UQ 1998-2001

we lived in the united queendom (because there hasn't been a king in the kingdom for such a long time!!) for about 3 years when stationed there in the air force. we were dirt poor, being the junior-most ranked people, not only of the us air force members, but the entire base. most of the time we were advised to stay confined to our dinky little base in the middle of sheep farm country because of protests against the americans "spying on the british." we lived 3 miles from the nearest village that had more than a post office, 17 miles from the nearest city with a "mall" of sorts, and 2 hours by flying scotsman to london. all that during the petrol strikes and mad cow to boot. the smell of burning flesh will haunt me to the ends of my days. so my opinion of the country is probably a bit jaded, to say the least.

we acclimated to driving on the other side of the road pretty well, but i could not for the life of me handle a left-handed stick, so we were really glad we brought our american saturn with us. i only drove that, but dh could switch between my car and his mini quite well.

the first few months we lived there, we got to know the area, learned some of the history and many experiences we deemed "quaint" and "new." by the end of our first year, many of those things we called quaint were now small daily annoyances. i didn't like being called "duck" or "hen," and i visibly bristled at being called a "colonist," as the locals were want to do whenever i was seen in my humungous 4-door american sedan, or if i opened my mouth. our bank didn't communicate with other branches except by post...even though they could see we had money in our bank account on their computers, they told us we would have to drive to the bank where we originally opened the account to withdraw funds. i didn't like being expected to fix tea for the repair people who were in my home to - gosh, repair things, not gab! the hot and cold water came out of separate taps, so one couldn't wash the dishes without alternately scalding and freezing one's fingers with each rinse. summer was the last 2 weeks of august...and that was it. i went through a more-than-mild-but-not-severe depression every winter when the sun came up as we walked to school at 9 am and the streetlights came on as we walked home at 3 pm. the cold, wet, damp weather seeped into my bones and settled there that first winter and i never quite warmed up again until we'd fried in the arizona sun for a week or so after our return. and the only snow we received was a paltry dusting, so we couldn't even enjoy any actual "winter."

we found the food to be very bland, even at the finest restaurants, although i fell in love with just desserts and their chutney and cheese sandwiches. they make the only chutney i have ever liked. i've tasted others since, and none hold a candle to the nectar from this little coffeeshop specializing in tea, sandwiches and sweets. the combinations of food offered elsewhere blew our little american minds: tuna and sweetcorn pizza? baked bean pizza? ice-lollies? mr. brain's pork faggots - what?!? steamed spotted dick? (no thanks, i'll have apple pie.) fish served wrapped in newspaper from a truck - and the fish was fried whole, eyes and all! broiled tomatoes and cold baked beans on toast - for breakfast? i went into the kitchen and showed the chef at our hotel how to mix up a box mix of aunt jemima pancakes for breakfast. and i bought our own syrup from the commissary to go with it. he tasted some and found them "delightful."

we got a membership to the national trust to tour the history of the country that has been around for centuries and often found that a castle we had driven 2 hours to see was actually only a pile of old stones and a brown sign that said (site of). too many of those disappointments and we stopped going out in search of castles altogether.

BUT.....

we loved nottingham. we couldn't make the 2 hour drive often, but every time was well-worth the trip. we picnicked in sherwood forest and toured the art exhibits in nottingham castle. i miss biking the fen roads through village after village, over fjords, passing fields of wheat with no other sound than our wheels and the occasional car. i miss our house in the village, when we would wake up to the sounds of the horses in their back pasture in the mornings. i miss the fresh produce at tesco. i miss roundabouts. i miss the quiet. i miss the occasional high tea, sitting down with friends for a cuppa and watching the world slow for an hour, because we were all sitting down having a cuppa. i miss the christmas faire. who knew that toting a stein filled with hot mulled cider (or cocoa for the kiddies) and munching fresh roasted or warm, candied chestnuts during a light snowfall could be so magical?

we attended a fabulous medieval banquet, the likes of which i have not ever seen stateside. we dressed in medieval garb and the table was served by bustier-busting wenches laden with pewter pitchers of mead and ale. we were served soup in bread bowls and no utensils, so we sopped the thick heavy stew up in bites of bread. one person carved the several chickens at the table and we ate with our hands, as traditional medieval diners would. i had to scoot down the bull hotel's back stairs on me arse to the waiting car so i wouldn't fall to my death that night. it was fun - and it wasn't just the mead.

we had a wonderful time in our brief visit to scotland. the staggering beauty of fresh snow on ben nevis every morning was a sight to behold. we stopped for tea every couple of hours up there, just to keep warm! and that was in april!! loch ness surpassed my imagination in scope and beauty. we tried haggis on toast that week, and although i won't eat it again, that decision has more to do with how it's made than how it actually tastes.

we loved visiting our friends in knaresborough, in the yorkshire dales. our friends could actually see that bridge in the website's pic from the end of their street. we went to the fall festival and regularly bought the queen's "pink lady apples" at her winter residence in sandringham. we did actually make it to london on a few occasions. we hung out at the zoo in london and hit the hard rock cafe once, also visiting the sherlock holmes museum on baker street. and stonehenge is breathtaking at sunset. that is not a postcard; i took that shot in january 1999.

but we shallow americans pined for our pizza delivery, 24 hour stores, ATM's on every corner, restaurants without any smoking at all EVER, sun, chocolate chips, and proper cake. (sponge and rolled marzipan just never did it for me.) like i said, we miss some things. we plan, someday, to make england a stop on a tour through europe...for a chutney & cheese at just desserts! it's a great place to visit, but i couldn't live there.

getting ribbed in america

"I just ate the most wonderful meal at the Officer's Club," he began -- in Arabic, of course. The students who didn't understand were scribbling notes and frantically flipping through the dictionary. He was late. He was always late for his right-after-lunch class and we just dealt with it. Those of us who could not afford to eat in the Officer's Club even if we were allowed in, just rolled our eyes and prepared for the story of privilege that was about to unfold. He had the flair for the dramatic, from the sharp angles of his eyebrows, down his regal nose, all the way through to the crinkles at the corners of his mouth. He was known by that smile as easy-going, even if strict. His grammar was better than most in his field, and he was respected by student and colleague alike. He was going bald and he was not fighting it. His comb-over looked more as if it was out of respect, to deflect the light from the students' eyes, rather than trying to hide the pate shining beneath that fading rug.

"The meat, she was falling from the bone. The flavor of the ribs was like nothing I have tasted before. That wonderous smoked meat was so good, and so fabulous, I had called to the, the chef to come to my table and I told to him that he was the best chef in all California."

Bjurstrom glanced up from his paper. "You ate ribs at the Officer's Club today?" he asked, with a strange look in his eyes.

"B'il arabia, min fudlik," insisted Dr. Asfoor, which we all knew by now translated to "in Arabic, please."

"You have eaten the ribs in your lunch at the Officer's Club today?" he managed, struggling with the past tense. He licked his index finger and started thumbing through his dictionary, a smile tugging unprofessionally at the edges of his mouth. Those of us who knew him well, knew something was up. We took our direction, however slight and unspoken, from the former Airborne Ranger designated as our class leader.

"Do you want to know where I ate this fabulous meat?" Dr. Asfoor teased the class into conversation. He drew us in, one by one, including us in the details, teaching us phrases and helping us talk around words and verb conjugations we had not yet learned. That is probably why I loved conversation so much. I loved diving right into the unknown and muddling around learning.

Bjurstrom carefully placed his dictionary in the corner of his desk and arranged his notes, while waiting for a lull in the conversation. "I ate ribs at the Officer's Club today, too," he said as proud as a five-year-old holding his first school painting.

Dr. Asfoor, turned to him with a big smile and asked, "Yes, and what else did you eat? Tell us because we cannot go inside, ya rafiq," he joked.

"I ate a salad and some milk. Milk makes a soldier strong. It was a good meal and my stomach is full. I do enjoy a tasty pig."

Dr. Asfoor broke into peals of laughter. "You are a funny student!" he exclaimed. "I love to hear my students tell jokes to me! I could not eat a pig!! They were beef ribs!" He was laughing so hard he was holding his belly and wiping tears from his eyes. I told you he was drama to the core.

Bjurstrom looked around the room and we could see the smile screaming behind his eyes. He was trying so hard to hold it together and it hit me. Dude. Our Muslim teacher just ate pork ribs. And on a Friday, no less, their holy day. And he liked them. The only thing that could make this worse was if he had somehow managed to eat them with his left hand.

"No, really," Bjurstrom brought out the English. "Those were pork ribs."

The classroom got deathly quiet. "No. You are mistaken. They were the beef ribs. Surely they would not serve pork ribs on this army base." He paused for a moment, and before anyone could take another breath he stated, "I must leave."

And leave he did.

He didn't return until Monday, when we heard from all the teachers about Poor Majid Asfoor getting poisoned sick at the Officer's Club on bad meat. He had to go to the hospital and have his stomach pumped. Our entire class snickered and elbowed every time it was mentioned. We tried explaining how much he liked the ribs and how tasty he thought they were, and the conversation was simply derailed, every time. Dr. Asfoor himself, brought in a new lesson plan altogether and dramatically changed the subject permanently. He even pretended not to understand either Arabic or English when the subject was brought up for the remainder of the YEAR.

I guess there are some things better left unsaid.

crockpot chicken cacciatore

from the crockpot cookbook (we have a 5-qt. model)

1 med onion, thinly sliced
3 lb chicken, cut up
12 oz tomato paste
4oz drained mushrooms (or about 3/4 C fresh)
1 tsp salt
1/2 tsp pepper
2 cloves minced garlic
2 tsp crushed oregano leaves
1/2 tsp basil
1 bay leaf
1/2 C dry white wine
1 lb cooked spaghetti

(NOTE: i added 1 can undrained diced tomatoes and about 1 C thinly sliced yellow zucchini because i like my cacciatore veg-ful)

place onion in bottom of crockpot, with drained mushrooms, drained (reserve juices) tomatoes and zucchini. place chicken atop veggies. combine tomato paste, wine, and spices, adding reserved juices from tomatoes if needed. pour atop meat & veggies. place bay leaves in sauce. cover & cook on low - 8 hours or high - 4 hours. serve atop spaghetti.

alcohol screaming

I remember it like it was yesterday. No blacked-out pieces, no waking up in strange places, no cautious uncertainty....I remember just about every detail. After all: most of them went into the police report. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

July 1997. Sweltering heat of Maryland. Plenty of booze laid in from the Class Six. Jello shooters mixed and frigidated the night before. Good friends re-uniting from several bases on the eastern seaboard at my house. Promises of good food (always, i can't let them down), good music (as dh could never let them down either), good drinks and good laughs, plus the added comedy of three dogs and a baby. Bring on the birthday party already.

We invited neighbors, thereby notifying them that we'd be rowdy for a while. But strangely none of them showed up. We cleaned the house like mad, opening windows, re-arranging furniture for the maximum party atmosphere, and cleared out all the land mines in the back yard. Music cranked, bodies arriving, food being eaten...all signs of a rockin' party. Still no neighbors, even though they said they'd come. Strange bunch of co-street-habitants we live amongst. *shrug* Oh well. Their loss.

Nigh about 10:30, I toddled across the street to ask the friendly beings there if they'd like to join us for my champagne toast. I don't know why. It just seemed like the thing to do at the time. I walked in (their front door was open) to a full-blown screaming match between Navy member wife and paraplegic husband. Drunk and giggling, I still decided to ask them if they wanted to come over. Wife responded with a resounding, "Yes. Anything to get away from him!" Back across the street I shuffled, crystal champagne flute in hand, concentrating on making it ring around the edge as I walked. The shouting match followed behind me. And then I heard the screams.

I lurched around (in my own yard by now) to see husband in his wheelchair with a death-grip on wife's hair trying to twist her head off. Literally. In the middle of the street. Her voice was becoming more strangled-sounding when I burst into my home, snatched up the phone and dialed 911. Other neighbors came out of other homes, separated husband from wife on opposite sides of the street and locked his wheels while we waited on the phone for the 60-120 seconds it took for the base police to arrive.

Navy wife was taken into custody "to cool down" (WHAT?!? The victim gets in trouble? Oh, no, it's the military member who gets in trouble, i see.....not) and husband is sent back into the house, under surveillance for a while. Or something. And then the head police dude comes into my house to take the official report from the person who called. Yup. Drunk Katerooni.

He took a long sweeping gaze at the detritus of a former good time strewn from one end of the room to the other. Don't get me wrong. It didn't look like a crack-house, but every horizontal surface was covered with bottles, glasses, and flutes of varying fullness alongside empty jello shooter cups and paper plates of birthday cake and hors d'oerves.

I wiggled my fingers in response to his stare and giggled, "I'm 21 today. I'd offer you a drink, but I know ya just can't stay. Too bad for you, huh?" He chuckled and smiled and began his report.

"Awe you da miwitawy membow?" he Elmer Fudd-ed. oh. my. god. It was all I could do to not laugh in his face. It didn't seem like a good idea. The room was deathly quiet, and I imagined I could hear the sounds of twenty people biting their tongues until they bled. It was the longest drunk twenty minutes of my life and although I couldn't stop smiling, I never managed to laugh outright at the officer's serious lisp. We all waited a full minute after the car door slammed and had driven away before breaking into thunderous peals of laughter.

And the lesson I learned that night? Not "Don't beat your spouse." I already knew that. Not "Don't invite the neighbors." I'm glad I had intervened and was able to call for help when I did. It was simply "Don't drink so much that you can't fill out a police report with a semi-straight face." And the Kater was careful in her drinking habits ever more.

The End.

broccoli stuffed flounder

modified from the Better Homes & Gardens cookbook, 1999

4 to 6 4-oz fresh or frozen skinless flounder, sole, or other mild fish fillets, about 1/4” thick

1-1/2 C frozen broccoli, thawed & finely chopped

1 beaten egg

12 oz onion & chives flavored soft cream cheese OR

12 oz brick style cream cheese, whipped with dried minced onion & chives added

1/3 C grated parmesan cheese

1 C herb stuffing mix

¼ C milk

¼ C dry white wine

1. Thaw fish; rinse & pat dry with paper towels.

2. Drain broccoli, squeezing out excess liquid. Combine egg, half the cream cheese, and parmesan. Stir in the broccoli & stuffing mix. Spoon stuffing onto wide end of each fillet and roll up, securing with toothpicks as necessary.

3. Place toothpick-side up in a greased glass baking dish. Bake at 350* for 30 to 35 minutes or till fish flakes easily with a fork and stuffing is hot.

4. Meanwhile, cook remaining cream cheese, milk and wine in a small saucepan on med-low heat until heated through, stirring often. DO NOT BOIL. Serve sauce over fish.

Extra sauce is tasty on steamed broccoli. Make more if you want to save some for another meal in the week.

WD-40 and needle nose pliers

in case you haven't heard before, i am pretty independent. my mother was always the hand-wringing waif on the side of the road, waiting for a nice strong man to come change her tire. except that she didn't talk to strangers. so it was usually a long wait until my dad could get off work and come rescue his fair maiden. my father wanted me to be different, and i quote, "no daughter of mine will stand helplessly on the side of the road." before i was allowed to take my driver's test, i had to demonstrate my knowledge of the inner workings of my own car. i had to change a tire and the oil & filter. and that included getting the motha f#%*^% jack back into it's place. i had to know how to check for a bad spark plug and maintain the fluid levels in my car. the only time i called for help was for two busted tie-rods in the middle of a busy intersection in the heat of friday night rush hour. tow truck time.

the "knowledge is power" that my father instilled in me carries on to this day. i've trouble-shooted (is that the proper past tense?) my washing machine, bikes and a ceiling fan, ordered parts online and repaired them myself. and when i get stuck, i have friends to help me figure things out. they are the good ol' google-meister, and my favorite book:

Dare to Repair, A Do-It-Herself Guide to Fixing (Almost) Anything in the Home, by Julie Sussman & Stephanie Glakas-Tenet.

i bought the book the day after we signed a contract with a realtor to start looking for our very own house. with no on-call repair folks included in the monthly mortgage payment, i thought it best to figure out how houses work so to better decide when to call a repair person. i read the book cover-to cover in a couple of days. not necessarily an interesting read, but it was well worth stocking up on the info. i called the rental office and asked for a work order on my bathroom sink to "replace the broken clevis strap on the pop-up stopper." when dude got there, looked under the sink and confirmed my diagnosis, he was 1) shocked that i had known the names of the parts and 2) wanted to know how i'd figured out that was the problem, and not a clogged drain. i beamed.

i've used the book quite a lot in the past 3.5 years, and it isn't just repairs. it also has lots of tips on what maintenance needs to be done when, including cleaning dryer vents, refrigerator maintenance and gutters. the last time i picked it up? just this morning. i've never heard of anyone breaking their key off in a lock before. i remember glancing over that and thinking, "if you're breaking keys in locks, there is a lot more wrong with you than just needing a locksmith." well, *ahem* i tripped coming in the front door this morning and bent my key in half, mostly because apparently i decided that the little key would hold me up. in trying to ease it back out again, it snapped. i swallowed the panic rising in my throat, calmly walked three feet to the bookcase, and pulled out my little book of friends.

page 154 had all the info i needed. if you can see the key sticking out, gently spray the keyhole (around the key, not pushing it further in) with WD-40 (or cooking spray, in a real pinch) and use the needle-nose pliers to gently free the key. and don't fall on the keys again. and if i couldn't see the key? i would have called a locksmith for an estimate, and determined which would cost less: extracting the key professionally or running to home depot and replacing the deadbolt altogether. i've done that before. it's cake.

i've just learned today that the same ladies who wrote my favorite chick-book also have branched out into specialties: plumbing and car repair. since we most often call experts to our house for heating and plumbing issues, i'll be requesting that book really soon. and both of our warranties just expired on our 6+ and 7+ year old cars. barnes & noble, here i come!

mocha shortbread rounds

Sophisticated enough for a grown-up tea party, sweet enough to serve for an afternoon snack. Fantastic dunkers, whether in milk, coffee, tea, or cocoa. They also make great gifts, stacked in a plastic bag and tied with festive ribbon.

1-1/2 C unbleached flour
1/2 C cocoa powder
1/4 tsp salt
1 Tbs instant espresso OR
2Tbs instant coffee
1 C (2 sticks) softened unsalted butter
1C firmly packed brown sugar
1/4 C toasted finely chopped hazelnuts (optional)

1. Sift together dry ingredients. Cream butter and sugar on medium speed until fluffy, 2-3 minutes. Add the dry ingredients and mix just until dough forms...do NOT overmix.

2. Separate dough into two sections. Turn onto wax paper and roll into a 2-inch log shape. Use empty paper towel roll for a guide, if necessary. Repeat with the second section of dough. Roll in toasted chopped hazelnuts to add crunch, if desired. Wrap the dough in wax paper and plastic, place in fridge for 1-2 hours, no more than 24. (Logs can be frozen and will keep for one month.)

3. Preheat oven to 250*. Slice the dough into 1/3-inch thick rounds and place them on parchment paper lined cookie sheet. Bake cookies until they are dry and firm, about 45 minutes; do NOT overbake. Let stand on cookie sheet for 5 minutes before transferring to a wire rack.