas with my family, though this year my sisters spending Thanksgiving weekend in London. Win-win for me.

Of course Thanksgiving is still something I celebrate even if I can’t be with family. It’s a time when I can gather my friends together and share Thanksgiving with them. Last year I made them wear paper hats. You can do these sorts of things with foreigners.

Thanksgiving abroad is ok but it’s not what I imagined.

I imagined that I’d live a few hours away from my parents and on Thanksgiving morning, I’d load up my hunter green Ford Explorer with brown paper bags of delicious food. In my imagination, I also had matching luggage and Devon Sawa as a husband.

We’d both be in thick sweaters and looking like we just fell out of a J.Crew catalog. We’d drive through the mountains, admiring the fall foilage. We’d be laughing and listening to some undiscovered band’s album that we happened upon. We’d pretty much look like a car commercial.

We’d pull into my parents’ driveway and my dad would come out to greet us as my mom watched from the kitchen window. (Yes, the Christmas movie, The Family Stone, is pretty much my vision, minus the cancer and the siblings swapping partners.)

Living abroad makes this vision very difficult.

I’m trying to be thankful for everything I have this year and there really is so much to be thankful for. But at 5:15 am on Thanksgiving morning, it’s hard not to feel a little bit sad. Unless you’re just up prepping the cinnamon rolls for breakfast. Or the turkey. Never can be too prepared. But certainly not being up for work. No. This just doesn’t fit with my vision at all.

Pumpkin puree in the UK

It’s really Autumn. There’s no denying it.

I love the crunchy leaves, the crisp air, the smell of hot apple cider. I love the excitement of a new school year, new TV season, and new clothes. I love that the Autumn season is filled with fun holidays like Halloween and Thanksgiving.

But Autumn is not the same without pumpkin. I’m talking carving pumpkin and eating all things pumpkin. I’m talking pumpkin patches and pumpkin festivals. To go through Autumn without pumpkin is just tragic.

While pumpkins are getting easier to find in the UK, canned pumpkin puree still hasn’t quite found its way into the hearts and minds of the British. I know this because if it had the supermarkets would be stocking it like crazy. They’re very good at this consumer behavior business.

In the past, I’ve found Libby’s pumpkin puree in the larger Waitrose in South Kensington. This wasn’t surprising since there seem to be more Americans in Kensington than in the whole of England. When I spotted the cans, there were only a few left and they were stuck randomly by the instant soups. I bought them – even the dented cans. I risked paralysis and possibly death for pumpkin pie.

I haven’t been back to that Waitrose in years so I can’t tell you where to find this year’s dented cans. But I’m here to tell you that there is hope for the rest of us. Pumpkin puree does exist outside the M25.

My local Waitrose is on the smaller side and I don’t think Stevenage is particularly bursting with Americans. But there she was, sitting pretty in the tinned fruit section.

You snooze you lose, Libby. There’s a new girl in town.

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.

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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!)

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.

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

Being thankful was so last week

I am having one of those no good, very bad days. I really don’t have them often but when I do….whew.

Everything that could go wrong this morning did. The alarm clock on my T-Mobile G1 is finally working for me so when it went off, I was actually glad to hear it. And then it just kept going and going. I couldn’t stop it. Then the screen went dark and I couldn’t get it to turn back on. I tried the old “shut down and reboot” method but the phone wouldn’t shut down. I stuffed it under the pillows in an attempt to muffle the alarm and got on with getting ready.

I finally got the phone to turn off as I was walking out the door. I went down the lift and out the door and realized I forgot my umbrella. Back up the lift, grab my umbrella, go back down the lift. On the first floor it stops. A guy gets on and presses second floor. I tell him the lift is going down. He presses the second floor again and the lift stops. We’re between floors. The guy starts hitting all the buttons. This is what all humans seem programmed to do and this is something I would have done but I know this lift. And it’s absolute crap and pushing too many buttons totally confuses it.

I thought my luck was turning around when I heard someone else call for the lift. It jerked the lift back into service and I only had to go up to the fourth floor before I could get off at the ground level.

Normally when it’s raining, Scott gives me a ride to the station but since he was away with work, I had to walk. My umbrella flipped inside out (even though it said “non-flip-outable” or something like that on the packaging) no less than ten times before I just gave up and walked the rest of the way without it.

I missed my train and had to get the slow one but thought, hey, this means I can watch a whole episode of Gossip Girl before work. As I settled into my seat, I turned on my ipod, selected my episode, and then watched as Serena’s face froze on my ipod. Then it went black. I was thisclose to smashing my ipod against the window and crying, Noooo…not Gossip Girl. Don’t take this away from me today!

Somehow I made it to Kings Cross after nearly 45 minutes of nothing but watching the woman across from me paint her nails.

I stood outside the station, waiting for my bus. Every bus that came by was packed. Typical. Finally I saw a bus with space pulling over to the station and just as I was walking towards it, another bus sped past and sprayed a huge puddle all over my legs. Of course everyone was looking at me, thinking, ooooh, she didn’t want to stand that close to the street, did she? So I just pretended like I didn’t even feel the cold water seeping through my socks and I didn’t care that my jeans were now splattered with mud.

It’s a miracle I wasn’t hit by a bus. There’s still time, I suppose.

In the meantime, I’ll share some photos from our Thanksgiving on Saturday. I was very thankful that day.

I was thankful that the extra oven rack I ordered arrived in time and we were able to fit the turkey in there.

I was thankful that we managed to cook all of this without setting off the smoke and heat alarms (but that was because we put pieces of tape over the censors. And yes, we took them off when we were done baking.)

I was thankful for friends who helped me celebrate (and didn’t mind wearing paper hats.)

I was thankful for our new flat. We could actually play Wii games without having to straddle the coffee table.

I was most thankful no one spilled anything on my new chair even if it meant Neil, the most accident-prone man on earth, had to drink out of a sippy cup.

Oh, look, the sun has come out.

That means my chances of getting shat on by a bird have just gone up.

Stupidity Tax: 100 euros

We were in Barcelona this past weekend celebrating a friend’s 30th birthday. We had been to Barcelona before so it was nice to just chill out this time – drinking sangria, eating tapas, browsing the markets, and hanging out with friends.

The chilling out stopped abruptly at 9:04pm on Sunday evening when we realized we were not on a train to the airport. Instead, we were on a train heading down the coast of Spain.

There were several red flags – like the fact that we were on a cushy, high speed train and that maps of  the whole of Spain were where maps of Barcelona would be – but you know what they say about hindsight.

When the ticket collector asked for our tickets, you could see the irritation in his face when he said we were not on the right train and not only were we going entirely the wrong direction, we also wouldn’t be stopping for another 45 minutes.

We couldn’t do anything except sit there and watch as Barcelona, and the airport, got further and further away. When the train finally stopped, we ran out of the station to find a taxi. We had just under an hour to get to the airport before our flight left and even then we probably would not make the flight.

Luckily Scott speaks Spanish so he was able to explain that we had taken the wrong train and needed to get to the airport as soon as possible. The taxi driver wouldn’t make any promises but we decided it was our only option. We waved goodbye to our friends who would be waiting for the next train back into the city as they did not have a flight to catch.

My stomach was in knots at the thought of missing the last flight of the night, having to sleep in the airport and paying for new flights on Easyjet. When I’m in these situations (and this sort of thing has happened before) I like to just sit there, in silence, praying and hoping and wishing that it all turns out ok.

Scott likes to talk. It’s probably the only time he likes to talk. He likes to give me a running commentary on what time it is, how long we have to go, how expensive the taxi will be, where we’ll go if we don’t make the flight, etc. Every two minutes he would tell me the time and say, “We’re never going to make it.”

Needless to say, it was a long drive where I had to hold myself back from strangling Scott in the backseat. After all, I needed him to communicate with the driver.

Of course, when we arrived at the airport, we didn’t have any cash and Scott went sprinting all over the airport looking for a cash machine. I watched him go back and forth behind the glass windows. The taxi driver made judgmental clicking noises with his tongue and asked, “London?”

I replied, “Yeah, if we make the flight!” But the taxi driver had exhausted his English with just the one word and could only give me confusing looks.

Scott returned, paid the taxi driver, and we ran to departures. Only to look up at the departures screen and see that our flight had been delayed for over two hours. We stood there, panting and laughing and then cursing our luck. If only we had known before risking our lives in a crazy taxi ride and forking over 100 euros!

We agreed that it could have been much worse and settled for paying the stupidity tax and vowing to always allow extra time to get to the airport. Oh, and to double-check what train we’re on.

We finally got to sleep around 4am and I was up for work at 6am. It was rough but worth it.

We stayed in Barcelo Raval hotel – it was awesome and it’s only been open for a month. I definitely recommend it.

I loved all the window coverings in Barcelona.

We had beautiful, warm, sunny weather in Barcelona. Now we’re back to London where tonight it will be colder than Iceland and Moscow. It even snowed.

Nothing says freedom like funfetti

This week I got a bad case of laryngitis. I could barely speak and I felt awful. Though I’m feeling a lot better now, my voice is hoarse and at any given moment, my voice gives out. I have never really lost my voice before this. I’m a talker and not being able to talk has been horrible.

It’s my worst nightmare.

It’s Scott’s dream come true.

I was determined to feel better by the end of the week. Not just because it’s my brother-in-law’s wedding this weekend but also because it’s the 4th of July.

This year I won’t be attending a BBQ or watching any fireworks. But I really wish I was. When you’ve been here for awhile, you start to really miss the hokiness of American holidays.

So, what do you do? You bring the hokiness over. And it comes in all forms – usually lovingly provided by my mother.

To celebrate the United States declaring independence from Britain, I made special patriotic cupcakes and chocolate chip cookies for my (mostly British) coworkers today.

I do realize the festivities are a day early but I won’t be in the office tomorrow. It is Independence Day after all.

Happy Belated Valentine’s Day

Valentine’s Day is not a huge occasion for us. Although we have been together for several years, we have only spent two Valentine’s Days physically together – this year and last year. Gotta love long distance relationships!

Although the day may be classified as a “Hallmark Holiday,” I still like to celebrate it. We’re not into the overpriced menus or the two hour max table bookings but we still like the opportunity to give each other a little something, even just a card. We also exchange Valentine’s Day cards in my family. It’s a nice little pick-me-up.

This week is always a tough one on Scott since it’s my birthday, his mom’s birthday and Valentine’s Day all in a 4 day period. And while I’m sure he wouldn’t mind doing something more for Valentine’s Day, I think he appreciates the simplicity of it.

I made it even easier this year when I announced that I didn’t want any flowers. And I meant it. Seriously. Sure, they are beautiful and it’s always so nice to receive them but with my sister living with us and an almost guarantee that she’d be receiving flowers from her boyfriend, I decided Scott should save his money and we could all enjoy Lisa’s.  Good plan, huh? My decision might also have something to do with the fact that we only have one big vase.

Anyway, about two days before Valentine’s Day, Scott came home from work and looked almost panic-stricken. He asked what we wanted to do for Valentine’s Day. I said that I was fine just staying home, ordering take out and watching a movie. He paced back and forth and then came back into the kitchen where I was making dinner. He said, “The thing is, I really believed you when you said you didn’t want flowers this year. So I didn’t order any and I also didn’t make any reservations because you said you didn’t want to go anywhere. I genuinely believed you.”

I replied, “Yeah, I was being truthful. I don’t mind this year.”

“Ok, I just don’t want this to be one of those women things where they tell you one thing but really mean another. And then on Valentine’s Day, you’ll be upset because I really didn’t get you flowers.”

Poor guy.  I then had to explain that this wasn’t one of those “women things” and everything would be ok.  And it will be. I don’t need flowers or fancy dinner reservations (every year). I care so much more about a handwritten message in a card. (Scott has had to learn that even if he scours the card shop for the most perfect message, I’m not going to be happy until he writes his own. If this is another “woman thing” so be it.)

So this year I decided that I would do something for him instead. Something he would enjoy and feel touched by. Something that says, “I think you’re great and I love you.” Something edible of course.

I was nervous that I would lose the “S” when I started frosting it so I took some photos of the bare naked strawberry cake…then photos of it semi-frosted. I stopped there. I got too scared to mess it up.

Before you go thinking I’m the cake baker extraordinaire, let me just say that I used a Superman mold for this. I’m good, but not that good.

Birthdays are the best

It’s that time of year again and this year my parents remembered.

The weather is beautiful here in England today. It’s a perfect day to have a birthday when normally February days are dreary and cold. It’s also the perfect day to have a baby – fingers crossed for Andrea!

In honour of aging, watch this: