Here, I’ve found, if you ask for a little bit of wine at the dinner table, the server will literally give you two drops worth of liquid. If you ask for a big portion of fries, they will stare blankly at you until you point at what you mean or say “chips”, after which they will give you a plate full of fries with no room for anything else, such as vegetables or something not fried. And if a British friend asks you what you want to drink at a bar, be sure not to ask for a pint of whatever he’s having, because if he’s on hard liquor, he will bring you back a pint of Zubrowka vodka. Literally.

So, faced with the task of coming up with a fusion dish, I put on the only piece of clothing I own that is somewhat representative of England (a sweatshirt of Mickey Mouse waving a British flag) and started thinking like a British person.

Step 1: My, what pleasant weather we have today.

Step 2: Ooh! A fusion dish. What an idea. Revolutionary, I might daresay.

Step 3: I must fetch my brollie — it looks like it might rain.

Step 4: Oh dear. You mean I must mix ideas from one culinary tradition with another? That seems imprudent.

Step 5: I really dislike change.

Step 6: Did you know that the local pub down the street is older than America itself? Hah! Those silly Americans with their inchoate ideas…when will they stop?

Step 7: I mean, really, if I must mash up British food with another kind, then I should probably just add mash to whatever else it is I want to make since we Brits love mash in everything.

Step 8: Where’s my tea? I think I’m going to step outside and have a fag. [That's British for cigarette.]

Seriously, though — mash with beans, mash with sausages, mash with chili con carne, mash with curry, mash by itself, mash for breakfast, lunch and dinner: mash is definitely a British thing. And I confirmed that fact with my classmate and dear friend, Dominic John Stockbridge.

He’s a real British person from Hitchin, a town about an hour north of London, and it’s his verbal instructions for mash that I’ve included below.

As for the main part of my literal, two-part fusion dish, I’ve made kimchi jigae, a traditional Korean spicy soup that my mom told me was the easiest thing to make in the roster of Korean food (and thus the one I would be least likely to screw up). Grocery shopping for this dish took over a week while I searched around Oxford for various “Asian” bits and bobs that, for some reason, are not allowed to be in stock at the same moment in time.

My favorite part of the cooking process was standing over the stove while the kimchi jigae was simmering. Steam wafted out of the pot, allowing me to bask in the hybrid smell of kimchi, jalapeno pepper bits and ginger, an acrid and spicy combination that signaled nothing but comfort to me and my watering eyes (if only because Oxford plays host to exactly zero Korean restaurants of its own). If I had done all of the required reading for my freshman year literature course, this is where I would make an erudite reference to Proust and how he intimately describes the eating of a madeleine to illustrate the power of taste to evoke memory. But since I didn’t read that book in its entirety, I’ll refrain.

Cook away! (Click here for the recipes.) And hopefully you too will come to appreciate the versatility of mash as an acceptable side dish for anything. Literally.

———-

Peruse more Let’s Lunch holiday offerings below; if you’d like to join, Tweet a message with the hashtag #Letslunch — or submit a comment on any of the posts below!

Anastasia‘s Miso Salmon with Mango Salsa at In Foodie Fashion

Cathy‘s Bacon-Studded Polenta With Tomato Gravy at ShowFood Chef

Charissa‘s Gluten-Free Azuki Bean Bundt Cake at Zest Bakery

Cheryl‘s Goan Pork Curry Tacos at Cheryl Lu-Lien Tan

Eleanor‘s Wok Picadillo at Wok Star

Ellise‘s Salty Lime Sablés (Margarita Cookies) at Cowgirl Chef

Emma‘s Kimchi Bulgogi Nachos at Dreaming of Pots And Pans

Felicia‘s Mexican-Lebanese Hummus at Burnt-Out Baker

Grace‘s Taiwanese Fried Chicken at HapaMama

Jill‘s Southern Pimento-Stuffed Knishes at Eating My Words

Joe‘s Grilled KimCheese Sandwich at Joe Yonan

Juliana‘s Fusion Chicken Casserole at Food, Fun & Life

Karen‘s Ukrainian-German Cabbage Rolls at GeoFooding

Leigh‘s Venezuelan-Italian Cachapas Con Queso at Leigh Nannini

Linda‘s Project Runway Pelau: Rice & Beans Trinidad-Style at Spicebox Travels

Linda‘s Edible Salad Totes at Free Range Cookies

Lisa‘s Sunday Night Jewish-Chinese Brisket at Monday Morning Cooking Club

Lucy‘s Coconut Rice Pudding with Mango at A Cook And Her Books

Maria‘s Spanish Shrimp with Bacon, Cheddar & Chive Grits at Maria’s Good Things

Nancie‘s Chili-Cheese Biscuits with Avocado Butter at Nancie McDermott

Patricia‘s Buttery Tofu, Pasta & Peas at The Asian Grandmother’s Cookbook

Rashda‘s Mango Cobbler at Hot Curries & Cold Beer

Renee‘s Asian-Spiced Quick Pickles at My Kitchen And I

Steff‘s Chicken Fried Steak at The Kitchen Trials

Vivian‘s Funky Fusion Linguini at Vivian Pei

No problem, the mini-multi-tasker voice inside my head told me, just eat while you’re there. Multi-task!

Logical enough. And so I bought a sandwich, hopped back on my bike and, just outside Exeter College, dismounted and found my way to the 152-year-old chapel.

With my first step inside, I rammed into a wall of gargantuan, all-encompassing sound. And then, along either side of my straight line of vision to the altar, I encountered a disturbing, zombie apocalypse-esque scene: men, women and children of all ages, from toddlers with the remnants of sugar smeared around their mouths to grandparents with snow-white heads of hair, were sitting in the individual stall seats, their limbs motionless and eyes closed or gently fluttering. The organ music, despite having started only a few minutes prior, had already insinuated its way into everyone’s brain and calmed down their bodies, creating a space protected from the constant commotion and chatter of modern life.

NB: The only signs of movement came from the flannel-shirted architecture students, who occasionally aroused from their serene slumbers to sketch the sacred space around them on oversized notepads.

As I moved farther into the marble-floored space, its vaulted ceilings flying over my head and the golden light of early afternoon twinkling in through the towering, stained glass windows, I became more and more aware of every sound emanating from my person: my slightly-winded breathing, the rustle of my backpack, the impact of my boots on the floor and even the sound of my hair rustling inside my winter hat.

Then, as I sat down in one of the pews and began to contemplate eating my mozzarella, artichoke and pesto sandwich (on lightly toasted wheat bread with a vast array of other chunky, crunchy vegetables), I realized my dilemma: there was no way I would be able to unzip my backpack to get at my sandwich — let alone munch on its ingredients — without awakening the entire chapel and arousing the wrath of Oxford University’s Organ Recital Etiquette Patrol Guards (OUOREPG). Fortunately, after a few minutes when the organ music had fully enveloped my body, I too was entranced and forgot about all of my hunger urges. It was only three quarters of an hour later, when I emerged from the chapel refreshed and a bit disoriented, that my hunger settled back into my stomach.

And so, after careful consideration, the food most tied up with music in my mind is that which one can eat discretely without causing any auxiliary noises or earning the snooty, suspicious glances of one’s audience neighbors.

That’s a tall order for food to fill. The above criteria rule out foods that are responsible for several gerunds often associated with eating: slurping, crunchy chewing, munching, grinding, or any other audible form of mastication.

Besides candies like mints or chocolates, what does that leave?

I asked some of my friends this question, and they came up with a variety of (ultimately unsuccessful or ambiguous) ideas for what might qualify as a silent, discreet food:

1. Scotch eggs (my Liverpool friend’s suggestion; Sonia ruled this out due to the pungent smell that would be just as distracting as any noise);
2. Salads (if it’s a fresh one, the crisp greens will probably elicit an audible noise when you munch on them);
3. Noodles (slurping, obviously);
4. Banoffee pie (I don’t know what that is, it must be a British thing);
5. Jaffa Cakes (same as #4 above).

The most promising candidates were:

1. Mashed potatoes;
2. Banana in any of its forms – just a banana, mushy banana bits (à la baby food style), banana bread, banana pudding;
3. Gobstoppers.

Ultimately, however, I decided on doughnut holes. These bite-sized, melt-in-your-mouth morsels are perfect for the surreptitious eater trying to sneak in a few more calories while enjoying a culturally significant musical event. And best of all, they’re covered in sugar, which means you’ll get that extra energy burst to push you through the last bit of the concert, recital or performance you’re sitting through, in case it ends up being a drag.

The recipe and pictures are forthcoming; I have a paper due tonight that I have to finish first!

UPDATE: Here‘s the recipe; I cobbled the concoction together as a hybrid from various doughnut recipes I’ve come across. The version I’ve created makes for light and fluffy, melt-in-your-mouth doughnut holes, and it relies on cooked-down apple cider for unexpectedly intense flavoring.

This post is from my writing for #LetsLunch, a group of writers and food enthusiasts from around the world. Every month, we decide on a category of food, devise a recipe to make and then tell a story about our culinary adventures.

You can check out more Let’s Lunchers’ music and food offerings by searching for the hashtag #LetsLunch on Twitter. If you’d like to join the group, submit a comment on this post!

Their annual fundraising concert at Oxford’s New Theatre is coming up on February 27-29, and Out of the Blue will be performing then as well! You can look up tickets here, if you’re around and want to stop by.

I’ve only suffered through one major tragedy in my life: the loss of a close friend due to a sudden accident just weeks before the day of our university graduation. Some days, I’m grateful that I’ve only had to experience something like that once, but most days, I still ask myself the same, eternal questions: Why Michele? Why then? Why ever? I didn’t realize it at the time, but what helped me the most in coping through it was the community of friends that banded together to support one another: everyday, we would sit together in someone’s living room, eating, listening to music, doing homework or just being together in one another’s presence. That space and sense of community was something precious and invaluable – and that’s exactly what Helen and Douglas House creates and celebrates. It is a place of being together, of mutual support and love expressed in ways explicit and inexplicit: a silent embrace, a gentle cuddle, a smile or a home-cooked meal alongside new and old friends.

If there’s anything I’ve learned over my twenty-two years of life, it’s that we all depend on those around us for the warmth of affirmation and encouragement to get through the trials of life. As a student, it’s easy to be overwhelmed by the looming threat of papers and exams – not to mention the amped-up pressure to “be successful” added on by society – and at the worst of times, I wouldn’t know what I would do without the friends, family and mentors I am lucky enough to have in my life.

For parents with children suffering from long-term, life-shortening illnesses, those pressures and challenges are immeasurably intensified, and I’m sure many would agree in saying that they would not know what to do without the emotional and physical backing that the carers and staff at Helen and Douglas House provide. Both houses — one for children, and another for young adults — overflow with a sense of wonderful affection; even just walking through the vestibule of Helen House, I felt something magical in how the hospice felt like a home, and not like an institution. Having the chance to sing a few songs for its current guests was an honor, for I have never seen joy and happiness expressed in so many different, touching ways.

That’s a memory that, as a performer and as a human being, I will carry with me forever. It’s not often that we find the time or the energy to step out of our lives and experience what it is like for others, but visiting the hospice houses helped me to do just that. It also helped me realize that we have all, at many points in our lives, simply needed someone to lean on for a bit. In my own small way, I hope to be a part of that support for those who rely on Helen and Douglas House, even if it’s just by singing a few songs and sharing in the joy of life.

Happy New Year!

Anyway, the blokes at that car rental place clearly think too highly of Americans: although I’ve been driving since I was sixteen, I’ve only manned a manual car twice. And both times I managed to get the car to produce a mysterious, smokey smell from the hood. Being the responsible person that I am, I tried to communicate these potentially important details to Laurie via a series of hand signals, eyebrow raises and high-pitched, low-volume squeals, but he didn’t seem to pick up on my distress.

Before I knew it, I was in the driver’s seat, with a pair of keys in one hand and my iPhone in the other as I quickly tried to Google “How to drive a real car in England” before actually having to drive a real car in England. Orange’s 3G network failed me once again, and as my phone screen froze, I decided to commit to a new kind of driving experience: the lurchy, you-clearly-are-an-incompetent-driver kind.

Over the course of the next 30 yards and 15 minutes (i.e. leaving the tiny parking lot and turning left onto a narrow side street), I managed to stall the vehicle at least four six okay probably seven times and also cause a traffic jam involving one small sedan, one large SUV and an even larger construction vehicle/tractor/truck thing. It was very intimidating and I started sweating under my armpits a bit.

After some more lurching and hybrid scoffs of awe and disdain from Laurie, I managed to get the car into a parking spot.

“Oh, life,” I signed after turning the ignition off. (Don’t worry you guys, Laurie remembered to engage the parking brake on my behalf.)

Fortunately, Callum is an amazing driver and I got to be in the car with him for the rest of tour. One time on the motorway, I got to change the gear while he engaged the clutch! It was the most grown up and capable I felt on tour — although the fact that I occasionally still have nightmares about clutch control and roundabouts probably means I’m still not ready to drive on English territory.

Oh well.

Day 5: England has funky street names — perhaps some of the most creative in the world. I get a kick out of imagining what conversations between American teenagers would sound like if we had streets named the British way.

Bro I: ”Hey bro, you wanna meet up at Slingsby Place later on? I hear there’s an awesome frat party going on there at 8.”

Bro II: ”Yeah, sure — I’ll call you when I’m around there. That’s close to Cackle Street, right?”

Bro I: ”Naw, it’s closer to Warning Tongue Lane. Sweet, dude, see you soon.”

[Later, around 8 p.m.]

Bro I: ”Yo Jackie boy, where you at? I’m about to go in.”

Bro II: ”Aww I’m still on Solly Street, I’ll be over in a bit! Am super-pumped to see you though. Woot!”

etc. etc.

Day 8: An aspect of British architecture that I learned about on tour was that not all bathrooms have toilets; some just have a shower and a sink, and the faucets will often have separate hot and cold water spouts.

One time while we were staying at Chris’ house, I really, really needed to use the toilet, and I congratulated myself on finding a bathroom-esque room without asking anyone for directions. I found the light switch tug-string thing, locked the door and turned around to investigate the toilet situation. And then I saw that there was no toilet. Ack!

Then I told my bladder to calm down and think about the situation. Of course British people wouldn’t purposefully construct functionally ambiguous rooms just to confuse unsuspecting Americans. So in a spurt of irrational daydreaming on my part, I started formulating a theory of how it just must be a ‘thing’ in England for the showers to be multi-purpose, i.e. British folk were being sustainable human beings by consolidating the toilet and shower into one. And then I came to and — fortunately for everyone — refrained from relieving myself in the shower.

Before leaving the “bathroom,” I felt I should wash my hands, just out of habit. And so I did. That’s when I learned that getting lukewarm water to come out of the faucet is particularly challenging when the faucets are separated into hot and cold water spouts. So I took my one-frigid hand, one-scalded hand with me and left the non-bathroom-that-looks-like-a-bathroom to ask Chris’s mom for directions to the nearest bathroom-bathroom. Whew.

Day 9: A one scene play.

The setting: One evening after a long day of gigs.

The cast: Anonymous, Domhnall and Chris.

Scene

Anonymous: “Hey, has anyone seen my jacket?

[a pregnant pause; no one has seen the jacket, apparently.]

Anonymous: “Domhnall, did you eat it?”

Domhnall Talbot: (defensively) “I didn’t eat it.”

Christopher Bland: “Domhnall, if it’s a thing, it’s likely you ate it.”

End scene / play

Addendum:

Domhnall's natural habitat.

Day 11: If there’s one thing I realized while hiking in Sheffield, it was that really simple sentences perfectly suit describing nature.

Look at the golden light of the sun on the tops of those trees. The wind is pushing waves of snow over in our direction. The brown and red glint of the earth and rocks makes the landscape look like Mars. The sun is shrinking away. The cold bite of the wind is oddly comforting.

And then there was Dom’s conquest of the world…I think this is one of the coolest pictures from tour (that cross-like fixture on top of the rocks is none other than Dom himself!):

Dom surveying the land and looking out over his minions.

Now it’s time to get ready for our U.S. tour this spring…California, here we come! (And I will be perfectly capable of driving cars in that state, thank you very much.)

 

 

Here’s the third of a monthly series of columns I’ll be writing from abroad, as originally published in my hometown paper, the Barrington Courier-Review.

Romantic Friday dinners were my favorite in college: at the end of each school week, one of the dining halls on campus would dim the overhead lights, put out dozens of tea candles and hire a pianist to play some generic, swoozy-jazzy tunes while we munched on Ginger-Scallion Stir-Fried Chicken and Apple Tofu Crisp. The weekly event took place in the dining hall that also had the infamous “Awkward Tables,” which were unusually narrow and had seating for at most two people to squish together side-by-side. They were perfect for situations when you didn’t want anyone else to join you, and also for when you wanted to minimize direct eye contact with whomever you were eating. In other words, it was the ideal setting for breaking up with a significant other, confronting a suitemate about their flatulence or talking about touchy-feely things in general — especially on Fridays, when the background music and candlelit glow would have a general soothing effect and help smooth over any ruffled feathers.

The thing is, I never questioned until now why “being emotional” qualified as an activity that best took place surreptitiously at one of the Awkward Tables; it was just a fact that most seemed to accept. (I think part of it’s because our collective societal machoness tells us that talking about feelings is inherently superfluous.) Looking back on my four years as an undergraduate, I realize that the majority of my time spent eating candlelit dinners at an Awkward Table involved me acting as a sounding board for my friends’ concerns; it was rarer for me to open up, if only because I thought I was better at listening than at putting forth my own worries in a coherent way.

Moving to England has flipped my world upside-down: being in a foreign country with foreign food, words and toilet paper has made for countless instances when I’m flabbergasted, scared or frustrated and just need someone to talk to. The friends and sense of community I’ve found at Oxford have supported me in those crucial moments — and they’ve also helped me realize just how universal the “awkward stigma” attached to emotions is. One of the many trans-Atlantic cultural stereotypes portrays Brits as notoriously guarded about their feelings, preferring instead to talk about yesterday’s weather, today’s weather and the forecast for tomorrow’s weather. Americans, however, are superficially friendly and overly open on the first encounter, especially in booze-and-schmooze scenarios where the wine and gossip abound and no one will remember anyone’s name the next morning.

These notions are, of course, stylized representations of diverse cultures. Even so, both tactics — which folks on either side of the Atlantic resort to — operate as different ways to avoid reaching the touchy-feely, emotional stage of human relationships that makes life worthwhile. Ultimately, it doesn’t matter what this year’s winter is shaping up to be like or what the secret ingredient in Janie’s garlic hummus is; what does matter is the depth of human connections you have forged and the experiences you have shared with those in your life.

As an international student at Oxford, my default cop-out to diffuse an uncomfortable situation (and sidestep the tangle of misunderstandings that usually results from a lost-in-translation moment) has been to laugh a little bit too loudly and declare, “Welp, I’m American, whoops!”, as if culture by itself is an all-purpose excuse. After four months abroad, I’ve learned that culture isn’t a Get Out of Jail Free card. If anything, it makes ever clearer the need for forthright, honest communication, a task that requires a good dose of bravery and a bit of skill in being assertive, especially when feelings are involved. That’s no easy task, but there’s no easy way to unsnarl the tricky interpersonal affairs of everyday life. For my New Year’s resolution, then,  I plan to start moving away from the “Awkward Table” mentality toward a “I Have Feelings And I’m Going To Talk To You About Them!” outlook. That, and I’m going to eat more vegetables.

2012, here we come!

Tickling can be an effective prelude to a heartfelt conversation.

There are three major signs as to whether or not you are living the student life: First, you repair broken plastic hangers with duct tape rather than spend the 99 cents required to buy a new five-pack. Second, the number of times you (don’t) do laundry every semester appalls your mother. Third, you spend most of your waking hours in the same baggy sweater and pair of pajama pants, especially around final exam time. Given these habits, it’s not surprising that most students are notoriously bad at the art of seduction: although we might procrastinate from work by strategizing about how to woo that potential significant other, our grandiose plans often fail, since most people are unimpressed by the clutter of repaired hangers and dirty laundry that epitomize students’ lifestyles.

Even so, in the highly unlikely case that someone out there in the world is strategizing about how to seduce me, I figured it would be helpful to provide step-by-step instructions on how best to do so. To start, I want to make clear that it will take a lot more than an overabundance of papers, books and soiled clothes littered on the floor to faze me. Moreover, I tend to look fondly upon those who share my passion for consuming greasy, salty or otherwise preserved snack foods during stressful times; I have a special spot in my heart for Easy Mac and buffalo chicken pizza as go-to late-night snacks. Beyond that, seducing me is a fairly straightforward process.

Rule #1: Successful seduction strategies will involve food.

Addendum to Rule #1: The food used in the seduction process should taste good.

For those still hankering to try and seduce me but stumbling about for food ideas, I’ll help you one step more: make this and present it to me alongside a nice, cold pint of creamy ale. The recipe is for a homemade Big Mac, along with the Special Sauce.

For most, the double patty monstrosity is a symbol of Americana, grease and unhealthy self-indulgence in moments of weakness. But for me, the burger exerts a seductive, nostalgic hold because it epitomizes the spur-of-the-moment jaunts to fast food joints that were a staple of my life growing up in the States. (Full disclosure: I never was a big fan of the Whopper.) Now that I’m living on an island that is a several-hours-long flight from home (a.k.a. England), I’ve found that I miss the spontaneous, childish, hilarious and unpredictable fast food stops I would make with my college a cappella group while road tripping and touring through the South. Waffle House was the typical all-purpose stop for breakfast, lunch and dinner, as they proved to be good venues for impromptu concerts where we could serenade the other guests while waiting for our All-Star Breakfasts to be served up.

Sports and fast food have also long been tied together in my mind. The high school tennis team had an unusually large number of Taco Bell fans, and so we’d often drive on over after a long day of hitting forehand drives and chasing lobs to refuel on 7-layer Burritos and Nachos Supreme. (Conversations I had during those Taco Bell runs were also how I kept up with the latest high school gossip.) Another time in college, I went on a run with a friend, not because I’m a runner, but because I just needed to get away from the books. We ran a mile or so to the nearest McDonald’s, shared a Big Mac meal and then ran back to campus. It might not have qualified as calorie-burning exercise in the end, but it certainly qualified as a study break.

What I miss most are the late-night milkshake runs I would make with my sister, when she was barely old enough to drive and I was young and whiny enough to incessantly beg for some form of ice cream. We’d usually hit up the 24-hour Steak ‘n Shake to get a large chocolate-vanilla-something-or-other malt and an order of skinny fries. Then we’d gorge on them, together – and I’m convinced that those experiences were how I learned the importance of sharing as a young child.

Here at Oxford, I live far enough from the city center such that every trip to a pub, fast food joint or grocery store requires at least a ten minute, high-speed bike ride that leaves me a little bit sweatier, smellier and more discombobulated than before – all of which overrides the fast food mood and makes me just want to go back home and shower. The fact that there are tens of thousands of students spread out over 38 residential colleges also makes the intimate fast food run all the more unlikely to happen spontaneously.

NB: At this point in the story, my British friends would say to me, “Patrick, stop being so whingey.” [adjective (British informal): to whine (all the time)]

So when you try and seduce me with a Big Mac made from scratch, the dreamy haze that rolls into my eyes will most likely have little to do with you. Instead, I’ll be reminiscing about the good old days when I didn’t have to commit to a labor-intensive bike ride to indulge my greasy desire for cheap food. Call me silly or parochial, but I think that the gleeful experience of the local fast food expedition crucially contributed to my Americanness, for better or for worse. Probably for the worse. But then again, that’s why we pay for healthcare, right?

Testing out the seductive powers of the Big Mac on some friends at Oxford.

This post is from my writing for #LetsLunch, a group of writers and food enthusiasts from around the world. Every month, we decide on a category of food, devise a recipe to make and then tell a story about our culinary adventures.

You can check out more Let’s Lunchers’ seduction food offerings at the links below. If you’d like to join Let’s Lunch, go to Twitter and write a message with the hashtag #Letslunch — or submit a comment on this post.

Cathy‘s Roasted Pepper Jelly at Showfood Chef

Emma‘s Creamy Carbonara at Dreaming of Pots and Pans

Grace‘s Pasta Puttanesca at HapaMama

Joe‘s Overnight-Marinated Swordfish Stew at Joe Yonan

Linda‘s West African Groundnut Stew at Spicebox Travels

Leigh‘s Apple Cider Donuts at His With Hers

Rashda‘s Spicy Seafood Soup at Hot Curries & Cold Beer

Steff‘s Flirty Italian Snack at The Kitchen Trials

———-

I started having trouble sleeping a few weeks ago. I don’t know if it’s late-onset jetlag or something in the water here, but my dreams have been super-vivid, my back and legs ache in the mornings and most times, I wake up expecting to be able to fly or thinking that I own a horse named Padre. (For all you dream interpreters and psychoanalysts out there, make of that what you can and let me know what you conclude.) I’ve since proceeded to rearrange all the furniture in my room according to the basic principles of feng shui and, perhaps most importantly, I’ve replaced my university-provided plastic mattress with a foam one I found on Oxford’s local version of Craigslist. Although my sleeping has gotten better and my dreams less dramatic, the muscle soreness persists. In a recent moment of brilliance, I realized that the aches probably have less to do with feng shui and more to do with the fact that, for the first time in six years, I’ve started riding a bicycle again.

Living in Oxford generally requires that you own a bike and that you use it often, because several centuries of history and development have resulted in a bit more urban sprawl than on a lot of American college campuses. Despite constant protest from my legs and thighs, I’ve committed to the way of life here and insist on cycling around town on a colorful, Schwinn-like secondhand road bike that screams “American trying to fit into the local scene.” One morning, I decided to track just how far I traveled during the day, and the end tally was around seven miles: 1.4 miles to class, 0.6 miles to lunch, another 1.5 miles to another class, and then 2 miles back home. Then, a nighttime cycle of 0.8 miles to the pub and the subsequent return trip on foot. No wonder I’m always hungry here; the food portions are noticeably smaller and I’m doing a lot more “exercise” just getting from place to place.

But in mapping out my life for a day, I also realized how tiny a loop our daily lives cover. If you take a piece of paper to represent “The Wider World” and draw in the places you frequent, then it’ll probably consist of a few regular stops in a miniscule square of space: home, work, the grocery store and the gym, and maybe a bar or movie theater once in awhile. I’m not claiming that this is a life-changing revelation, as I’m sure we’re all aware of how easy it is to become comfortable with a routine and never question it. Instead, I’m more perplexed by how easily I settled into my life here and got sucked into everything habitual, in ways that are eerily similar to my life back in the States: I wake up, eat a bowl of Cheerios, try and get some schoolwork done, contemplate doing laundry and decide not to, go to class, eat lunch, go back to class, go home, do some more work, eat dinner and then go out for the night. Of course, little things change it up – a British movie marathon with friends, a cappella rehearsal, rowing or tennis practice – but essentially, I’m doing the same thing, day in and day out.

Routine, of course, is a form of protection: it’s something familiar to hold onto amidst change and uncertainty. Even so, I was shocked out of my serene life here last week when I was talking with my dad and he asked, point-blank, what I was going to do next year after graduating.

“Are you going to find a job? I think you should go to grad school. I mean, more grad school. But when will you decide? When will you know?” he said.

It was a reminder that bigger, broader, life-quest-related questions and conundrums are always out there, hovering over you as you scour your local grocery store for Easy Mac, buy sweatpants and gorge yourself on fish and chips. It’s all those questions about what you want to do – or what you are meant to do, if you believe in fate – that I did a pretty good job of glossing over as an undergraduate. But Oxford ripped that band-aid off pretty quickly.

Here, orientation for new students involves a three-day extravaganza called the “Freshers’ Fair,” where every single student group claims a stall and dresses it up with streamers, neon-colored fliers and candy to try and get you to sign up for their club. There are so many student groups and so many freshers that you’re only allotted a two-hour time slot during which you can enter the Examination Schools, where the fair is held, and peruse the offerings. Going through each room was what I imagine old school warfare was like in having to battle your way through hordes of people – but fortunately without bayonets and actual weapons involved. (Upon exiting, you have to go through a Domino’s pizza stand, where they give you a coupon and a free slice of pizza to make sure you don’t faint from all the exertion.)

At the fair, there was a stand for a group called “High Impact Careers” offering colorful posters of some sort. (I initially thought the group name was a euphemism for investment banking, but knew it wasn’t when I saw the “Oxford Investment and Finance Society” right next it.) I quickly went over to the table to claim one of the posters as a room decoration without, hopefully, having to sign up for anything.

A minute later, I had snagged the poster and slinked away without being noticed. Success! I was hoping the poster was for a Disney movie of some sort – Lion King? Toy Story? – and then I actually looked at it. Simba and Woody were nowhere to be found; instead, it was an orange piece of paper with brown stick figures patterned across the background, with white text that said the following:

Those, I think, are the big pressures behind my generation’s insecurities and ambitions, and they are also a pretty apt summary of most parents’ (irrational) expectations for their children. The problem is, just being aware of that doesn’t help reconcile the “I don’t know what I want to do with my life yet” feeling and the “But I know I want to make a difference and be happy etc. etc.” feeling.

The most wisdom I can offer comes from something I thought of during rehearsal for Out of the Blue, the a cappella group I joined at school. We’re preparing for our first concert next week at an ice cream shop, and one of our songs is “Stop,” a Spice Girls tune from the late ’90s. I’m not sure what was going through the Spice Girls’ minds when they were writing it, but their lyrics are oddly relevant to my ongoing musings.

“Don’t you know it’s going too fast?
Racing so hard you know it won’t last.
Don’t you know, why can’t you see?
Slow it down, read the signs so you know
just where you’re going.

Stop right now, thank you very much,
I need somebody with the human touch.
Hey you, always on the run,
gotta slow it down baby, gotta have some fun.”

And so, I’ve decided to live the next month à la Spice Girls wisdom and see what happens. I’ll keep you posted.

A moment of Spice Girls-inspired zen in a very English style park.

]]> http://www.patrickglee.com/2011/11/07/spice-girls-wisdom/feed/ 5 http://www.patrickglee.com/2011/10/07/high-tea/ http://www.patrickglee.com/2011/10/07/high-tea/#comments Fri, 07 Oct 2011 17:43:51 +0000 patrickglee http://www.patrickglee.com/?p=69 Continue reading →]]> THOUGHTS ON TEA (and learning how to make friends with British people)

British people are obsessed with at least three things: apologizing to anyone and anything they bump into, glowering at you if you jump a queue and drinking tea.

Frankly, I didn’t know anything about high tea before stepping foot into the United Kingdom a few weeks ago. During college, I had always brewed and chugged whatever kind of tea they had left sitting out in the dining hall just to get through a long night of essay writing and procrastination. Given that I had never paid much attention to what kind of tea I was drinking, I didn’t quite get why people here seemed to be obsessed with the concept of afternoon and high teas: to me, the drink was just a more appealing source of caffeine than Red Bull or instant coffee.

To investigate, I dressed up a little nicer than my American standards would normally allow and ventured into the stodgiest, most expensive looking teahouse-type place I could find in London: Fortnum & Mason. The store, started decades before America even won its independence, gives off the posh air of a Neiman Marcus or Saks, but with dark wood and plush carpets in lieu of the brightly lit shiny surfaces that dominate American department stores. Fortnum also has a restaurant on its top floor known for its tea services, and so I trekked up the stairs to awkwardly stand by the menu board and take sneaky photos of it on my phone. (Only after heading home did I find out that you could, as one might expect, download the menu from their website.)

Covertly acquired picture of a menu from Fortnum's.

What I found out from my unnecessarily covert intelligence-gathering mission cleared up a lot of my American confusion: afternoon and high teas differ primarily not by the choice of tea served, but by the menu of foods that come along with it. At Fortnum’s, they offer two categories of tea: Classic Blend and Single Estate. The classics come in strong, light and aromatic blends that, much like wine, are paired to complement the food – or in the case of afternoon tea, tiny finger sandwiches, scones and tea cakes. Single estate teas come from around the world, but as the name suggests,  they claim their provenance from one particular plantation or garden: no mixing involved.

High tea demands a heartier, savorier experience in which the dainty sandwiches of afternoon tea are swapped out for British classics like venison and blackberry pie or Dorset crab salad and Melba toast. According to my mentor at Oxford – who happens to be an American historian and has a bust of Abraham Lincoln in his office – high teas were served later in the day, around half past five or six, as a quasi-dinner for laborers and farmers who had already worked for most of the day and might have to return to the fields after recharging. (It’s blatantly ironic that high tea has now taken on a posh, upper class status, as evidenced by the £40 pricetag at Fortnum’s — that’s more than $60 for not even a full meal!).

And so, as a student on a limited budget with a paramount interest in inhaling food, I decided to make one of the more substantial menu items off Fortnum’s menu—and then bum a cup o’ tea from my British roommate to pull off an improvised high tea party. Naturally, I went for the most exotic sounding thing: Welsh Rarebit with Onion Marmalade. (Granted, for the first few minutes as I was searching for recipes online, I kept on typing “Welsh Rabbit.” Thank you, Google Autocorrect, for saving me a trip to the butcher.) Since “British organic mushrooms” were on sale at the store, I decided to throw some of those in, too.

NB: Mind you, grocery shopping in a foreign country – even one in which all the signs are in English – takes at least twice as long, because everything is categorized differently. Most all of the liquids I would consider sauces or condiments were split among several aisles, either as cooking aids, ethnic food, side condiments, pasta sauces and “Other Sauces.”

Also, getting around town on a bike (for the first time in 7 years) made for a particularly important revelation: if you have just bought eggs and want to keep them safe, don’t hang the bag from your handlebars; instead, secure them to your torso with saran wrap or, better yet, invest in a basket and put them in there. Bike Riding 101.

P.S. Eggs are sold at room temperature here. Who woulda thought?!

While I was in the kitchen, my British suitemate (from London) was sitting at the dinner table, sipping tea and reading James Baldwin’s Go Tell It On the Mountain. I got to know him while I was chopping onions, asking him about British people things (what’s your favorite tea?), tearing up (because of the onions) and then explaining to him that I wasn’t crying at something he had said.  I learned that Americans are weird by British standards for thinking of Earl Grey as an everyday, wake-me-up-so-I-can-go-back-to-work tea, since British folk consider it more of a once-in-a-while, even special occasion blend.

The recipe, linked here with some of my notes, is straightforward, and it proved to be a hit amongst hungry graduate students otherwise faced with the option of wilty, fishy fish or overcooked steak in the dining hall (although that’s probably not the most discerning of crowds you’ll ever serve).

If there’s one thing I learned, it’s that food – even simple stuff like rarebit –  is a powerful diplomatic tool, especially for the confrontation-averse, like me. After eating a slice of the cheesy bread I had made, my next-door-neighbor with whom I share a wall forgave me for singing too loudly to myself late at night (“What are you going to sing me to sleep with tonight, Patrick?” she always asks, a slight smile forming at the corners of her mouth). Food can help cement friendships, too. A fellow first-year graduate student turned to me after munching happily on some rarebit and said, in his French accent (as the French are wont to do), “You are my joyous and enjoyable friend, Patrick. Thanks for the food.”

Livening up the dining hall experience with some good ol' Welsh Rarebit.

This post is from my writing for #LetsLunch, a group of writers and food enthusiasts from around the world. Every month, we decide on a category of food, devise a recipe to make and then tell a story about our culinary adventures.

Check out more Let’s Lunchers’ high tea offerings at these links, too! High tea has spread all around the world, even though the Brits will always lay claim to being the originators.

If you’d like to join Let’s Lunch, go to Twitter and write a message with the hashtag #Letslunch — or post a comment below.

Cathy‘s Sweet Potato Tea Bars at Showfood Chef

Charissa‘s Egg Salad Tea Sandwiches with Honey Mustard, Tomatoes & Basil at Zest Bakery

Emma‘s Brown Sugar Shortbreads With Hawaiian Jam at Dreaming of Pots and Pans

Grace‘s Taiwanese Sandwiches at HapaMama

Karen‘s Saskatoon Berry Tartlets at GeoFooding

Linda‘s Mesquite Hemp Cocoa at Free Range Cookies

Linda‘s Singapore-Style Ginger Tea & Kaya (Coconut Jam) Toast at Spicebox Travels

Lisa‘s Little Lemon Meringue Tarts at Monday Morning Cooking Club

Mai‘s Cougar Gold & Shallot Shortbread at Cooking in The Fruit Bowl

Rashda‘s Spiced Chickpea & Sweet Potato Tidbits at Hot Curries & Cold Beer

Rebecca‘s Millionaire’s Shortbread at Grongar Blog

Steff‘s Lemon-Lime Shortbread Cookies at The Kitchen Trials

———-

I remember in fifth grade when graphing calculators were the hot thing and everybody had one. It wasn’t that we wanted to do math and crunch numbers; we just wanted to play all of the games you could download onto them – most notably, Tetris. The time-pressure crunch of having to arrange oddly shaped blocks into neat rows proved addictive for many, but I for some reason never got hooked. Instead, I stayed true to my Garfield comics while watching the hardcore Tetris players from afar.

But now, as I write these words while looking out onto an English patio in an English townhouse in an English neighborhood in London, what comes back to me most vividly is that game of Tetris. One would think that adjusting to a country where everyone supposedly speaks your native language should be an easy process, especially when that country is the one that birthed you, in a historical sense, just a couple centuries ago. But it’s the little things that add up quickly, just like those blocks in Tetris that would come down onto the screen and were never the right shape and before you knew it you’d have a “GAME OVER” message blinking at you mercilessly. From the credit cards that use a chip and PIN system to British words (aubergine for eggplant, loo for bathroom) and a different sizing system for clothes, things are just (slightly) different here.

And so, when I tell people that I’m “studying abroad” on a Fulbright for the year, their immediate reaction is to ask, “Where?” When I tell them I’m going to be in England, their faces contort into a confused, even sorry expression: “Why’d you choose to go there? That’s not exotic at all.” They’re right to some degree, but in other regards, I’m in an otherworldly realm where pants means underwear and some of the institutions here are older than my country (Hello there, Queen Elizabeth II!).

This past summer, I lived in New York City as a law bureau reporter for the Wall Street Journal. In my free time, I often hung out with friends from college who had made a permanent move to the city after commencement. Inevitably, we talked a lot about what preoccupies the minds of college graduates around the world: money.

We came to two conclusions.

One: If you want things in life, you need money to buy them. Those things might be a toothbrush, a pet, an apartment (I mean flat) or a tomato. But no matter what, you need money.

Two: Some paths in life will make you more money than others.

What we never figured out, though, was an answer to the question of how important a role money should play when you are deciding what dreams of yours to pursue. Is landing that first job really all about the money and starting a stable lifestyle? Or is it an unspoken rule that you can live from temp job to temp job so long as you are in your twenties and are working towards your pie-in-the-sky aspirations?

The year ahead poses a chance for me to think about all this “Life Stuff,” without having to worry immediately about the money stuff. It’s an opportunity I’m utterly grateful for, as I know how much a privilege it is in our day to have even a few minutes to think to yourself, let alone several months. And as I go about my studies at Oxford, both by hitting the books and watching British television, I’ll share with you what I learn as a hopeful, probably naïve twenty-something-year-old trying to figure some stuff out.