So I'm about to go all Julie & Julia, and write a confessional post about cooking. I suppose I could call it NappyValleyGirl & Nigella, but the idea of cooking my way through 'Nigella Christmas' is simply laughable. Because this post is actually all about my fear of baking.
I decided this year to make Littleboy 2 a birthday cake. Now this is a big departure for me; I've always bought the boys' birthday cakes before, usually at vast expense from a poncey Italian deli on Clapham High Street. This was partly down to laziness but the truth is, baking terrifies me, and I just don't know enough about it. The last time I baked a cake, for The Doctor's birthday a few years ago, it was a total disaster and the time before, for my mother's funeral, the whole thing collapsed and had to be binned. Before that, my only efforts had been similar disasters in school cookery lessons; I recall once making a swiss roll that was inexplicably twice the size of anyone else's AND burnt.....
The fact is, I can't bake. I can cook a half- decent supper, but when it comes to cakes, puddings, biscuits and breads, I just don't have a clue. Just the thought of it makes me panic. I get all paranoid about the quantities, then about the ingredients. The whole terminology of baking is like a foreign language to me. Does it matter that something calls for 'cake flour' and not normal flour? Is the baking powder that I've bought 'double acting' - what the hell does that mean anyway? Is whipping the same as beating, and should I do it with a whisk or a wooden spoon? Are you still supposed to grease a non-stick pan? No-one, even the most 'simple' of recipe writers, tells you these things; they just assume you know.
But this year I was determined to be different. I am not doing much journalistic work at the moment - thanks, recession - and I have less of an excuse not to become a domestic goddess (ha). And I didn't just want to buy a commercial cake mix - I wanted to do it properly, mixing everything by hand. My mother always baked our birthday cakes, and I remember enjoying helping, so I also thought it would be a fun activity for the Littleboys.
I perused a few cookery books and settled on a very basic Nigella Lawson recipe for children's birthday parties, plus an icing recipe from The Joy of Cooking. I spent ages in the supermarket selecting a cake tin and baking ingredients (and trying to work out what all the American equivalents are - for example, icing sugar is 'confectioners' sugar', and caster sugar didn't appear to exist). And then I began the task with the Littleboys, who were tremendously excited.
My first mistake was not reading the recipe properly. Somewhere between trying to instruct the Littleboys how to beat eggs and making sure they didn't spill everything all over the kitchen, I failed to notice that this was actually a recipe for a Victoria sponge cake ie. in two tins. While I do partly blame Nigella's rambling prose (quote - "I do not know how to ice, but have taken the precaution of marrying someone who does"), I have to admit that I was not really concentrating.
I only had one tin, but by the time I'd measured the quantities out it was too late. 'Oh well," I thought, "I'll just have to put it all in the one tin and cook it for longer." Then I panicked because Nigella called for greaseproof paper and I had bought a non-stick tin. I had a sinking feeling at this point that things would not go well.....
After the maximum time suggested by Nigella, I took a look at the cake. It looked done. And for sure it was - black on the edges and the underside, well done in the middle. Chargrilled cake. And I swear I followed Nigella's oven temperatures.....
I would have binned it, but for the boys, who were desperate to try it, so we iced it anyway. Littleboy 2 had asked for a 'green cake' but I wasn't up to this; instead I made a white icing and then tried to write his name in green icing from a tube. But the tube stuff melted into the hot icing straightaway. So there we have it; blackened sponge cake with green smudge icing. I cut off the burnt bits and served it to the Littleboys (who, bless them, still pronounced it delicious).
This morning I turned myself away sternly from the ready-made birthday cakes in the supermarket, like a reformed alcoholic, and swore to try again. This time, I attempted a sponge cake from The Joy of Cooking to be served at his birthday tea tomorrow. Again, I was flummoxed by the recipe; I couldn't understand why, unlike Nigella's, it didn't seem to contain butter, and didn't need self-raising flour. How can a sponge cake recipe vary quite so much?
This time I was solo in the kitchen, without my Littleboy helpers. I concentrated painstakingly with the quantities and tried not to worry that my beaten egg whites were not 'stiff' as suggested. The result? Cake no 2 isn't burnt, and looks vaguely like a sponge cake, even if the icing looks distinctly like the handiwork of a child or a deranged modern artist. I do feel a small sense of achievement (although we haven't tasted it yet) and have been spurred on to cook brownies with the boys this afternoon.
But I also feel frustrated; why do I find these things quite so difficult, when other people seem to be able to knock up cakes at a moment's notice? Is there anyone else there who suffers from fear of baking?
Thursday, 10 December 2009
Monday, 7 December 2009
A weekend with the Littleboys
Well, I survived the weekend. Although I have somehow and inexplicably done my back in - probably from carrying/dragging children or cleaning up crap off the floor. The snow never materialised; it just rained steadily all day Saturday. But the skies cleared on Sunday, leaving it chilly and sunny. (Meanwhile The Doctor reports that it's sleeting in New Orleans and his colleagues are illicitly shagging- maybe we're not missing out on that much after all.)
So without further ado, a quick tally of our activities:
1. A trip to the Long Island Children's Museum (via slight detour as NVG takes wrong expressway to get there.). This was hugely successful, just as good as the kids' parts of the Science Museum in London, and the Littleboys didn't want to leave. In fact, they had to be dragged out...
2. Lunch at the food court of Long Island's biggest shopping mall, Roosevelt Field. It seemed like a good idea at the time, but being a wet Saturday in December, it was of course mobbed, which made parking fun and negotiating the crowds with two speeding children even more fun. Luckily Littleboy 1 proved once again that there's nothing wrong with his memory. Despite not having been there since the summer, he deftly managed to find the place in the food court that sold hot dogs, among milling crowds of shoppers queuing for chicken chow mein, steak and falafel. (I had a chicken teriyaki burger - only in America...)
3. A quick walk around the mall. It did look very Christmassy, and was filled with fun things to do and try. Littleboy 1 had a go on a Wii - luckily he didn't realise it was for sale - and I bought them each a cute animal Christmas decoration.
4. A bad-tempered walk on Sunday morning, on which Littleboy 2 refused to move unless his mittens were on properly. Given that he couldn't seem to get his thumb in the thumb hole at all, and neither could I, this meant that half the time he was stationary as Littleboy 1 shot off into the distance on his scooter.
5. A trip to the Library to acquire Bob the Builder DVDs and a book of The Lion King, which immediately disappeared down the side of Littleboy 2's bunkbed, a place from which it is not possible to remove things without a major construction team (if only Bob the Builder were real..)
6. Attendance at the switching on of the Christmas tree in the local park. This was lovely, with a nativity scene involving real donkeys, hot chocolate, and candles to hold (slightly terrifying with pyromaniac four year olds). Then Santa arrived - not in a sleigh but in a firetruck, sirens wailing. Somehow this seemed highly appropriate....
7. A chance for the Littleboys to sit with Santa. Littleboy 2 cried and point blank refused, but his brother dutifully complied. They both received a flashing plastic reindeer nose, which immediately got broken and had to be superglued back together.
8. After a lot of shouting about not going to bed on Sunday night, they were finally asleep. I sat back with a glass of cold white wine to watch MY library DVD. "Women on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown.". Somehow, this seemed highly appropriate too.....
So without further ado, a quick tally of our activities:
1. A trip to the Long Island Children's Museum (via slight detour as NVG takes wrong expressway to get there.). This was hugely successful, just as good as the kids' parts of the Science Museum in London, and the Littleboys didn't want to leave. In fact, they had to be dragged out...
2. Lunch at the food court of Long Island's biggest shopping mall, Roosevelt Field. It seemed like a good idea at the time, but being a wet Saturday in December, it was of course mobbed, which made parking fun and negotiating the crowds with two speeding children even more fun. Luckily Littleboy 1 proved once again that there's nothing wrong with his memory. Despite not having been there since the summer, he deftly managed to find the place in the food court that sold hot dogs, among milling crowds of shoppers queuing for chicken chow mein, steak and falafel. (I had a chicken teriyaki burger - only in America...)
3. A quick walk around the mall. It did look very Christmassy, and was filled with fun things to do and try. Littleboy 1 had a go on a Wii - luckily he didn't realise it was for sale - and I bought them each a cute animal Christmas decoration.
4. A bad-tempered walk on Sunday morning, on which Littleboy 2 refused to move unless his mittens were on properly. Given that he couldn't seem to get his thumb in the thumb hole at all, and neither could I, this meant that half the time he was stationary as Littleboy 1 shot off into the distance on his scooter.
5. A trip to the Library to acquire Bob the Builder DVDs and a book of The Lion King, which immediately disappeared down the side of Littleboy 2's bunkbed, a place from which it is not possible to remove things without a major construction team (if only Bob the Builder were real..)
6. Attendance at the switching on of the Christmas tree in the local park. This was lovely, with a nativity scene involving real donkeys, hot chocolate, and candles to hold (slightly terrifying with pyromaniac four year olds). Then Santa arrived - not in a sleigh but in a firetruck, sirens wailing. Somehow this seemed highly appropriate....
7. A chance for the Littleboys to sit with Santa. Littleboy 2 cried and point blank refused, but his brother dutifully complied. They both received a flashing plastic reindeer nose, which immediately got broken and had to be superglued back together.
8. After a lot of shouting about not going to bed on Sunday night, they were finally asleep. I sat back with a glass of cold white wine to watch MY library DVD. "Women on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown.". Somehow, this seemed highly appropriate too.....
Friday, 4 December 2009
On my own...
The Doctor has gone away to New Orleans for the weekend. Somewhere I'd love to go, but don't particularly fancy dragging two small boys around while my husband attends a conference, so we've been left behind.
This morning I dropped him off at LaGuardia Airport, a trip only made vaguely exciting by the Dodgems aspect of the Long Island Expressway on the way back, including a few potholed expressway ramps where people were inexplicably parked or performing random U-turns. For some reason the nearer you get to New York City, the more both the road, and the driving, deterioriates (which must mean I am getting used to Long Island driving - scary thought).
I wouldn't really mind very much except for the fact that these medical conferences are always at the weekend. And I never feel you can bother anyone else for their company at the weekend, because weekend is Family Time and you should not intrude. In London, I have a lovely friend whose husband is a jazz musician and is always off playing gigs at the weekend, so I always had someone to huddle with on those weekends when The Doctor was on call, or away. But here there is no-one like that, so I am faced with a weekend of entertaining the Littleboys by myself. This requires endless energy levels and patience, neither of which I seem to have in great supply at the moment.
What is more, this particular December conference occurs every year and it is always on the same date - right around Littleboy 2's birthday. (Apart from three years ago, when the conference had to be hastily cancelled for his unexpectedly early birth). Which is also a shame. And unless he drastically changes career, it will happen every year for the foreseeable future.
Things always seem to go wrong when The Doctor is away. Last time, I spent the whole weekend liaising with the local garage about what was wrong with the Evil Dodge (diagnosis -thousands of dollars worth of Wrong) and then trying to get hold of The Doctor in Barcelona to sanction it being mended. This time, snow is forecast for tomorrow night and I am dreading being snowed in at the top of a vertiginous driveway with no idea how to shovel myself out. I realise this is rather pathetic, but I am a City Girl totally unused to any extremes of weather and although in a way I am looking forward to seeing the first snowfall here, it's bloody typical that it'll probably happen while I'm here alone.
Anyway, him being away always brings home to me that it's unbelievably hard work on your own with small children. It doesn't happen to me very often and I realise I'm lucky. So, this one goes out to all the single mums out there (including my fabulous sister) who deal with stuff on their own ALL the time, and don't whinge about it at all. You rock.
This morning I dropped him off at LaGuardia Airport, a trip only made vaguely exciting by the Dodgems aspect of the Long Island Expressway on the way back, including a few potholed expressway ramps where people were inexplicably parked or performing random U-turns. For some reason the nearer you get to New York City, the more both the road, and the driving, deterioriates (which must mean I am getting used to Long Island driving - scary thought).
I wouldn't really mind very much except for the fact that these medical conferences are always at the weekend. And I never feel you can bother anyone else for their company at the weekend, because weekend is Family Time and you should not intrude. In London, I have a lovely friend whose husband is a jazz musician and is always off playing gigs at the weekend, so I always had someone to huddle with on those weekends when The Doctor was on call, or away. But here there is no-one like that, so I am faced with a weekend of entertaining the Littleboys by myself. This requires endless energy levels and patience, neither of which I seem to have in great supply at the moment.
What is more, this particular December conference occurs every year and it is always on the same date - right around Littleboy 2's birthday. (Apart from three years ago, when the conference had to be hastily cancelled for his unexpectedly early birth). Which is also a shame. And unless he drastically changes career, it will happen every year for the foreseeable future.
Things always seem to go wrong when The Doctor is away. Last time, I spent the whole weekend liaising with the local garage about what was wrong with the Evil Dodge (diagnosis -thousands of dollars worth of Wrong) and then trying to get hold of The Doctor in Barcelona to sanction it being mended. This time, snow is forecast for tomorrow night and I am dreading being snowed in at the top of a vertiginous driveway with no idea how to shovel myself out. I realise this is rather pathetic, but I am a City Girl totally unused to any extremes of weather and although in a way I am looking forward to seeing the first snowfall here, it's bloody typical that it'll probably happen while I'm here alone.
Anyway, him being away always brings home to me that it's unbelievably hard work on your own with small children. It doesn't happen to me very often and I realise I'm lucky. So, this one goes out to all the single mums out there (including my fabulous sister) who deal with stuff on their own ALL the time, and don't whinge about it at all. You rock.
Wednesday, 2 December 2009
The postman always rings twice (but not the UPS man)
It's that time of year again. We've had Black Friday and then Cyber Monday, and Amazon is emailing me ten times a day to tell me about its fabulous 'holiday toy deals'. Never mind the opening of the Advent calendar, the first of December means online ordering kicks in and UPS and Fedex vans, the modern day Santas, are out in full force.
This time last year I was writing this and bemoaning the fact that the London postman NEVER delivered packages, even if you were in, but put a note through the door asking you to go to some god-forsaken depot. Here it is a little different. Packages are delivered, and the delivery guys don't bother to ring the doorbell, even if you are in; they just leave the packages sitting outside on the driveway.
Now, I realise that this is probably testament to the low crime rate in the town where I live, and this has to be a Good Thing. But it never ceases to amaze me. This morning we had a huge wooden play table delivered, and it was just left outside by Fedex, despite the fact that I was here - I can't even carry the thing, so there it will stay until The Doctor arrives home later today. Then a UPS man appeared with another heavy package and just shoved it into my arms and ran off as I was walking up the drive with the Littleboys. (The boys, of course, are incredibly curious as to the contents - so far I've got away with pretending it's 'something for Daddy').
Walking past another house on the street, I saw the most enormous object sitting by the front door - it must at the very least have been a tractor in a box. Our neighbours had a laptop delivered once, and that was just dumped outside with a note. If there were any criminals, they'd be having a field day.
The postman (I really should refer to him the carrier, as that's how he instructed me when we first met) on the other hand, is lovely. If I see him coming up the drive, he brings the mail up to the door instead of putting it in the box; we pass the time of day and have a good chat, and he waves at me when I drive past him in the car in another part of town. (I'm still waiting for him to exchange his uniform of shorts for winter trousers; surely he will when it snows?)
If there's any mail not for us, he keeps it back - I can always tell when he's been away as random letters for previous occupants start appearing. And best of all, here you can leave letters in your own mailbox to be posted, rather than making a trip to the mailboxes in town or the post office. All so much better than my experiences with Royal Mail, although the queues (sorry LINES) at the Post Office for purchasing stamps are just as long.
Now if only I could find some Christmas cards that don't have naff Santa-themed envelopes.....
This time last year I was writing this and bemoaning the fact that the London postman NEVER delivered packages, even if you were in, but put a note through the door asking you to go to some god-forsaken depot. Here it is a little different. Packages are delivered, and the delivery guys don't bother to ring the doorbell, even if you are in; they just leave the packages sitting outside on the driveway.
Now, I realise that this is probably testament to the low crime rate in the town where I live, and this has to be a Good Thing. But it never ceases to amaze me. This morning we had a huge wooden play table delivered, and it was just left outside by Fedex, despite the fact that I was here - I can't even carry the thing, so there it will stay until The Doctor arrives home later today. Then a UPS man appeared with another heavy package and just shoved it into my arms and ran off as I was walking up the drive with the Littleboys. (The boys, of course, are incredibly curious as to the contents - so far I've got away with pretending it's 'something for Daddy').
Walking past another house on the street, I saw the most enormous object sitting by the front door - it must at the very least have been a tractor in a box. Our neighbours had a laptop delivered once, and that was just dumped outside with a note. If there were any criminals, they'd be having a field day.
The postman (I really should refer to him the carrier, as that's how he instructed me when we first met) on the other hand, is lovely. If I see him coming up the drive, he brings the mail up to the door instead of putting it in the box; we pass the time of day and have a good chat, and he waves at me when I drive past him in the car in another part of town. (I'm still waiting for him to exchange his uniform of shorts for winter trousers; surely he will when it snows?)
If there's any mail not for us, he keeps it back - I can always tell when he's been away as random letters for previous occupants start appearing. And best of all, here you can leave letters in your own mailbox to be posted, rather than making a trip to the mailboxes in town or the post office. All so much better than my experiences with Royal Mail, although the queues (sorry LINES) at the Post Office for purchasing stamps are just as long.
Now if only I could find some Christmas cards that don't have naff Santa-themed envelopes.....
Monday, 30 November 2009
Oh sh*t....
So just picture the scene. We are sitting peacefully by a beautiful bay eating sandwiches from a deli (yes, another picnic in November, this is getting ridiculous...) watching the boats and a couple of seagulls float by. The picnic also includes a muffin - one of those incredible American ones which appears to be made out of sweet, sticky plastic. It has, says The Doctor disdainfully, chocolate chips in it as well as blueberries.
En route back to the car, Littleboy 1 decides to climb up the wooden railings by the sea, where the gulls have been sitting. We hastily call him down before he has the chance to topple headfirst into the water. Then we have the usual kerfuffle of getting both Littleboys into their carseats, persuading them to abandon favourite sticks and so forth, and be strapped in.
Suddenly all hell breaks loose. The Doctor is shouting and cursing and calling for baby wipes; Littleboy 1 is giggling hysterically. It transpires that Littleboy 1 has got seagull shit all over himself from climbing the railings - and The Doctor also has it all over him. Not only that, but The Doctor has inadvertently managed to get some in his mouth. He starts frantically swigging mineral water from our bottle and spitting it out.
He is also furious with Littleboy1, who finds the whole thing incredibly funny. Littleboy 1 is going through a real toilet humour phase at the moment and we are trying our hardest to discourage him from saying 'poo' at every opportunity. So the idea of his father getting bird poo in his mouth is about the most hilarious thing he's ever heard. We both remonstrate with Littleboy 1 for laughing at 'poor Daddy' and tell him to be quiet.
At this point the corners of my mouth begin to twitch slightly but I keep it in check, seeing that The Doctor is really not amused. Eventually he sits back down in the car, still grimacing. "So what happened?" I venture to ask. "I thought it was that bloody muffin," he replies.
I can't hold it in any longer and burst into hysterical high pitched giggles. Setting both Littleboys off at the same time.
Luckily at this point The Doctor also saw the funny side. But I have a feeling persuading Littleboy1 that poo is not funny is starting to become a lost cause.....
En route back to the car, Littleboy 1 decides to climb up the wooden railings by the sea, where the gulls have been sitting. We hastily call him down before he has the chance to topple headfirst into the water. Then we have the usual kerfuffle of getting both Littleboys into their carseats, persuading them to abandon favourite sticks and so forth, and be strapped in.
Suddenly all hell breaks loose. The Doctor is shouting and cursing and calling for baby wipes; Littleboy 1 is giggling hysterically. It transpires that Littleboy 1 has got seagull shit all over himself from climbing the railings - and The Doctor also has it all over him. Not only that, but The Doctor has inadvertently managed to get some in his mouth. He starts frantically swigging mineral water from our bottle and spitting it out.
He is also furious with Littleboy1, who finds the whole thing incredibly funny. Littleboy 1 is going through a real toilet humour phase at the moment and we are trying our hardest to discourage him from saying 'poo' at every opportunity. So the idea of his father getting bird poo in his mouth is about the most hilarious thing he's ever heard. We both remonstrate with Littleboy 1 for laughing at 'poor Daddy' and tell him to be quiet.
At this point the corners of my mouth begin to twitch slightly but I keep it in check, seeing that The Doctor is really not amused. Eventually he sits back down in the car, still grimacing. "So what happened?" I venture to ask. "I thought it was that bloody muffin," he replies.
I can't hold it in any longer and burst into hysterical high pitched giggles. Setting both Littleboys off at the same time.
Luckily at this point The Doctor also saw the funny side. But I have a feeling persuading Littleboy1 that poo is not funny is starting to become a lost cause.....
Friday, 27 November 2009
Being thankful
So, my first American Thanksgiving was a thoroughly good one.
The boys gave us a fabulous 8am lie-in (well, there's something to be said for them staying up too late) and after breakfast we went for a walk down to the harbourside, where the sea was as calm as a millpond. It was eerily quiet, as it can be on Christmas Day in London, without the usual stream of SUVs up ond down Main Street.
After watching the final 10 minutes of the Macy's parade on TV (the Littleboys were not enthralled and for some reason objected violently to the singing of White Christmas; meanwhile I was marvelling at how young the 60something Carly Simon looks), we went round to our friends for a delicious lunch. An expat from Germany, my friend had given a Teutonic slant to the meal, so we had turkey with mushroom gravy, sprouts, carrots and cranberry sauce accompanied by excellent German potato dumplings. Then we walked down to the nearby beach, where the Littleboys and their friends threw pebbles into the sea, an activity that kept them satisfied for at least half an hour, while we all basked in mild November sunshine.
After that it was back for more - fruit cheesecakes, coffee and gingerbread men, before, stuffed to the gills, we returned home. We then spoke to various family members on Skype (who coincidentally had all been having a drinks party and were suitably merry). All in all, it felt quite like Christmas.
So, in the spirit of all things American, what am I thankful for this year? Being lucky enough to be living in a beautiful place, whose attractiveness still hasn't lost the ability to impress me at any time of year. Having made some lovely friends here who were kind enough to give us Thanksgiving dinner. The Doctor and the Littleboys, the three men in my life who make it all worthwhile. Passing my New York driving test the other week (Hallelujah - let this be the last driving test I ever have to take). Skype, for allowing us to see and speak to people halfway round the world. And my blogging friends, who always have the ability to make me smile. Luckily, despite the shenanigans at Pond Parleys and the odd anonymous commenter here, the blogosphere is MAINLY peopled by friendly souls without an axe to grind - long may that continue....
The boys gave us a fabulous 8am lie-in (well, there's something to be said for them staying up too late) and after breakfast we went for a walk down to the harbourside, where the sea was as calm as a millpond. It was eerily quiet, as it can be on Christmas Day in London, without the usual stream of SUVs up ond down Main Street.
After watching the final 10 minutes of the Macy's parade on TV (the Littleboys were not enthralled and for some reason objected violently to the singing of White Christmas; meanwhile I was marvelling at how young the 60something Carly Simon looks), we went round to our friends for a delicious lunch. An expat from Germany, my friend had given a Teutonic slant to the meal, so we had turkey with mushroom gravy, sprouts, carrots and cranberry sauce accompanied by excellent German potato dumplings. Then we walked down to the nearby beach, where the Littleboys and their friends threw pebbles into the sea, an activity that kept them satisfied for at least half an hour, while we all basked in mild November sunshine.
After that it was back for more - fruit cheesecakes, coffee and gingerbread men, before, stuffed to the gills, we returned home. We then spoke to various family members on Skype (who coincidentally had all been having a drinks party and were suitably merry). All in all, it felt quite like Christmas.
So, in the spirit of all things American, what am I thankful for this year? Being lucky enough to be living in a beautiful place, whose attractiveness still hasn't lost the ability to impress me at any time of year. Having made some lovely friends here who were kind enough to give us Thanksgiving dinner. The Doctor and the Littleboys, the three men in my life who make it all worthwhile. Passing my New York driving test the other week (Hallelujah - let this be the last driving test I ever have to take). Skype, for allowing us to see and speak to people halfway round the world. And my blogging friends, who always have the ability to make me smile. Luckily, despite the shenanigans at Pond Parleys and the odd anonymous commenter here, the blogosphere is MAINLY peopled by friendly souls without an axe to grind - long may that continue....
Wednesday, 25 November 2009
Ten things I never knew about Thanksgiving in New York
1. Every Thanksgiving Day, there is a huge parade in Manhattan, sponsored by Macy's department store (which seems to have a monopoly on sponsoring national holidays). This involves, as far as I have been told, huge inflatable balloons of beloved American characters such as Mickey Mouse, Donald Duck and, er, Spongebob Squarepants. People make special trips into the city just to see the balloons being blown up the day before, and of course on the day itself. Alternatively, you can watch it all in a three hour special on NBC.
2. Thanksgiving Eve is (at least according to my hairdresser) the 'biggest party night of the year'. I have a feeling that this will pass me by....
3. Anyone not partying is furiously travelling around the country trying to get home, just like Christmas Eve in the UK. Apparently this year fewer Americans are flying and more are driving. The roads should therefore be great fun....
4. Also similar to the UK at Christmas, TV and radio takes on a seasonal feverishness, with nothing but traffic reports and items on how to cook your turkey.
5. All the preschools traditionally have a Thanksgiving feast - a lovely idea, I think. Littleboy 1 was asked to bring in 'a bottle of blue cheese dressing'. (When I remarked to an American acquaintance that this seemed a little odd for a bunch of four year olds, she replied. "Yes, it does. I mean, Ranch dressing maybe, but blue cheese..?.")
6. The day after Thanksgiving is known as 'Black Friday' and is when everyone rushes to the shops to start their Christmas shopping. Shops advertise huge deals and the crowds are apparently horrendous. Last year, someone was actually trampled to death at a Wal-Mart on Long Island in the rush.
7. Contrary to many Americans' belief, Black Friday is not actually a public holiday. However, everyone takes it as such. Except The Doctor, who is determinedly going into work so that he can take another day's holiday at Christmas. I only hope there is someone there to let him in...
8. Black Friday is also traditionally when Christmas decorations go up. Thinking that this time we ought to join in, I bought a string of fairy lights for the fir tree on our driveway. (Although The Doctor pointed out that this will require an outdoor extension lead - something that hadn't occurred to me.....I'm just not au fait with this outdoor decoration thing).
9. Stop N Shop (or Stop N Strop) my local hypermarket, actually closes at 3pm on Thanksgiving Day. This is the first time since we've been here that it hasn't been open all day, every day....how will everyone cope?
10. A surprising number of perfectly intelligent Americans do not seem to know that we don't have Thanksgiving in the UK. Why they think we might celebrate the Pilgrim Fathers sitting down with the Indians to have a meal is not quite clear..........
2. Thanksgiving Eve is (at least according to my hairdresser) the 'biggest party night of the year'. I have a feeling that this will pass me by....
3. Anyone not partying is furiously travelling around the country trying to get home, just like Christmas Eve in the UK. Apparently this year fewer Americans are flying and more are driving. The roads should therefore be great fun....
4. Also similar to the UK at Christmas, TV and radio takes on a seasonal feverishness, with nothing but traffic reports and items on how to cook your turkey.
5. All the preschools traditionally have a Thanksgiving feast - a lovely idea, I think. Littleboy 1 was asked to bring in 'a bottle of blue cheese dressing'. (When I remarked to an American acquaintance that this seemed a little odd for a bunch of four year olds, she replied. "Yes, it does. I mean, Ranch dressing maybe, but blue cheese..?.")
6. The day after Thanksgiving is known as 'Black Friday' and is when everyone rushes to the shops to start their Christmas shopping. Shops advertise huge deals and the crowds are apparently horrendous. Last year, someone was actually trampled to death at a Wal-Mart on Long Island in the rush.
7. Contrary to many Americans' belief, Black Friday is not actually a public holiday. However, everyone takes it as such. Except The Doctor, who is determinedly going into work so that he can take another day's holiday at Christmas. I only hope there is someone there to let him in...
8. Black Friday is also traditionally when Christmas decorations go up. Thinking that this time we ought to join in, I bought a string of fairy lights for the fir tree on our driveway. (Although The Doctor pointed out that this will require an outdoor extension lead - something that hadn't occurred to me.....I'm just not au fait with this outdoor decoration thing).
9. Stop N Shop (or Stop N Strop) my local hypermarket, actually closes at 3pm on Thanksgiving Day. This is the first time since we've been here that it hasn't been open all day, every day....how will everyone cope?
10. A surprising number of perfectly intelligent Americans do not seem to know that we don't have Thanksgiving in the UK. Why they think we might celebrate the Pilgrim Fathers sitting down with the Indians to have a meal is not quite clear..........
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