Just like Phineas and Ferb

We went to London and went up the London Eye.  Just like Phineas and Ferb.  The kids mentioned this to me repeatedly, all the while looking around expectantly for a giant waterslide to appear.  I suspect most of their expectations for London, and England as a whole, have been established by Phineas and Ferb.

It’s pretty close, really.

The Eye is very very big.

We visited on Valentine’s Day, and were reassured to see that the Eye is anchored by love.  If you visit on some other day, I guess it’s anchored by physics and stuff.  But Feb 14th?  Love.

Entry to the pods is a bit hairy if you have any kind of motion sickness … you get to dash on while the pod is moving.

It’s cool.

It’s awesome.

It’s very very high.

There’s a “4D Experience” you can see before you get on the Eye.  Although husband was not impressed by what is essentially a long commercial for the ride you have already bought a ticket to enter, the kids and I thought it was great.  There were bubbles, snowflakes, fog, rain, fireworks, dragons, dancing ladies, and lots of kablammo kapow.  I left thinking that from now on, all business power point presentations should be done in the style of the London Eye 4D Experience.

If I had a stupidly huge amount of money to waste, I would totally go back and take one of the speciality trips.  Champagne Afternoon Tea at over 400 feet for 20, anyone?  Only 1300 pounds.

Lots of photos of the Eye here, and here, and here.

Short and sweet

You know when you do something that you really enjoy, and you sort of think you do pretty well for an amateur, and then you realize you know many people who do it way better?  That’s how I’ve been feeling about baking lately.   And photos of baking.  I blame the internet.  And blogging.  And … people.  And … the universe.

But, succumbing to child-led begging, we did make some cupcakes this weekend, using our old standby recipe (which also works just fine when modified).

The big version.

The small version.

The M&Ms give a nice size comparison.  I think I’ll measure all sorts of things in M&M Units — MMUs — from now on.

Half term break

Friday of half term break.  My half-baked plans for holiday did not materialize, but we’ve made do with lots of pancakes and Wii, a few day trips, and today: building an amusement park for the cats.

It’s not that I’m a crazy cat lady.  It’s just that I’m so glad to have them with us again, I’ve dedicated an entire corner of my sun room to the cats.  This is slowly evolving in to a crazy-book and crazy-cat room.  Stick my Tassimo in here and there’d be no reason to come out. Crazy cat-book-coffee lady, that’s me.

I haven’t quite worked out the cat’s place in the UK domestic animal hierarchy. The biggest local pet store has a decent variety of food and some varieties of litter, but nothing like what I’m used to seeing, and all in small sizes.  Our cat tree was obtained online — no luck finding anything locally.  While looking for it, I discovered the new-to-me sub-genre of outdoor cat shelters.  This is another one of those thing that I’m going to think of as uniquely English, accurate or not, because I’d never heard of them before we moved here.  Do English cats most often live outside?

Paid in false coin

One in every 36 British pound coins is fake.  This is a fairly shocking number: that’s about 41 million pounds (64 million dollars!) worth of counterfeit money in circulation.  BBC news has some articles discussing how to spot fake coins.  There are detailed sites helping individuals identify fake coinage.  It’s gotten so bad, apparently some people have floated the idea of reminting the pound.

It was only a matter of time before we received a counterfeit coin during a commercial transaction.  I know to look for misaligned front and back designs, incorrect printing on the sides of the coins, poor workmanship, differences in weight … but what do you do, right at that moment when you think you are being given a counterfeit coin?  I, of course, took it so I could show the kids and take photos.

Which is the counterfeit coin?  Can you guess which one I suspect?

I should note that I don’t *know* that the coin is counterfeit for sure — but I haven’t found a coin machine that will accept it yet.  I’m taking that, along with my observations and my one in 36 chance of picking one up eventually, as proof.

Tintern Abbey

Midway through a quiet Sunday, I’m possessed — I’ve remembered I didn’t come here to vaccuum – and I haul up any kids interested in coming along and we hare off for Wales and Tintern Abbey.  My sat nav proves once again she’s trying to kill me, but an eight mile detour through one track hedge-rowed lanes does not deter us, and soon enough we see the shattered skeleton of Tintern Abbey  rise above the Wye.  Gorgeous.

I don’t know what it’s like in summer, but on a not-raining but cold Sunday afternoon in February, the Abbey is largely deserted.  There were a few other families out exploring the walls and remains of rooms and ruins.  The visitor center sells a great guidebook — the entry fee gets you in, but if you want any information: that’s extra.  I have a good collection of these guidebooks now, so I can say definitively that  this is a good one.

We’ve visited the ruins of Hailes Abbey — another Cistercian abbey complex — so it was exciting to compare the sites and the relative levels of preservation.  Well, I was excited.  The kids were flabbergasted at the idea of only three fireplaces in the whole compound — kitchen, warming room, and infirmary.  Daughter also wanted to know why it was just men.  I offered: “Because they thought it would help them concentrate.”  After thoughtful consideration, she decided they should instead have worn better clothes, eaten better food, and had more fires to stay warm.  “Then they could concentrate better.”  Youngest contributed: “If they had turkey, I would like it.  No turkey, then I would not like it.”  So there you have it.  When they learn about Cistercians in school they will remember cold water and lack of turkey dinners.

My middle child decided to help me with the photos.  She selected the ones for you to view today, and directed the editing.

“I like making the picture look old.  Because that place was old.  Like you, Mommy.”

“I don’t want to make this one black and white. I want to make it pink.”  “I like black and white.”  “Why?”  “It makes me think of vampires, and vampires are cool.”  “You’re weird.”  (I’ll leave you to guess who is child and who is me.)

“Remember when I called this the grave tree, because I thought someone was dead under it, but it was really a King tree for Queen Elizabeth?”  “A Coronation Tree for George V.”  “Right, that.”

“Sometimes looking at clouds makes my mind go whooooom.”

We agreed to disagree about this one.  I like the three arches, she thinks it’s kind of boring.  And it reminds her of a banana?

“Oh, yeah, I liked yelling in there.  It was all echo-y.”

“Fine, you can do that one black and white but only if I can do whatever I want on the next one.”

“That … is … AWESOME.”

Day out: Everyman Theatre

Here’s a warning, right upfront: I think theaters are cool.  Something about performance and performing, about magic and excitement, about the line between stage and audience and where it blurs — I love it.   Going backstage is like jumping in to a magician’s hat.  And there’s the romance of the inevitable theater ghost or phantom, and the joy of carving out a space in the shadows that is so private no one can find you — and yet, you’re in the middle of a huge show.  So, yeah, I like that.

Oh, and I have some photos of the theater in use, from our visit to the Panto.

Enter the ‘dress circle’ — the first balcony — and my eyes go up to the beautiful dome.

The theater was built to house opera as well as drama, so the proscenium is very high and the dome was meant to help project the voice.  The original gas lamp in the dome was also a ventilation system for the theater.

A view of one of the two theater boxes.  There are only three seats in each box, and the view of the stage is not the best — but the tickets include champagne, and everyone can see you very well.  Wave like the Queen!

The refurbished seats, and the very discreet ventilation ducts.

The two angels to either corner of the stage are very possibly my favorite decorative elements in the entire theater.  What I wouldn’t give to have her view for just a moment, as she sits holding that small sun.

And now we move backstage — oooh, the dressing room.  I should have brought flowers.

The fly floor.

Looking down to the stage from the fly floor.  Wheeee!

There was a lot of technical talk up here.  Things going up and down, grids, proper weighting, marking, safety, timing.

A trip through wardrobe.  Most shows bring their own costumes — even their own washers, driers, and ironing boards — but the panto stores costumes here year-round.

Scene shop.  Smells like IKEA.  Looks like awesome.

View from backstage up to the fly floor.

Now imagine this:  you are standing on stage.  Look to your right and you’ll see this:

Take one step and look to your left and you’ll see this:

C’mon, that is magic.

The stage was set for a show when we visited.  I’m trying to get all arty with my shot.

And a view back up the balconies from the pit as we walk out.  These used to be benches — the theater was built to accomodate nearly 1500 people, apparently on friendly terms.  Now it holds about 700.

For a history of the Everyman Theatre, I glowingly recommend Michael Hasted‘s A Theatre for All Seasons: The History of the Everyman Theatre, Cheltenham.  A new edition is coming out in paperback next month, if you can’t find a copy of the hardback.  It’s full of information not just about this gorgeous theater, but the history of the performing arts in Cheltenham.  I even discovered through this book the location of the Cheltenham Assembly Rooms (now a bank) — where Wellington danced, and Paganini once played!  But that’s a post for another day.

The cattery

It’s not what you think.  In Britain, the place where you have your cats stay while you are away travelling is called a “cattery”.  I kid you not.  Even “The Pussy Willow Cattery” — which I drive past every time I go to the recycling center — really is for cats.  No Burt Reynolds, no Dolly Parton, no far superior version of “I will always love you.”

Well, I never.

Our cats are here.  I would write a really really useful post about how to bring your US cats over to the UK, but to be honest, all the rules have changed and instead of it being a long and horribly complicated process requiring special blood tests (F* you FAVN!), something called ‘tick and tape’ that is not a fun parade, and quarantine — now it’s just a matter of simple paperwork and buying the plane tickets.  See: DEFRA and USDA.  Or in my case, you could start the horribly long and expensive process (PS: F* you again FAVN), realize half way through that the rules were about to change, impose on your stateside family to take the cats for three months until the new rules went in to effect, and then pay an expediter to handle all the shipping arrangements.  I can’t put myself out there as any kind of useful example.

They love the conservatory, just like I do:

The grumpy one

The lovey one

I think I’m going to start calling my conservatory ‘the cattery’.  I might get a little plaque for the wall.  Hur hur hur.

No vacancy

Two things are on my mind today.

One: Half term breaks and the impossibility of taking spontaneous short holidays.  Everyone in England — EVERYONE — everyone with school aged children — has holiday at the same time.  So if you want to go anywhere — ANYWHERE — during breaks, you must book not weeks but months in advance — perhaps years.   Perhaps generations.  The whole country is booked next week.  I was warned about this but I did not believe.  I was a fool.  Can you imagine this happening in the US?  “Hello, I’d like to visit Colorado next week.”  “Sorry, the state is booked, no more room.  Try Utah.”

What do people do, if they want to do something at the last minute — the spur of the moment — when the fancy strikes them?  Lesson learned: plan ahead.  A long, long way ahead.

Two:  Can someone I know please rent this house?  I’ve fallen in love with it for no good reason, and I’d like to sit in your kitchen and sigh dreamily.

Mornin’, Big Baby! (That doesn’t sound right)

I love making these fluffy, puffy bits of magic in the morning.  I don’t know why I call them “Big Dutch Babies”.  I found a recipe online a million years ago and don’t know anything about the possible culinary history here — or maybe I’m insulting the Dutch? Or babies? I don’t know.  Anyway, this recipe is proof to me once more that the basis of civilization is egg, flour, milk, and butter.

1/3 C butter
pinch nutmeg
4 eggs
1 C milk
1 C flour

Put your butter and nutmeg in your baking pan and set it to melt in a 450F oven while you prepare the rest of the ingredients.

This works best in a blender, but if your blender is in storage in another country and you are doing everything by hand, don’t fret.  Beat those eggs by hand:

Add in your milk; then slowly add in your flour; until your batter looks about like this:

Great.  By now the butter is melted, so pull the pan out of the oven, and pour the batter right in.  The butter will pool up the sides and run over the top of the batter — it’s cool looking.  Place the pan back in the oven for 25 minutes or until golden and puffy — like this:

Isn’t that amazing?  It looks like you’ve done some kind of special wizardry in the kitchen, and it only takes four ingredients and a barely 5 minutes of prep!

I like to sprinkle my Big Baby with confectioners sugar; my kids like theirs with maple syrup; you could cover it with warmed fruit; or make it savory and add cheese or bacon or … sky’s the limit.  Good mornin’!

Where am I?

A quick dash out to the grocery to pick up some sour cream, and of course I end up wandering the aisles staring at everything. (Chicken and thyme flavored crisps — really?)  I found three states and a city:

I’m just missing some “Washington DC Cheesy Balls” to make the names of home complete.  However am I going to adjust if USA keeps turning itself into delicious foodstuffs and throwing itself at me?

And then I saw this in the novelties aisle:

What?  I leave the country for a few months and My Little Ponies turn in to mer-horses?  Are they seahorses?  Hippos?  Kelpies?  What??

I also learned this week that my sat nav is probably trying to kill me.  She has ignored perfectly accessible A-roads and guided me through Slad twice so far, which is twice more than I ever ever ever ever need to drive through Slad in my life.  Yes, yes, famous author/poet Laurie Lee, yes, yes, blah blah history, yadda yadda picturesque, so what if there is a great country pub,  what I am trying to tell you is that the road through Slad is very very steep, and very very twisty, and very very narrow, and people park IN THE MIDDLE OF THE ROAD and if have to drive in to Stroud through Slad one more time I WILL VEER OFF A CLIFF AND DIE.

So that’s where I am on this Friday at the end of the week.  Confused about My Little Kelpies, suspicious of my sat nav, and soothing myself with bagels.  I think I’ll go have another.