angloyankophile

Graze: Nature Delivered (AKA How to Help a Snack-a-holic)

2012-01-31T07:50:00.001Z

Once, I emailed my co-worker to ask if he was free for lunch and wanted to grab wonton noodles with me in Chinatown. "Sure," he wrote back. "But I take my lunch at 1 pm - is that too late for you?" "???" I replied. "Your lunch seems to run from 10 am - 4 pm," he wrote. "Every time I come up to your office, you have food out on your desk during those hours. It's nearly a 24/7 spread." "I SNACK," I wrote back faux-angrily. "It's called GRAZING," I faux-fumed.

"You should eat a more substantial and slow-releasing energy breakfast," advised another colleague. "I make myself a bowl of steel-cut oatmeal every morning with a generous helping of almonds, walnuts and a handful of goji berries." "Mmm hmm," I nodded, scribbling down notes while wiping away a remnant of Nutella smeared on my pinky - evidence of my cinnamon and raisin bagel breakfast habit.

I get hungry mid-morning. So what? Rather than stress about it, I buy myself snacks. Which is fine except that I sometimes don't have enough forward planning to buy materials in advance and end up raiding the biscuit cupboard at work when I find myself shaking with low blood sugar around 11:30 a.m. - a lot. In emergencies, this is probably fine, but not good on a regular basis. So I tried to buy a pack of dried fruits and nuts at Sainsbury's to last me through the week. This was also, in theory, a good plan, except for the fact that I got so BORED of dried fruits and nuts, I felt like a freaking grey squirrel. I took the rest of the pack to the park and fed it to one. Just kidding. (But I thought about it.)

My snacking is also somewhat compulsive. The nature of my job means that I spend a lot of time problem solving or explaining things to people or writing long, angry emails (AKA negotiating). And when I'm deep in concentration, I tend to snack. Or chew gum.

Enter the Graze box: for £3.49, this compact little box with four compartments filled with different varieties of snacks that you choose arrives at your office desk once a week or as often as you'd like. Skeptical, I paid a visit to yet another co-worker, whose husband had given her a Graze subscription as a present one year. She loved them. And since Graze was running a promotional deal where you can get your first box free and your next box half price, I decided to try it.

Graze gives you the opportunity to choose what kind of box you'd like: 1) a "Nibble Box", which gives you maximum variety and is no-holds-barred when it comes to what kind of snacks you get (yes, it includes the occasional piece of chocolate in the form of, say, a chocolate button) 2) an "Eat Well Box", which includes strictly healthy foods and the occasional "treat" 3) the "Boost Box", which is the strictest, most nutritional box that consists of nuts, seeds, and maybe dried fruit and 4) the "Light Box" which contains low calorie nibbles. You can guess where this story is going, right? I started with the "Boost Box". New year, new me, right? Then, my face fell when I realized that, duh, I couldn't get chocolate buttons in the Boost Box. So then my finger hovered over the Eat Well Box. Nixed that idea in about 2 seconds. Then the Light Box. Finally I gave up and just headed over to the Nibble Box. You can choose what snacks you "love", "like", want to "try" or simply "bin" (AKA never have it delivered. EVER.). Click, done.

I admit it, when my first box arrived, I was so excited (and hungry) I kind of nearly ate the whole thing. My first box had "Billionaire's Shortbread", a mix comprised of dried cranberries, small toffee slices, and white chocolate buttons. Heavenly. The other sections had kalamata and halkidiki olives (weird for a mid-morning snack, but hey, you could have those mid-afternoon ... or at 9:30 a.m. Not saying that I did. Not saying that I did), cinnamon and apple flapjacks (YUM! And - butter, whoa!), and herb-y rice crackers. They were great. And the best thing is that you can rate your snacks after you've received them so you can ensure that you either get them again, often, or never ever again. I was like, so glad I didn't opt for the Eat Well Box. I'd just be grumpy. But then again, I haven't stepped on the scale lately ...

Best Friends Get UGG-ly Together

2012-01-22T22:11:00.000Z

That's Udita on the left and me on the right.

After agonizing over whether or not to buy a pair of UGGs for oh, a few years, Udita finally took the plunge - but not before also agonizing over what color and height she should buy ("Gray or chocolate brown? I think gray but then you sent me that email that said I should get chocolate brown so now I really think I should get chocolate brown. But the gray look good too!") then experiencing buyer's remorse ("I totally should have gotten the long chocolate browns, not the short grays. I totally regret it. Do you like them? You think so? You think the gray look good?").

So momentous was this decision that we decided to co-ordinate our outfits so we'd both be wearing our UGGs when meeting each other for lunch a couple weeks ago.

Having lunch with Udita and writing tormented emails to each other about what color UGGs and iPad covers to buy reminded me of my New Year's resolution to make more of an effort to visit my friends - wherever they are in the world. This especially hit home this weekend after Adeline's third (or fourth? Or even fifth?) trip down to London to stay with me and my lousy one-time trip to Edinburgh to see her.

This picture reminds me of how lovely my real friends are and how precious the time I have with them truly is.

Ashtanga Yoga @ The Life Centre, Islington

2012-01-22T21:49:00.000Z

I've been fortunate enough to live near two, well-known and established yoga studios during my time in London: the Iyengar Institute in Maida Vale and now The Life Centre in Islington. And while my previous experience at the Iyengar Institute was a little, erm, overwhelming, it still made me reassess my current yoga practice and I came away with some very helpful corrections/adjustments from the instructor.

So when I attended the Ashtanga Level 1-2 community class at The Life Centre on Friday with Adeline, I went with an open mind - but also with the intention to get my butt kicked. And I did. Have my butt kicked, that is. I still can't lift my arms above my head and the class was on Friday. Like, ow?

While I can't envision myself being able to afford the £13, sometimes £15 per class fee at The Life Centre on a regular basis, the community classes are priced at a more affordable £7 and seemed to be the perfect opportunity for me and Adeline to take a class together in my neighborhood (we took Lauren's class together last time she visited and I took her regular Ashtanga class at Union Yoga when I was in Edinburgh).

The class was taught by Ulric Whyte, whose soothing voice and slower-paced Ashtanga sequences helped calm me as I had been hysterically running around (with poor Adeline in tow) trying to make it to the class on time, after a bus had severely delayed our efforts. But after a few too many vinyasas, I couldn't resist the urge to rest in child's pose and now my triceps are paying the price.

The studio is a incredibly calming, quiet haven away from the hustle and bustle of Angel and Essex Road. Inside, you can't hear any cars or noises from the street interrupting your practice and the wood floors, gentle lighting and warm studio help you focus on your breath and asanas. I was also pleasantly surprised at the size of the class, which was considerably small-medium sized (granted, it was in the middle of a Friday afternoon) and it made me wish I had more free Fridays to take off, just so I could make it to the class again. And despite the multiple chaturangas, the pain made savasana feel ever-so-sweet.

Thai With A Twist: Suda Thai, Covent Garden

2012-01-22T20:36:00.000Z

St. Martin's Courtyard in Covent Garden is my new favorite escape: quiet, tucked away, and full of my favorite stores (Twenty8Twelve, Jaeger, and the newly discovered French organic skincare brand, Melvita) it also currently boasts a pop-up concession from Glassworks, a newly opened yoga studio and is, above all, QUIET. Struggling past tourists down Long Acre on my way to Zara is enough to give me heart palpitations, but slipping into St. Martin's Courtyard is like a little sanctuary. At least, for now - until more people stop forgetting it exists and start spoiling it for me.

Meanwhile, I have Suda Thai to enjoy. Since its opening last year, I've been for lunch and dinner on several occasions and its delicious and diverse menu means I get to try something each time - not just stick to my boring usual of pad thai (although their version is delish).

When Udita was in town a few weeks ago, we met there for lunch and caught up on life, shopping, and everything in between. I always order a lychee juice as their juices are freshly pressed and their juice options are both varied and plentiful.

I also love the contemporary interior and spacious seating, which means even at its peak times, you can still hear your dining partner's conversation without having to shout - rare for London restaurants and a real blessing. Service is prompt, polite, and attentive.

Though I'm a big fan of their noodle dishes, I'd also recommend their rice and salad options.

I took a leaf from Udita's book when I met up with a co-worker for lunch last week and ordered the Gae Yang Som Tum: grilled lamb chop with lemongrass and chilli dressing, served with som tum (a spicy Thai salad consisting of fresh green papaya, fish sauce, dried shrimp, chilis, garlic, and lime). The sticky rice that is optional (but advised) is stickier than what I'm used to, but apparently more traditional. My only complaint is that I managed to accidentally eat a whole clove of garlic, thinking it was something else. Oops. Needless to say, I avoided meetings for the rest of the afternoon. Dragon breath.

Prices are very reasonable (read: cheap) and the experience is one that is both enjoyable and calming. I'll definitely be a returning regular.

Photos courtesy of Udita Iyengar.

Favorite Gift #7: Dinner at Asia de Cuba and Sleeping Beauty @ The Royal Ballet

2012-01-22T18:33:00.000Z

Yes, it's been over a month since my birthday passed and we're soon about to hit John's birthday, and I'm still blogging about my presents ... I can't help sharing!

Shortly after my birthday, Jodi sent me a text asking if I was free on Thursday. I texted back, saying that I had planned on taking a ballet class with a friend after work, but nothing could have prepared me for what she responded with: "You'll still be doing something ballet-related, since I got tickets for us to see Sleeping Beauty at The Royal Opera House!" I kind of almost passed out with excitement. Despite my obsession with ballet and frequent visits to Sadler's Wells, I hadn't yet made it to see The Royal Ballet. I immediately called off my plans to work on my plie at the Central School of Ballet and met Jodi instead at Asia de Cuba, where she had booked a table for two.

Though we were booked in for the pre-theatre menu, our food took some time to arrive, which was a shame since we were rushed. The courses selected from the set menu were nevertheless delicious and I particularly remembered my dessert, which was Caribbean carrot cake served with a lemongrass-infused raisin ice cream and pineapple cream cheese frosting, which was at once creative, delectable, and cool. Jodi opted for the Mexican doughnuts, which she had apparently had before and loved, consisting of sweet brioche doughnuts rolled in cinnamon sugar and filled with butterscotch sauce. YUM. Because we were in such a rush and waited for over half an hour for our main courses (which would have been completely reasonable, had we not been trying to make our seats at the ROH), the ever-helpful staff offered to comp one of our meals - a meaningful gesture we appreciated. Thankfully, we're returning to the restaurant for John, Joe, and Peter's birthdays this week (yes, they all have birthdays within a few days of each other) so we can really sit back and enjoy the experience without the mad dash.

And on to the ballet ... I certainly hadn't expected to be seven rows from the stage, and when I discovered that we, in fact, were, I teared up a bit when the curtain rose. For someone who studied ballet from the ages of 2 - 17 and used to pore over her subscription of Dance Magazine page-by-page, the incredible view was overwhelming. I can't remember the last time I was actually able to see the expressions on dancers' faces, let alone the details of their costumes and footwork - I'm usually squinting from the nosebleed section, obscured by a column.

The dancing was spectacular (albeit with a few near misses - Princess Aurora nearly lost her balance in one particularly tricky partnered arabesque and a principal dancer did actually lose his balance and fell backwards after completing a tours en l'air) and the set was absolutely magical. As the first ballet I ever had a part in (I was 8 and I'm pretty sure my lilac costume is still lurking in my closet at home somewhere), Sleeping Beauty has always made an impression on me and seeing it performed by The Royal Ballet, at the risk of sounding cliched, was truly a dream come true.

The evening was one of the best gifts I've ever received and I was so touched by Jodi's thoughtfulness that it'll definitely be a present I'll never forget. Thanks, Jodi!

Photo source

Favorite Gift #6: The Absolutely True Diary Of A Part-Time Indian by Sherman Alexie

2011-12-31T17:03:00.001Z

The book I wanted to buy and give to all my friends last year was World War II RAF veteran and recipient of the DFC, Geoffrey Wellum's First Light. There are rarely books I feel this strongly about. I mean, I loved Skippy Dies by Paul Murray, which was shortlisted for the Man Booker Prize, and raved about it to anyone who listened. But I wasn't quite as passionate about it as First Light.

Well, I've finally found one of those. It's by one of my favorite authors, Sherman Alexie, and it's called The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian. It was given to me as a birthday present by Ruth, whose judgement on books is one of a handful that I trust. If she thought I'd love it, then I would. I just didn't know how much.

Let me tell you a quick story about Mr. Alexie, if you're not familiar with him. Here's his Wiki bio, but I read Reservation Blues in high school and my signed copy of the book was the only book I took with me to college so that it'd be the first one on my dorm shelf and would make me feel at home. As someone from a small town in Washington state, who knows the places Alexie describes intimately, and who studied about Native American history and culture in the limited confines of my elementary, junior high and high school classrooms, and who questioned her identity as a Chinese-American growing up in a small, conservative town on a regular basis, Alexie's writing resonated with me like no other's. To top that, I met him at a book signing at Seattle's famous The Elliott Bay Book Company and he was warm, friendly and took great care to spell my name correctly, citing his friend's similar spelling as a reason for him to check. I think in my excitement of meeting him, I babbled something incoherent and embarrassing about spelling it however he wanted to because it "really didn't matter". He kind of just looked at me. I think Ruth has a story in a similar vein of meeting him.

The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian is actually classified as YA (that's Young Adult, for all you fellow colleagues in book publishing who don't work in the States) though I recently demanded that my senior citizen of a mother read it as well. It's a book that anyone, male or female, of any age, could appreciate. It follows Junior, whose tragic life on a poor, desolate, Indian reservation in Wellpinit (eastern Washington) is chronicled in a series of anecdotes told in the first person and illustrated by rather amusing cartoons (drawn by Ellen Forney). I'm guessing, though can't confirm every detail, that the book is based on Alexie's own experiences of growing up in Wellpinit and the tragedy that faced him, his family, friends, and community at every turn. I have always known that the treatment Native Americans have received and continue to receive, and the racism they have faced, is brutal, shocking, and unfair. But this book just magnified that by ten, when you realize it's a child, not an adult, relating these experiences.

Alexie's words in this book, like his others, are poetic - not flights of fancy poetic, but metaphors that are firmly rooted in reality as well: "So I draw because I feel like it might be my only real chance to escape the reservation. I think the world is a series of broken dams and floods, and my cartoons are tiny little lifeboats." To me, it's impossible to read that sentence and not feel your heart break.

Above all, this book is funny. Alexie's comic timing is impeccable. Disbelief and anger are played out not in obvious displays of rage and sadness, but comedy and sarcasm. A lot of sarcasm. When Junior describes the destitute state of his school on the "rez" and his teacher who often falls asleep in front of the television, forgetting to go to school and thus, failing to teach, he says: "Yep, we have to send a kid down to the teachers' housing compound behind the school to wake Mr. P, who is always conking out in front of his TV ... And yeah, I know it's weird, but the tribe actually houses all of the teachers in one-bedroom cottages and musty, old trailer houses behind the school. You can't teach at our school if you don't live in the compound. It was like some kind of prison-work farm for our liberal, white, vegetarian do-gooders and conservative, white missionary saviors."

So this book, which moved me to tears on at least four different occasions, will be the book I buy and pass on to friends in 2012. Thank you, Ruth, for passing it on to me!

Favorite Gift #5: A Lee Klabin Dress

2011-12-12T09:42:00.000Z

Isn't this dress gorgeous? It's by Lee Klabin and was given to me by the lovely Alice. Though I'll have to rock it with some serious Spanx, it fits perfectly otherwise and is something I will definitely be bringing out once the weather gets a little warmer (i.e. Spring/Summer 2012). And since I have a few weddings to attend next year, this dress will do quite the trick.

My favorite part is the shoulder detail - here's a closeup:

It's incredibly quirky and beautiful, which is exactly what I love. Lucky me!

Favorite Gift #4: Birthday Dinner at Yauatcha

2011-12-05T20:22:00.000Z

It's been a while since John and I have returned to Yauatcha, the brainchild of restauranteur Alan Yau (Hakkasan, anyone?), but it remains a firm favorite on our list of special places to eat. I was, admittedly, a tad disappointed with my most recent visit, which was - oh, probably over a year ago - when it seemed that the chefs were more concerned with painstakingly shaping the har gau dim sum into animal shapes rather than using quality ingredients.

But I'm happy to report that this had all changed when I went for my birthday meal with John this weekend: the prawns in the har gau were plump and fresh (minus the unnecessary bunny rabbit shape, thank goodness), the wrapping was paper thin, and the other steamed dim sum we ordered was worthy of Yauatcha fame (though, bizarrely, I noticed the chopsticks were now disposable and not dissimilar to those of a Chinese takeaway - not befitting of the type of establishment Yauatcha sets itself out to be, surely). Another warning when being seated in the main dining room is how close in proximity you sit with your fellow diners, all the more opportunities for eager eyes to sneak surreptitious (or in our case, it was rather open gawking) glances at what you've ordered.

John and I selected a series of dim sum dishes, which included the prawn har gau (delicious), pork and prawn shu mai (a bit bland), char siu buns (John's favorite and a childhood favorite of mine as well), chiu chow vegetarian dumplings (the highlight and also named after the region my father is from), deep fried soft shell crab (over seasoned and over populated with a nut garnish), prawn and chive dumplings (beautifully encased in a green wrapper), served with a pot of white tea. It was clear that Yauatcha had returned to its roots of preparing and producing high quality dim sum with fresh ingredients in a sleek, cool (at points, a little too cool) environment.

Though our stomachs were groaning with over-indulgence by the time all our bamboo steamers were cleared, we couldn't resist our sweet tooths and ordered two macaroons to share for dessert, as a small compromise. Yauatcha, as well as for its Asian cuisine, is also famous for its incredibly crafted confectionery and cakes. One visit to the sweet bar at the front of the restaurant will have you turning up your nose at sticky toffee pudding (though that would never happen to me).

This was the perfect and sweetest ending to a wonderful birthday - courtesy of the ever-wonderful John.

Favorite Gift #3: Finger Printing Art Set

2011-12-04T18:19:00.000Z

I've known Iain for as long as I've known John and he always manages to give me gifts that appeal to my inner, creative child (last year I received an adorable cupcake-patterned apron and matching oven gloves) - and I adore them. This year was no exception:

I had just been on a crafty website last week that explained how you could make your own fingerprint animal gift tags and made a mental note to buy the materials in order to make my own. Well, it seems as though Iain read my mind because he gave me this awesome set, complete with ink pads, rubber stamps, and colored pencils:

It may seem silly to you, but I can't wait to get started!

Favorite Gift #2: An Indulgent Birthday Cake

2011-12-04T07:58:00.000Z

In my previous job, the birthday person was responsible for bringing in her own cake or treats and the department would sign a joint card, which I thought was perfectly fair and a nice practice. However at my current office, not only did my manager present me with this decadent "curly wurly" chocolate cake with cream cheese frosting from Kastner & Ovens, but I also received several cards throughout the day and a lovely bouquet of tulips (!!!). We enjoyed this with a cup of tea later on in the afternoon and I've been eating leftovers for breakfast ever since ...

Favorite Gift #1: Longchamp Balzane Wallet

2011-12-03T21:57:00.000Z

On the morning of my birthday, I woke up to find the beautifully gift wrapped package above from John nestled next to me on my pillow. And inside, was this:

I don't know about you, but I personally think it's pretty damn beautiful. This is the wallet from Longchamp's newest collection, Balzane, and it also comes in black, dark green and red. The first time I saw this wallet displayed in the New Bond Street store, I think I gasped audibly - I thought it was the most beautiful wallet I'd seen, beating even the classic Mulberry continental wallet I'd been originally lusting after. Ladies and gentlemen, I fell in love. John saw me drooling over it and must have taken note, since weeks later, I was busy transferring all my loyalty cards over from my now retired Ted Baker model.

Sorry, TB - it was time for an upgrade.

I felt guilty about this extravagant gift, but then again ... not guilty enough to return it!

It's My Birthday and I'll Brag If I Want To

2011-12-03T21:46:00.000Z

So, for some reason, just because it's, you know, my birthday and all, means that I get some truly fabulous cards and totally fantastic presents. Huh! Who knew??? I'm so excited about these presents that I'll spend the next few posts highlighting some of my favorites. Needless to say, I'm feeling very spoiled. And also very lucky.

Happy ThanksChristmas: An Angloyankophile Holiday

2011-12-03T07:31:00.000Z

So I know Thanksgiving is, like, way over with, but technically, I can still write about the feast I had last weekend because it wasn't Thanksgiving, but rather, ThanksChristmas (which I briefly explained below).

But first, I forced my British co-workers to acknowledge Thanksgiving last Thursday by circulating an email of an image of Charlie Brown's Thanksgiving at approximately 8:59 a.m., prompting a flurry of polite emails wishing me a happy Thanksgiving and tea-time talk that involved everyone asking me how I was going to celebrate. I also guilt-tripped everyone into acknowledging the American holiday by bringing in a dozen Krispy Kremes (they're American, right?) and sharing them on my floor. Then I had to explain ThanksChristmas to a few people and how I was making candied yams/sweet potato casserole with marshmallows on top while they looked politely interested and fascinated while inside they were probably retching with disgust. It was awesome.

So here's what we made for side dishes at Alison's house:

See? Totally Anglo-American. Sweet potato casserole (with obligatory marshmallows), green bean casserole (with obligatory fried onion rings - and NOT from a can, might I add, though I can't take credit for them), mashed potatoes, roast potatoes, and roast parsnips. Though we had two types of cranberry sauce (a luxury), I did slightly miss the traditional American cranberry sauce in a can that comes out all can-shaped and is served in slices.

Then for dessert, pumpkin pie:

It doesn't look as good as the one I made last year, nor does it look particularly appetizing here, I must admit, but it was pretty satisfactory taste-wise, and we topped it off with some hand-whipped cream. Alison also made some lovely chocolate mousses, served with whiskey-infused blackberries. Delish.

Afterwards, we did the Thanksgiving/Christmas thing of sitting around with indigestion, watching TV and playing games (against each other albeit on our respective iPhones/iPad). It was the perfect ThanksChristmas.

Burp.

(Excuse me).

Happy Thanksgiving! Love, Waitrose

2011-11-24T07:21:00.000Z

I was touched - I repeat, touched - that Waitrose devoted this rather large basket prominently placed in the baking aisle to Libby's pumpkin pie filling. This could be that I was also in a bit of a panic mode when remembering that I had committed to making said pie for our ThanksChristmas dinner this Saturday. Yes, I said ThanksChristmas - since John and I will be rockin' around the Christmas tree in Washington and Tom and Cristy will be dreaming of a white Christmas in Oz come December 25th, Alison came up with the great idea of celebrating two holidays at once in Leicester this weekend. Sweet potato casserole topped with marshmallows, I'm so making YOU.

I'm excited to force everyone to eat my disgusting but wonderfully tasty American concoctions. Pumpkin pie trumps Christmas pudding any day.

Baking a Speedy Recovery: Cinnamon Rolls

2011-11-11T17:59:00.000Z

There are two activities in my life that I find ultra healing and restorative: yoga and baking. If I'm feeling under the weather or off-balance, I'll turn to one or the other to make me feel right again. And one of the few things I've managed to do this week while shuffling around my flat in my rose-print pajama pants and fleece robe is bake: it requires very little energy, produces highly calorific and tasty treats, and all the ingredients can be purchased at the local corner shop, thus requiring no more than a 2 minute walk.

I've never baked cinnamon rolls or anything other than cakes or cookies so was super hesitant to try this recipe as I have a huge fear of failing when it comes to cooking. Not only was this recipe from Ramshackle Glam (yes, again - I've become a teeny tiny obsessed with Jordan's blog) super easy to follow, but it also produced great results - not bad for my first try, eh? I love how you can control the sweetness easily and the way the brown sugar and cinnamon just melt beautifully in the middle.

If you're reading this from the UK and are using a fan oven, the only modification I'd make is to bake for a little less than the recommended time, otherwise your rolls will turn out too brown and crunchy. I also made a simple icing by mixing together one cup of icing sugar with a half teaspoon of vanilla extract and two tablespoons of milk, then drizzled over the rolls while they were still warm.

Initially, I made these as a surprise for John as they're his favorites, but I'm also partial to a couple of warm cinnamon rolls and a hot cup of peppermint tea in the morning. Not to mention that my flat now smells officially like Christmas.

Saying "Thank You" When a Card Just Doesn't Cut It: The Magic of Hampers* (*and not the laundry kind)

2011-11-09T11:37:00.000Z

There are some instances when a thank you card just isn't enough. And when John's mom was over to take care of me after the operation (she came with me to the hospital as well and stayed with me for hours on end in the waiting and recovery rooms), I racked my brain to think of an appropriate way to thank her for her kindness, patience, and downright TLC - that is, when I wasn't drifting in and out of a painkiller haze.

When my head cleared, however, I realized the best way to thank her would be in the form of a gift basket filled with fruit or treats, or what Brits call "hampers" (that's what we Americans throw dirty laundry in, just in case you wanted to know).

Gift baskets always remind me of Christmas, because my dad always seemed to receive them at work around Christmas time and we'd spend the days in the run-up to Christmas munching on cheeses, crackers, and smoked sausages and salmon. Mmm ... and I'm not talking about the Jimmy Dean variety here, y'all.

After unsuccessfully asking for suggestions in the Twittersphere (I even welcomed spam, but all I got was some unrelated restaurant recommendation - jeez, spambots can't even spam properly!), I turned to trusty Google and found Regency Hampers (who also deliver to the US, apparently, btw). Their Bibury Thank You Hamper (pictured above) looked ah-MAZING, and exactly along the lines of what I was looking for. It's packed with goodies you can enjoy right there and then, with friends, or later (the preserves looked especially scrumptious - particularly the strawberry and champagne jam). I also thought it was sweet (though people might find it tacky, I don't know, I'm partial to a bit of tack now and then) that you can choose from a variety of ribbons with greetings, according to the sentiment of your choice. Is that nice or tacky? I don't know. I went for the "thank you" ribbon anyway.

I chose the delivery date I wanted and tracked the parcel all the way to John's mom's hands, then received a text from her saying that she loved it. WIN.

So, the next time someone does something extraordinary for you and a card just doesn't seem to be enough, I'd advise sending food. In a nice basket. Preferably with a gold ribbon.

... And Meanwhile ...

2011-11-08T15:07:00.000Z

I've received a delightful array of flowers from various sources (namely, Alison, Udita, and my co-workers) and numerous get-well-soon cards to cheer me up. I feel so loved. And I think I'm getting there. Almost.

Handle With Care: "I'm American."

2011-11-04T17:39:00.000Z

"I hope you don't mind, but I'm just gonna have to get naked in front of you now," I announced to John's mom, as I assessed the fact that I needed to change into the hospital gown as quickly as possible, after my surgeon swung by my bed and said that they were ready for me. I was at the Royal Surrey County Hospital in Guildford, Surrey, for my first operation under general anesthetic at a NHS hospital. Petrified didn't even begin to describe how I was feeling.

I've had two similar operations in the US at a private hospital in Washington, which cost me a mind-blowingly cool $10,000 two years ago as I had returned to America as an uninsured visitor, needing emergency surgery. I was used to hospitals with lazy Susans and electric blankets. Shiny floors and art on the walls. So I wasn't sure how I'd fare in a state-funded, public hospital. Call it prejudice. I was ashamed to admit that I had somewhat bought into the anti-NHS hype at some of my frustrating, low points. Luckily, my US surgeon was able to refer me to his best friend, who happened to be an English maxillofacial surgeon practicing at the Royal Surrey County Hospital, which is how I found myself pulling on highly unflattering anti-embolism stockings on Wednesday afternoon, preparing for the OR.

"Got your sexy socks on?" asked the nurse who was helping me get ready. "Yup," I replied, showing her the green tights. "Okay, well, just make yourself comfortable in your bed and we'll wheel you in," she said. I was a little confused. They were actually going to wheel me into the operating room? This was new. In the States, you get up and walk into the operating room and literally lie down on the table, waiting for the anesthesiologist to work his magic. "Have you never had a procedure here?" she asked. "Not in this country," I replied. "Ooh, yes, you're American! I LOVE your accent! Why are you even HERE?" she gushed. Her friendly chatter helped me feel more at ease and as soon as I hit the prep room, where the anesthesiologist (or anaesthetist, for you Brits) who had consulted me before the op, was waiting. A team of nurses were by his side - all friendly, smiling, and professional. It was at that point that I finally let go of my anxiety and put my trust in the men in the green scrubs. They knew what they were doing. "I promised you something good to help you relax," said the anesthesiologist kindly, pressing drugs into my IV.

When I came around, after the operation, I remember crying. I don't know why it happened because I wasn't even upset. But the nurse handed me some tissues and comforted me. I wanted to tell him that he reminded me of someone from TV, but I couldn't get the words out. He asked me about my pain levels and fed painkillers into my IV accordingly. I specifically asked not to be on morphine before as it made me sick after my previous two surgeries, so I was glad that the anesthesiologist had listened to my concerns. I was also glad that I had been able to speak to him before the operation and he asked, on more than one occasion, about how I was feeling, what I was afraid of or nervous about. My surgeon came around shortly after while I was coming around, telling me that the surgery had gone very well and that he'd see me in two weeks.

I had been previously told that if I needed to stay overnight, I'd be in a ward with a few other beds, rather than a private room, which I was slightly anxious about, but okay with. However, I was given oxygen for quite a while after the operation and wheeled into a private room with my own bathroom, while a very nice nurse came by and kindly brushed my hair from my face while saying, "Keep the oxygen on, my darling, it'll just help brush the cobwebs away." John's mom came in and quietly read in the corner, staying with me for a few hours afterward, until the same, lovely nurse came in and asked how I was feeling and if I'd like to stay overnight. I told her I would like to if it was all right with her. I felt really bad about taking away beds from other people if they needed it more. I kept expecting them to wheel me back to the bay, but I was able to stay in the room on my own for the rest of the evening, which was perfect.

The junior nurse who had checked me in at the start came in and asked if I wanted some hot food. I was a bit incredulous at the thought of eating after having had my jaw/sinus operated on, but decided to try anyway. The menu was immense - she rattled off a selection of probably twenty or so choices and I settled for some swede mash. "The pasta is quite soft too," she said. "Shall I put some on a plate and you can just try some?" I ended up eating it all. And it might have been the drugs I was on, but it was absolutely delicious.

Soon after, I fell asleep and Alison returned to London, with plans to pick me up when I was discharged the next day. The night nurses came in quietly in intervals to check my blood pressure and offer me painkillers, food, and anything else I wanted. They were friendly, patient, and understanding - unlike the brusque, non-communicative night team I encountered in the US.

So how would I rate my first overnight stay and surgical experience at a British NHS hospital? I have to say that it was truly amazing. I'm so grateful to the kindness, compassion, and thoughtfulness I was shown during my stay there. I'm thankful for the expertise of the doctors and nurses who treated me and who looked after me in the hours following the operation.

I know that the Royal Surrey is an exception and that not all NHS hospitals across the UK are up to its standards. I've seen friends receive some rather appalling treatment in London hospitals, for example. I also know that I'm an exception, having had a special referral to attend this specific hospital in Surrey. But I must say, after having paid no costs towards the hospital after my surgery (except for the antibiotics and painkillers I took home, which will total just over £14), I'm glad to pay my UK taxes every month and I'm glad to make the NHS contribution that comes out of my paycheck - if it means I can receive treatment of that caliber.

M&Cs: The Chewiest Peanut Butter Cookies

2011-10-25T21:15:00.000+01:00

Keeping in line with the Mount Holyoke theme below, I made some peanut butter cookies on Sunday in honor of the MHC tradition of Milk & Cookies (AKA M&Cs), with a recipe stolen from Ramshackle Glam (via Adeline), which I absolutely love.

For cookies, I almost always exclusively follow American-originated recipes: the cookies turn out soft, moist, and most importantly, CHEWY, like the beloved Toll House variety I used to have as a child. British recipes tend to result in cookies that are slightly too crispy and crunchy to my liking (more akin to biscuits), though if I'm making a cake (especially Victoria sponge), I definitely turn to the wisdom of Mary Berry.

After a very yummy yoga class taught by Lauren on Sunday morning, she, Bindy, John, and I indulged in a sumptuous Sunday roast at The Winchester in Islington. And while our stomachs groaned at the sight of the dessert menu, I insisted that we needed something sweet and decided to fulfill a craving for peanut butter cookies. John muttered something about "time constraints", so in an act of defiance, I unfortunately bragged (rather loudly, in fact) that it'd take "20 minutes flat" to produce a batch of warm, chewy cookies.

I spent about 10 minutes looking for my mixer.

So it actually took me thirty minutes, but in the end, I ended up with some delicious, chewy, mouth-wateringly-aromatic peanut butter cookies. WIN.

Though, when I took them into work, they were enjoyed by all but one - who remarked that they "could be crunchier". I glowered.

So that got me thinking: how do YOU prefer your cookies? Crunchy or chewy? Leave your comments below and I just might send you a batch - just the way you like 'em.

Alumnae Elfing: On The Second Day Of Elfing ...

2011-10-22T12:54:00.000+01:00

My elf is full of surprises. I loved my first elfing gift below, but I didn't expect this to continue!

Sorting through yesterday's post this morning, I found a thick envelope with my name and address written in an unmistakably artistic scrawl accidentally tucked under one of our wooden placemats; turning the envelope over confirmed that it was from Anna and I smiled.

Enclosed was a card:

And a handful of handmade envelopes by Anna, who has her own shop on Etsy:

They're fun, beautiful, and one of the best gifts I've ever gotten across the Atlantic. I love my elf. Thanks, Anna!

Alumnae Elfing: It's a Women's College Thing

2011-10-22T08:57:00.000+01:00

Recently, Vicky Chu of Wesleyan College came under fire after writing a rather scathing summation of women's colleges in her school paper (she transferred from Bryn Mawr), including the statement, "It really isn't normal."

As I sit with a cup of hot coffee in my Mount Holyoke hoodie in my London apartment, five years after graduation, mulling over Chu's comments (I have a few favorites - check out the Jezebel article I linked above and you'll know what I mean), I'm smirking. Sorry it didn't work out for you, honey. I hope you found "normal" real quick as soon as you transferred.

But I'm not normal, so I suppose MHC and I were a perfect fit.

And best of all, it's totally not normal to receive this amazing package on a Monday morning from a fellow MHC alum, two class years above me:

I was elfed. You wouldn't get it, Vicky. It's a women's college thing.

It ain't normal.

My elf was Le Petit Elephant AKA Anna. Why the Peeps? You see, good elves know what their recipients like: Anna picked up on clues via Twitter, and knew to send me these amazing Halloween Peeps all the way from Cambridge, Massachusetts to my office desk, accompanied by an equally fantastic Halloween card. It was a little too much kindness for a Monday morning and I must admit, I got a little teary (read: NOT NORMAL).

WARNING: Vicky, you might want to stop reading at this point, as I'm going to explain the elfing tradition and you might vomit at all the utterances of abnormality I'm about to make.

Elfing is a tradition that began in the Mount Holyoke residence halls sometime in the mid-60s. Around this time each year, when the leaves on campus begin to turn a vibrant red, orange, and yellow and carloads of students flock to Atkins Farm for cider apple donuts, two sophomore roommates will quietly sneak down to the room of their two assigned first-year "elfees" - preferably when they're already asleep. As any elf can relate, this often means a) not sleeping, EVER b) setting an alarm for some bizarre time, like 3:17 a.m. or c) waking up very, very early. They'll be armed with gifts, candy, cards, and magazine cutouts of celebrities whose thought bubbles contain compliments about the elfee, which are then taped to the walls of communal bathrooms (not quite what Chu might expect to find - see article for explanation). Elves cover and decorate the dorm room door with streamers, newspaper, and banners. Elfees awake in the morning to confusion, surprise, amusement, and then happiness. This goes on, oh, every day for about a week, until the elves reveal their identities to their elfees at another MHC tradition called - wait for it - Milk & Cookies (or M&Cs, as true Mount Holyoke students refer to them). I can't even fathom explaining that now because I can actually sense the disgust seething from Chu's person, even though we've never met (if we ever do, I suggest it be over a plate of chocolate chip cookies and a glass of ice cold milk).

IT'S NOT NORMAL. But it sure is fun.

By the way ... have you heard about Mountain Day?

Going Back To My Coffee Roots: St. Martin's Coffee & Tea Merchants, Leicester

2011-10-20T07:45:00.001+01:00

Lately, I've been refraining from my "You know what? I DESERVE IT!!!" purchases of soya vanilla lattes in the morning. I actually don't deserve it if my bank balance is nearing zero.

I've never been a serious coffee drinker, which sends many into an incredulous state when I tell them that I hail from Seattle (or at least, a suburb south of Seattle). "Isn't that like ... the BIRTHPLACE of STARBUCKS????" Brits ask in their distinctive intonation. Sure, I visited the Starbucks drive-thrus in high school - but not because I particularly liked the stuff, more so because it was cool. Cool to show up to first period AP American Government with a venti skinny double-shot caramel mocha in hand.

Now that I'm an A-D-U-L-T, I find that I increasingly require coffee to get me going and wine to help me unwind. I call this: G-R-O-W-I-N-G U-P. My mom likens it to dependency and is probably counting down the days I'm going to end up in rehab, either catatonic from caffeine overdose or in a permanently drunken state.

None of that's going to happen, of course. But in order to tighten the purse strings, I've taken to making my own delicious coffee at work every morning in my shiny new, red Bodum cafetiere with coffee from St Martin's Tea & Coffee Merchants in Leicester - all courtesy of John's lovely mom, Alison, who bought me these lovely gifts on a shopping excursion to Leicester's city centre.

Cheers me up just looking at it (even though I'm still in my robe as I write this and will very well be late to work).

Back to the coffee: St. Martin's is, well, it's great. I don't know anything about coffee, but it's the type of laid back, non-pretentious environment that makes all coffee appreciators - experienced and non-experienced alike - comfortable. They hold regular "coffee tastings" outside the shop and you're always welcome to try before you buy, which is always a plus (and a must, if you don't know exactly what you like). The staff is friendly, helpful, and chilled out. They stock a variety of loose leaf teas as well, so if coffee isn't your thing, you're certain to find something that will appeal. Location is also helpful: tucked in St. Martin's Square, the shop and cafe is situated between several quirky and artful boutiques, far removed from the hustle and bustle of the high street. It's feasible to drop by just for a coffee with a friend and browse the shops for the rest of the afternoon without having to step foot into the busy shopping center if you don't want to. And that kind of sums up what I love about it.

Though there's an online ordering facility available on their website, I'm tempted to make repeat trips up to Leicester just so I can stop by - it's that good. More importantly, I'd rather support an independent establishment like St. Martin's in a city like Leicester, where the baristas' passion for coffee is inclusive, rather than the blank stares I receive on the other end of the counter in London - indie or not.

Open House London 2011

2011-09-18T20:52:00.000+01:00

If you're really organized, you would have hit all the Open House London hotspots this weekend and taken advantage of free entry to hundreds of buildings in London that aren't usually open to the public, like the Bank of England, for example, or the 120 Fleet Street which was formerly headquarters of the Daily Express -its particular art deco design still drawing sighs of awe today. I visited 120 Fleet Street and the Freemasons' Hall in Covent Garden with Iain about two or three years ago during Open House London; we completed a tour of both and usually these tours are quite loosely structured so that people have the chance to wander and explore/experience the buildings themselves. It's truly a magnificent thing and I wish that I put more effort into planning and attending this event each year. But I suppose it's one of those cases of taking where I live for granted.

But this morning, after a leisurely lunch at Gail's in Exmouth Market, John and I stumbled upon an Open House event taking place at the Oak Room in New River Head - former boardroom to London's 17th-century water house. Unbeknownst to us, it was pre-bookings only (meaning: one of the rare occasions where you need to sign up and register to view some of the more popular attractions) but we tagged along, pretending to be part of the - might I add - small group. That is, until a busybody blew our cover.

"Is everyone here?" asked the guide from Thames Water. "I think there are a few latecomers but we'll get started anyway." "THESE two just joined in, I don't think THEY'VE booked," said a dumpy, red-haired woman at the front of the group, pointing an accusing finger at us. Her similarly overweight husband carrying a plastic Shakespeare's Globe bag swiveled his cartoon-sheep-t-shirt-torso (sorry, I couldn't help but point out this one, infuriating detail) towards us to glare. "I didn't see them being checked in outside," the fat woman continued. I started laughing involuntarily. I'm so bad. I just didn't know there were vigilant Open House London Gestapo patrolling the sites. "Oh, did you book?" asked the guide kindly, whilst the group of six stared at us. "No, no," said John apologetically, shaking his head. The woman looked gleeful and shook her head. "Well, that's quite alright, don't worry, you can still join! We just ask that people book in case we turn out to have a big group," said the guide kindly. The woman spluttered and turned an angry red, shrugging her shoulders and gesticulating with her hands. Ah yes, you pathetic person. Suck it (sorry, mom - I won't ever use that language again, but it's so appropriate in this instance).

Anyway, it turns out that this building that I walk past every day on my route to work was once home to the Metropolitan Water Board and that the grassy area it faces was a reservoir. Who would have known? Today, the offices have been converted into luxury apartments (and luxurious they are, I can assure you - I saw a photo in the lobby of one for sale ... list price of £2.5 million) and the Oak Room is open for the residents' use. I envisioned my very own karaoke party there until The Giant Pimple (what I decided to rename the nosy woman) began snapping hundreds of photos (USING FLASH) in the revered Oak Room. The guide explained the history behind the intricate carvings that decorated the walls of the room and drew our attention to the ornate plaster depicting country scenes and the ceiling, which featured two coats of arms and a portrait of William the III, staring benevolently down at those sitting at the table of the boardroom.

Exiting New River Head, John and I felt slightly better about having attended just one Open House event and left The Giant Pimple to torture the guide with her incessant and unnecessary questions. Until next year ...

A Sushi Don't: Tenshi Restaurant

2011-09-18T18:38:00.003+01:00

I admit that I'm spoiled with all the fresh seafood that the Pacific Northwest has to offer and as I've boasted several times (ANNOYINGLY so) already on this blog, sushi in the Puget Sound is no joke. But I'm not terribly hard to please: for example, I'll happily have Itsu sashimi for lunch or even visit the occasional conveyor belt establishment (as long as it's not Yo! Sushi - I'd recommend Kulu Kulu in Covent Garden instead if you're really desperate for traveling plates).

Craving a light but tasty meal, John, Justin and I made our way to Tenshi on Saturday night for some low-key sushi and noodles. The positive reviews after a quick Google search on the iPhone were enough to go on at the time and we were quickly seated before the dinner rush began. It seemed that the restaurant was popular with the pre-partying crowd with a queue out the door by the time we left and a few regulars, which were all (so I thought) good signs.

We ordered a sushi selection (£22), a chicken yakisoba (£7.50) and an octopus starter to share. When the sushi arrived, I was horrified as I gazed down at the tuna rolls that had what resembled blood seeping into the rice. Justin's eyes bulged. Some involuntary gagging ensued. The other pieces of nigiri looked dark and far from fresh. "Is that ... um ... is that ... blood?" I squeaked. The waitress considered it for a moment and said, "Oh no, that's the spicy tuna. That is hot sauce." Then she realized she had delivered the order to the wrong table and that it was actually intended for the couple seated next to us. "Don't worry," the lady at the table next to us chirped. "I recognized it!" Clearly a regular, but I don't know why - perhaps she likes eating morsels of food that resemble ~~parts~~ props from a horror film. I breathed a sigh of relief that the non-bloody-but-bloody-looking rolls did not belong to us but was nevertheless skeptical of the quality of our own selections.

Our chicken yakisoba was up first. On initial taste, the chicken was flavorful and the dish sizzling hot, which is to my liking. But the addition of red and green bell peppers was truly bizarre and the Top Ramen consistency and quality of the noodles were just inexcusable. The oily sheen left in my bowl didn't do any favors to my opinion of the already unimpressive dish and for £7.50, I would rather grab a noodle box at Ned's Noodles.

Then our sushi arrived. I silently prayed that I wouldn't contract food poisoning and bravely plunged into the hamachi nigiri. It wasn't off. I breathed another sigh of relief. It wasn't great quality or particularly fresh, but it certainly wasn't off. The tuna was mushy and the avocado rolls (avocado, really? If you want a cheap and easy way to rip people off, cucumber in place of avocado would certainly be a more convincing choice, no?) were, again, puzzling. We were then presented with a two rolls that looked like it had salad stuffed inside. "Justin, eat it and tell us what it has in it," I commanded. He ate and proceeded to say, "Itsch jusht shalad shtuffed inshide." Bonkers.

My verdict is: visit this place when you've finished your karaoke set at Lucky Voice down the road and are suitably drunk. Then you won't notice the bloody-not-bloody rolls or the grease. You'll just be grateful to have something line your stomach - which is what Tenshi is good for. A brutal conclusion, perhaps, but brutally honest.

Photo source

Summer's Not Over (well, yeah, it technically is): My Favorite Pink Drink

2011-09-12T21:20:00.000+01:00

Summer's over. And as much as I gave the British weather the benefit of the doubt (as in, throwing open the curtains every morning it rained in July and saying brightly with sincerity and conviction, "It's a GREAT day today!!!") it let me down. Though the past few days have been extremely windy in London and, at times, even rainy, it's also been unbelievably warm. So though summer's officially over, it doesn't stop me craving summery drinks, like Pimm's, or my new favorite, Rekorderlig Strawberry and Lime Cider.

First, two things you need to know about me and Rekorderlig:

1) I hate cider. I really do. Someone once convinced me to try it by saying it was simply "fizzy apple juice." IT IS NOT. To me, it tastes - quite frankly - like vomit. You know, that horrible taste you get in your mouth right after you've ralphed. Sorry, but that's just what it reminds me of.

2) I had my first glass of Rekorderlig on my birthday, which was in December. It was snowing outside and I was quivering in my UGGs - as far from summer as you could get. But one sip of the stuff stolen from a friend's glass transported me to a sun-drenched roof terrace: crisp, cool, refreshing and deliciously sweet, it tasted like John's idea of disgusting and my idea of yum. Basically, it tasted like a carbonated strawberry gummy bear (without the pukey taste, of course. And it goes without saying that if carbonated strawberry gummy bears aren't your thing, then please - by all means - don't try this at home).

So if you're not afraid of the sweet stuff and you're in a part of Britain where summer still lingers, then I highly recommend a sip of this - even if you're not a cider drinker. I mean, just because I'm drinking Rekorderlig doesn't mean you'll find me with a Magners in hand any time soon.

Climbing @ The Castle, London vs. Edgeworks, Tacoma

2011-09-05T20:23:00.000+01:00

I woke up this morning and realized I couldn't raise my arms above my head. You might wonder why anyone would automatically want to raise her arms above her head upon waking, but I have this habit of flopping over onto my stomach when John gets up an hour and a half before me, putting the pillow over my head, and adopting a pose reserved for those chalk drawings of murder victims. Seriously - try it, it's like, soooo comfortable.

Anyway, I should probably clarify: physically, I could raise my arms above my head, but not without a great deal of pain. This is because I went indoor rock climbing yesterday (for the second time in my life) with John and my little brother, Justin, who happens to be a very experienced and advanced climber. This kid is about my height and skinny, but he's got arms like Popeye The Sailor Man. He claimed he didn't even know how muscly his arms had gotten from climbing until he looked in the mirror one day and didn't recognize his own arms due to the size of his biceps. He is ripped (he was also randomly approached by a middle-aged woman at SeaTac Airport and told that he was a "very good looking young man"). Moreover, he creeps along climbing walls nimbly, his movements graceful, decisive and calm. And unlike the other climbers - novice or not - who wear name brand climbing trousers and tops, he climbs in none other than skinny jeans, a graphic tee and a pair of thick, black rimmed (non-prescription) glasses. Basically, he's a badass.

On Saturday, we traveled to The Castle Climbing Centre in North London, to see how it compared to Edgeworks in Tacoma, Washington, where Justin usually climbs and where I had my first climbing experience. Upon arrival, we were met with the overwhelming stench of ... feet (you know, that smell that stays in your memory forever if you ever took gymnastics as a kid or played in one of those ball pit area things). Once I got over my initial inner retching, we signed in as Justin's novices (experienced climbers can register two novices at a time) and he was given a short quiz by one of the staff members. We were all made to sign statements saying that we acknowledged climbing is a dangerous sport and that we understood we could die (yes, this was on the form) if not practiced properly and under correct supervision, clearing the centre of any liability. John and I rented some cheesy shoes and harnesses for £5 per person and paid a fee of £12.50 each to climb.

One noticeable difference between The Castle and Edgeworks is the space. Granted, we were probably there at peak time on their busiest day (Saturday afternoon), but there was literally hardly any room to manouevre - and if you weren't quick enough when bouldering (free climbing short walls without ropes, which help develop your strength and technique), Spidey Man on the other side with his North Face cargo shorts would simply encroach on your territory, rolls his eyes and sigh at you until you were pressured to move or fall off. Nice! Climbers bouldering would literally jump and hit the person behind them belaying. People formed queues to climb and, whilst waiting, used that opportunity to eye each other up. No one smiled. Most scowled. Annoying drum & bass (and I happen to like drum & bass - this was ANNOYING drum & bass, which is another category) played at a threatening volume behind us. Between that and the foot-fungus smell, I started to feel a little queasy.

"I'm ... um ... hot," I complained. I looked at my watch. We had only been there for 10 minutes. Sigh. I longed for the sky lit, air conditioned, fresh-smelling surroundings of Edgeworks. And some smiles. At Edgeworks, even at busy times, the walls are well spaced and no one is - literally - on top of each other. Staff and climbers - novice and experts alike - are friendly and courteous. Most of all, they look like they're enjoying themselves - you know, like, having fun? Did no one at the Castle climb for fun? Or did I stumble upon Climbing Olympics 2011? Sheesh.

Nevertheless, I chalked the attitudes up to big city living and put my best climbing foot forward to scale my first route. My first climb was easy but the fourth was a little challenging. I tried the route once and gave up, asking Justin to let me down. Then I tried it again, reached the same point, and again asked to be let down. The answer came back as "NO." What? What do you mean no? I DON'T WANT TO BE UP HERE ANYMORE. MY ARMS ARE TIRED. I THINK MY THIGH JUST SPASMED. "No, you're gonna DO IT," barked my small but Popeye-the-Sailor-Man-limbed brother below me. I whimpered a little and thought about my huge behind just hanging out in the harness. I sucked in my core and decided to climb (well, I had no choice - my little brother wouldn't let me down!). And I got to the top (to be fair, I was powered by anger and if you know me well, you know my anger serves as pretty good fuel for most things energetic). "Now, don't you feel GREAT?" my brother asked me patronizingly but with a gleaming smile as I came down. I wanted to smack him, but I was pretty pleased with myself, so I grumbled something unintelligible and unhooked the rope from my harness.

An hour and a half later, my arms were shaking (and here I was thinking I had good upper body strength from all that dynamic yoga) and my hands kinda raw. It was time to go (though I had acclimatized to the foot smell by now). Will I return to The Castle? Only if I'm desperate for a climbing wall (i.e. never). Otherwise, I'll wait until I get home to Edgeworks and have another go there.

There, at least the people are nice and the foot smell is minimal.

Lang Lang @ The iTunes Festival

2011-08-03T20:27:00.001+01:00

Last Monday, I won tickets to see the pianist Lang Lang perform at the iTunes Festival held at Roundhouse in Camden, courtesy of the London Symphony Orchestra. For those of you who aren't familiar with this classical musician, I'm pretty sure he is currently the (or at least, one of the) hottest-young-talent-in-the-classical-music-scene-like-right-now. You can catch up on his accolades here, as I won't use this space to list them but instead, focus on his performance that evening.

As my pianist mother was unavailable to take an overnight flight to London for the concert and John was busy being busy and important, I invited Ruth to come along. We had an amazing pre-concert meal which far surpassed my expectations, at Made in Camden. We ordered small but innovative tapas-style dishes which included delights such as miso chicken, pickled watermelon rind, fennel salad, seared tuna and roast pork belly.

Heading up to the main stage, we found that the opening act, 2Cellos, was already performing: comprised of two very attractive Croatian musicians, they first played separately as soloists, then together as a duet (and later with a drummer), on electric cellos. The first part of their program consisted of classical pieces accompanied by piano but they quickly changed it up with more crowd-pleasing favorites such as covers of Green Day, Red Hot Chili Peppers and even a cringe-inducing U2 cover of "With Or Without You", to which the man behind me and Ruth sang with unbridled passion (and terrible intonation, might I add) whilst clasping his hands around his girlfriend's waist. (Note: if that was my boyfriend, I would have dumped him right then and there). There's a fine line between cool and cheese and I think that, unfortunately, 2Cellos crossed that cheese line when they stepped into classic rock territory. Smooth Criminal was cool, Welcome To The Jungle was not. They were entertaining, however, and most importantly, hot. So, quite frankly, what they lacked in the aural pleasure department, they certainly made up for in terms of eye candy. That's rather sexist, but so what?

Anyway, by the end of 2Cellos's rather ear-splitting and not-altogether-pleasant conclusion, the standing crowd (it was, after all, a festival) was officially primed and geared up for Lang Lang. We waited. Aannndd ... waited. And waited. At or shortly after 9 pm (read: about thirty or forty minutes later), dramatic fog swirled about the stage and a countdown was shown on the large screens above the audience, chronicling all the acts that have previously performed at the iTunes Festival. When the countdown ended, there were an awkward few minutes when nothing happened and confusion ensued. Where was he? What was going on? The Steinway was there, the fog completely covered it, but it was there. Where was Lang Lang?

Finally, he emerged, in a black sequined jacket, nonetheless, and waved to the audience. "HI!" he shouted into the microphone. "How's everybody doing tonight? Thanks so much for coming out! Are you ready for some music?" he continued. "YES!!!" the crowd, er, screamed. "OKAY!" he said. "Then let's enjoy Liszt together!" he exclaimed, before swirling over to the piano. "Huh? What?" said a girl in confusion behind me. Oh dear. Did someone not tell you, honey? That this was going to be a classical concert? Me neither. It was too easy to be misled by the 2Cellos performance, the fog, the lights and the countdown. Here I was thinking Lang Lang was about to launch into Radiohead's Karma Police, when he actually began playing an extremely, extremely fast version of Liszt's La Campanella. Once I got over my initial shock that he wasn't about to play Radiohead or any other popular music, for that matter, I had to get over my shock of the speed he was playing Liszt at. The piece opens with an arpeggiated sequence, which, when I play it (and as written in the score) requires both hands. Lang Lang played it entirely with his left hand. After I recovered from that revelation, I was then faced with the fact that for the duration of the concert, there would be a movie of time-lapsed clips of city streets and nature playing on five, floor-to-ceiling screens behind the artist. I was confused. Were we supposed to focus on the music? Or the movie? Was the music supposed to act as an accompaniment to the movie? Or were the producers concerned that Lang Lang's classical performance would not sustain the festival-going audience and decided that visual stimulation was needed?

Then, a few people at the front began making their escape, after the third or fourth piece. And a few more after that. Lang Lang paid no notice and only paused to wipe his brow, smile and bow after each piece. I rocked back and forth on my heels and looked at my watch. I understood the desire to play a full program of Liszt, but there were several other romantic pieces he could have chosen that would have been much more appropriate for the venue - that is, crowd pleasing. Yes, I said it. Play the slow, tender pieces at the Barbican or Cadogan. Play them at Carnegie Hall. But I'm afraid that for a venue and crowd like the one at Monday night, something more bang-y would be required. Rachmaninov. Brahms. Even some of the Chopin Marches or Impromptus - ANYTHING!!! I was beginning to be bored out of my mind - and this is coming from someone who loves (and plays) classical and in particular, solo piano music.

But those who were left in the crowd (and it was still a good size) were, to my surprise, incredibly committed: no one heckled, no one even dared to breathe. The cameras zoomed in on his fingers; his articulation was impeccable. We marveled at the sheer speed at which he played some pieces, though I wondered if that tempo was actually necessary or in fact, detrimental to the interpretation. However, you could hear a pin drop in the Roundhouse during the pianissimo sections and I was amazed at the audience's dedication. I shamefully booked it as soon as he finished his first encore. Don't get me wrong, I was very grateful for the tickets and the opportunity to see such a famous and sought-after musician perform. It's clearly a once-in-a-lifetime chance and I enjoyed it for what it's worth. But from a critical perspective, the performance as a whole just didn't work for that particular venue. The layout and design of the concert seemed disconnected, confused and incongruous with the music that was actually being performed.

I don't want to say that Lang Lang resembled a fish out of water at The Roundhouse, because after all, he's practically a rock star - in some ways, it was the perfect place for him. He has an energy and charisma about him that engages his audience, no matter the venue. Yet, I know that should I see him again, I'd definitely rather be sitting in a concert hall.

In the meantime, entertain yourself with this video of 2Cellos performing Smooth Criminal - they're hot, no?:

Photo source

Some Say Being An Angloyankophile is a Lonely Business ...

2011-08-03T08:16:00.000+01:00

... but it's not. It used to be, but it's not now. Now, I'm fortunate to have a social calendar that keeps me busy and one that I don't always - in fact, rarely, on the weekdays - share with John. And I think that's important. Because if you move to a new place with the intention of living there for at least more than a year, you need your own friends or else a cloud of resentment kicks in and that can make you very, very unhappy. I know this because it happened to me and it took me a while to establish my own routines, my own social circle - my own life.

But while I'm thankful for all the new friends I've made here in the UK, both British and American, I also love and cherish the friends who visit me here in London - even if they're from far away. And I especially love it when they bring gifts like these:

Adeline came down from Edinburgh to stay a couple of weekends ago now and we had a positively girly weekend, sampling almond croissants and pain au chocolat as big as our faces and then subsequently cleaning such faces at Space NK with complimentary Eve Lom and Clarisonic facials. She brought me this amazing fairtrade organic green tea from Suki Tea (above left), some of the National Galleries of Scotland's famous shortbread (which is already gone, I'm afraid) and the adorable brooch (above right) to jazz up my jackets. I'm holding out for this Bodum teapot to make my tea in. Saturday evening may or may not have resulted in lots of red wine and memorizing the "best" phrases from The Chronicles of Riddick but we made up for our sins during Sunday morning yoga and a cleansing shopping trip on Regent Street. I was sad as soon as she packed up to go.

But last Friday, I had the joy of meeting up with Anna and her mommy (Anna, of Le Petit Elephant fame) for cake and tea at Fortnum & Mason's The Parlour, where we were greeted upon arrival with mini ice cream cones the size of my pinkie finger for each of us. We oohed, we ahhhed. We discussed their recent Le Tour de Lakes - cycling tour of the Lake District - and caught up generally, as I hadn't seen Anna since our Mount Holyoke days in ... oh, 2005? And then Anna pulled this out of her bag for me:

S'more making materials! I told you I get the best presents. Complete with "stackermallows" - marshmallows flat enough to make the perfect s'mores. One whiff of the Honey Maid graham crackers and I was instantly transported back to kindergarten (we were allowed four graham cracker squares for a mid-afternoon snack). I tried making the s'mores in my microwave, but the marshmallows exploded, sending me into a state of sweet, gooey mess - but they were still delicious. John has yet to try a s'more, but I think he'll substitute the Hershey's with a block of Cadbury instead. I'm no snob when it comes to s'mores, however, and though I prefer Cadbury to Hershey's you gotta make them the campfire way ... with the original.

I love my friends, old and new. But mostly, I'm just grateful to have such amazing ones.

Tube Rave: Thank You, Holborn Station Staff - For Saving My Blackberry From An Untimely Death

2011-08-01T20:14:00.000+01:00

Much worse things have happened, but at the very moment my Blackberry slipped from its cute Cath Kidston cover, bounced on the platform twice, and neatly slotted its fine self between the train and the platform onto the tracks below - I burst into tears.

I blame the novocaine.

You see, I'd just finished my seventh root canal appointment at the dentist and had gotten off the train at Holborn because an announcement was made that King's Cross was closed. I didn't even WANT to get out at Holborn. My jaw ached. My teeth hurt. My right cheek was semi-numb. And I was hungry.

First, I walked away, convinced my phone was well and truly dead. Then, when the train had passed, I peered over the edge and saw that it wasn't, in fact, dead, but rather forlornly lying face down on the side of the tracks nearest to the platform. Feeling sorry for it and realizing it could be saved, I decided not to run the risk of being electrocuted or run over by a train and instead, tried the little "Information" button loudspeaker thingy on the platform. A loud dial tone ensued by no one answered. Everyone stared.

I raced up the stairs, up the two flights of escalators to Holborn station. By now, I was REALLY hungry (and only John knows the extent of my hunger rage) and rather emotional - again. I approached the nice looking ticket-checking/gate-guarding tube man and said, "Um, m-m-my phone ... it's ... I ... DROPPED IT. (hiccup hiccup) I'm SO SORRY. It's (hiccup) ON THE TRACKSSSSS," I cried. "There, there!" he said, patting my arm. "It's okay, do you remember where you dropped it?" he asked kindly. "Um ... (hiccup) I was going eastbound ... towards King's Cross, on the Piccadilly line," I stuttered. He spoke into his radio quickly, "A lady has dropped her phone on the tracks on Platform 4." "Don't worry," he said as an aside to me. "It happens ALL the time. And besides, it's only a phone!" I hated myself for the tears, but again, I blamed the novocaine.

I watched the man as he helped numerous amounts of people find their way across London and cheerfully opened gates for people with heavy luggage or children. I decided he was a Very Nice Person.

Then the Very Nice Person leaned over a few minutes later and said, "They've found your phone, but the station supervisor needs to stop a train before it enters onto the platform and retrieve it from the tracks." I was pretty horrified. I hadn't thought my stupid phone dropping incident would delay trains, if even momentarily.

The station supervisor emerged a few minutes afterward, waving my phone at me. "This yours?" he said sternly. "Yes," I said gratefully. "I'm so sorry!" He wasn't amused. "Now you need to pay up £20 because I had to stop a train to get it and it was a massive inconvenience." "Really?" I asked. "Um, YES, REALLY," he said. "Okay, that's fine," I said, reaching for my wallet. He burst out laughing and slapped his thigh. "I love it, you really believed me!" he said, wiping his eyes. "I'm so sorry, I feel really bad and I'm very sorry for the inconvenience," I said. "Look," he said. "You're not the first one and you're not the last. So please don't feel bad. It happens all the time. Don't feel bad."

I felt pretty bad.

So I did what John finds extremely embarrassing: I popped over to Costa coffee and bought two bags of mini muffins, proceeded to run behind the station supervisor and waved the muffins at him over the gate. He pretty much looked at me like I was crazy. "Please take these!" I shouted as tourists stared at the mad woman with mascara-tracks down her face waving bags of mini muffins. "You shouldn't have done that, you know," he said. "You really shouldn't have bothered." "I know, but I wanted to thank you for being so nice and for helping me, so please give the other bag to the other man who helped me - thank you!" I babbled. He took the muffins, thanked me, and I scurried away to call John and tell him about my adventure.

The end.

Cake Time Is Back!

2011-08-01T19:21:00.000+01:00

Followers of this blog will know that I used to bake - a lot - and I chronicled my baking adventures in a series of posts called "It's Cake Time!" (see my proudest accomplishment here). It was kind of like therapy but with the added plus of weight gain, since John would ~~demand~~ request I make things like, oh, an entire carrot cake and subsequently eat, oh, one slice, leaving me with carrot cake for the rest of the week to either consume myself or fob off to anyone who'd take it.

My excuse was that we had an excellent oven in our Maida Vale flat - one that made cakes rise perfectly. I also had at my disposal several amazing pieces of Circulon bakeware that John bought me for my birthday last year, so, left to my own devices with a few sticks of butter, caster sugar and self-raising flour, I made many variations of cakes in sandwich, loaf, and cupcake form for us to enjoy.

Since we moved to Angel, however, I hadn't baked until this weekend. I could tell the oven was sub-par to the one we had before and I didn't want any baking disasters - because if there were ANY baking disasters, I'd swear off baking forever. I have low confidence in my cooking and baking abilities.

But when we were invited over to Tom and Dani's for a picnic on Sunday and instructed to "bring dessert", I thought it'd be the perfect opportunity to make some cupcakes ... complete with Barbie sprinkles, of course:

And chocolate icing for the boys, for fear they'd be turned off by the Barbie sprinkles (I'm not kidding - the sprinkles were branded):

I didn't go too crazy with my first batch of cakes in the new flat, so I used a simple sponge cake recipe ... but having had an overall success with these, I'll be venturing into carrot and chocolate cake territory soon.

*Pink Peep courtesy of A Wife Called Chuck

Practicing Yoga, Practicing Humility

2011-07-18T21:51:00.000+01:00

Every time I think a bad thought about someone (which I shouldn't do), I stub my toe. HARD. Or I bang my elbow into my desk. HARD. Or my knee on the side of the bed. HARD. I like to think of this excruciating pain as Whoever's-Up-There's little way of teaching me a lesson about humility. It's like when I walk around at work, smug about whatever I'm being smug about and an email goes ping! in my inbox and it's a withering dressing down from someone or other that sends me hiding under my desk for the rest of the afternoon (not that I actually do that ... well ... not for a whole afternoon). Like, ouch. Nothing like some humiliation to bring you down to earth.

Lessons in humility make their way to my yoga practice every time I step on my mat. Whether it's the time I lost my balance whilst perching gracefully in crow, causing me to fall on my face, HARD, and the guy next to me to whisper an infuriating, "smooth", or when I've arrogantly anticipated a pose, only to find the entire class remaining in downward dog for a few extra breaths - I know I can work on being more humble.

As I've mentioned before, I use Lauren's rare absences from teaching to try another instructor's class (read about how I humiliated myself at the Iyengar Institute here) and learn something new about my yoga practice, so I recently decided to sample Simon Bradley's Tuesday hatha class at Jubilee Hall Trust. Fairly less dynamic than Lauren's Vinyasa flow class, Simon focuses on correct alignment, holding poses, and understanding the anatomy and physiology behind an asana. It took me one class to realize that I had developed some pretty bad habits, including the fact that my stance in Warrior One was severely shortened and my Warrior Two was downright lazy. I was mortified. Mortified, but humbled. Inwardly, I rolled my eyes when Simon corrected the very subtle misalignment of my toes in King Cobra pose, citing that as the reason for my toes not reaching closer to my head but was surprised to find how much more space that minor correction gave me. Again, I was reminded of Lauren's constant but gentle reminding that yoga is a journey, not a means to an end. In an hour, I discovered just how complacent I had become in my practice and how deeply unsatisfying that was. I was sad to recognize that I'd stopped being mindful in Lauren's class and perhaps prideful instead. Simon's class was like that email in my inbox - the wake-up call I needed to shake me from my place in the clouds.

I think it's great to stick to a teacher or style of yoga you like, but I don't think it's beneficial to shy away from new experiences. These experiences may be uncomfortable - they may even be humiliating - but in those moments of clarity, of slamming your knee into the bed frame, you receive a sliver of enlightenment (not to mention, a heck of a lot of pain).

Trinity Hospice: River Walk 2011

2011-07-12T08:09:00.000+01:00

Last weekend, John, Tom, Cristy, Alison and I participated in Trinity Hospice's River Walk fundraising event and raised over £800 for the hospice, in memory of John's uncle, Chris.

When I first moved to London, Chris was the one who introduced me to the plush carpets of Fortnum & Mason and the delights of its chocolate counter. And before Kate Middleton made The Goring a household name (even in the US), Chris took me there for lunch and insisted that we dress up and take pre-meal drinks in the separate bar. I'll never forget that.

We developed an unexpected, but cherished, friendship over the three years I knew him - through email, Skype, and long conversations in his Pimlico flat ("Westminster, please," he'd correct me). At the time, I worked at an office not far from Pimlico and would accompany him on fun (House of Fraser) or grocery (Sainsbury's) shopping trips after work. Over a cup of tea, we extolled the virtues of Finzi and Vaughan Williams, but mostly ... we gossiped. About everything. Reality television, fashion, the news, people in the news, people we knew, people we didn't know - everything was up for discussion. So even now, after he's gone, I still instinctively get the "I can't wait to tell Chris" feeling before reminding myself he's not there to tell anymore.

Chris spent the last few months of his life in and out of Trinity. I'll be honest: before I stepped foot into Trinity, the mere mention of the word "hospice" was like an icy claw around my heart. I imagined a dark, suffocating place, with - for some strange reason - no daylight, no happiness, only sadness and grieving. The first time I visited Chris there however, I was bowled over by how wrong I was: this hospice was bright, shiny, pleasant, warm and, above all, comfortable. It had a lovely garden where guests could take strolls and the individual rooms had floor to ceiling windows overlooking this beautiful scene. The furnishings were more akin to those of a boutique hotel, rather than a hospice - or what one would expect of a hospice. The nurses were friendly, helpful and kind and Chris would often tell me how incredible they were. All I remember thinking was how glad I was that he was being cared for in such an environment.

Chris is still listed as a "follower" of this blog. Occasionally, I'll search back to entries that have his comments just to read them again: they don't make me sad. They make me laugh. I used to complain, "Why haven't you commented yet?" when he was silent about what I'd written. "I can't think of anything witty enough to say!" he'd moan and I'd laugh because he prided himself on his sharp observations and witticisms. I miss his opinions, his insight and his personality.

But my best friend passed on a wonderful saying that always helps: "When someone you love becomes a memory, that memory becomes a treasure."

Team Chris Morris's fundraising page on JustGiving is open and accepting donations until June 2012. Please consider making a small donation to Trinity Hospice here: http://www.justgiving.com/jaimejohn

Spa Weekend @ The Runnymede-on-Thames

2011-07-06T10:32:00.000+01:00

Ever so often, John and I exchange a wild look: it is one comprised of fear, panic, paranoia, stress. Accompanying this look are dashing, dark circles under John's eyes and a smattering of pimples, threatening to burst with ferocity over my already severely blemished chin. When this "look" crosses our faces, we both know it's time to take a break. Away. Out of the city. Preferably into the countryside. Preferably to a hotel that has a spa. Preferably a spa that has an indoor and outdoor pool, jacuzzi, eucalyptus (this is very important) steam room, sauna, and plunge pool (not essential, but a plus).

Our favorite spot of all-time for such getaways is The Grove, but unfortunately, it was fully booked when I made our last minute enquiry, so I had to find an alternative. I settled on The Runnymede-on-Thames in Egham for the pure reason that it'd be easy to get to (bus from Islington to Waterloo, then quick train down to Surrey) and the price was just about right (£164 for one night, including breakfast and use of the spa facilities). Plus, the photos on the website of happy families pointing out ducks on the river and taking afternoon tea (the cake stand filled with finger sandwiches and scones sold it to me) on the river bank seemed ideal.

But looks can be deceiving, as an overwhelming sense of disappointment washed over me when we pulled into the parking lot of the hotel, just off a roundabout near the motorway. The photo above is of the BACK of the hotel, not the front - so what you're actually greeted with is a faceless, business conference-like front with a car park that rivals Costco's (okay, okay, there was a bit of grass and shrubbery to distinguish it from the Costco parking lot) - not the sunny, boutique-y charm the website would like to have you believe. Undeterred, we waltzed in and checked into our room, grabbing some lunch on the terrace on the way. "Would you recommend booking in advance for the two restaurants here?" I asked the waitress who served us. It didn't look terribly busy, but with no dinner choices around other than the hotel, we'd be a bit stranded tonight if reservations were essential. "You'll have to check with the front desk," she answered, which puzzled me a bit since she worked there and would probably be best placed to answer the question of whether or not the restaurant is busy in the evenings. Still, we got distracted and forgot to ask. Sure enough, as we approached one of the restaurants at 6:30 p.m. (which was completely empty, save for two tables, by the way) we were politely told by the Maitre d' that both restaurants were fully booked and that the earliest sitting was at 9:30 p.m. We were encouraged to eat at the bar/lounge area, which was fine since we didn't want more than a sandwich in the end anyway, but was quite irritating. You'd think it was common courtesy for hotel staff to inform you, upon check-in, that dinner does get quite busy and it'd be a good idea to book - certainly, The Grove offers to arrange reservations at one of their restaurants before you've even arrived!

However, whatever Runnymede lacks in charm, character or common sense, it makes up for in its outdoor pool. Yes, that's right - a luxuriously long and wide, blue mosaic-tiled outdoor pool which is meticulously cared for and absolutely sparkles when the sun shines. I know this because I was in that pool when the sun was shining and can confirm that floating on your back in an empty, warm pool whilst staring at the underbelly of planes flying overhead is possibly the most amazing feeling ever. If, for even two minutes, I felt completely and utterly relaxed and happy, then the £164 I spent that weekend was totally worth it.

The next day, after checking out, we took advantage of the good weather and left our bags at the hotel and took a stroll along the river, as the spa is closed to guests after check-out (again, something that simply doesn't happen at The Grove - there, you're encouraged to stay as long as you'd like to continue your swim or sauna experience after you've checked out) though you can pay for a pass "per hour" which we decided against since it was so lovely outside anyway. We stumbled upon a regional private school regatta where crews of 16 and unders rowed their way to posh stardom on the Thames. It was truly like a scene out of Harry Potter, with marquees set up for schools such as Eton and Henley. We even crashed their BBQ (though we paid, after all) and sampled some delicious burgers cooked by Surrey locals while watching poor, scrawny 10-year-old boys with arms no thicker than my wrist (and I have small wrists) try not to disappoint their over-paying parents, who were decked out in Boden and had names like Harriet, Hamish and Francesca. Bizarre, yet highly entertaining.

Would I recommend The Runnymede-on-Thames? Only if you're desperate and the weather is good - then it's not a terribly bad place to get to. But if you've got better options, I'd say skip out.

Frederick's, Islington High Street

2011-07-02T09:10:00.000+01:00

To celebrate the completion of six months at my rather new-ish job, John took me out to dinner at Frederick's on Islington High Street. I'm still marvelling at the dining options in Angel and the offerings on this particular back street (bustling during the day because of the market but quietly buzzing at night due to trendy hot spots such as The Elk in the Woods) are what I consider to be particular gems of eating out in Islington.

My heart sank a little when we arrived at the restaurant, greeted by loud al-fresco diners and a semi-packed Friday night bar at the front - I had been hoping for something a little quieter. But I should have known better than to doubt John's judgement when my dismay gave way to unadulterated astonishment at the beautiful, light and spacious restaurant area that unfolded in front of us as we were led to the back of the establishment. As it was fairly warm last evening, there were quite a few diners at tables outside already, but we had a terrific spot indoors.

"We're having a starter, main course and dessert," John said emphatically as he opened the menu. "I don't think I can fit that all in," I said, despite feeling hungry. After all, I had eaten out for every meal every day since Wednesday evening and was feeling a bit ... like a blob. Oops. He shot me a look. "You have to," he ordered. So I obliged.

To start, I ordered the baked scallops with chorizo and tomato mimosa. Served on a porcelain shell-shaped dish, the flavors were both complex and perfectly complementary - a true taste sensation. I also marvelled at John's salt and pepper squid, served in mock news print with a delicious home-made sweet chilli sauce. The batter was crunchy and responsive, not soggy and doughy, as you usually get from under-par restaurants. For our mains, I chose the chargrilled tuna, which I'd was warned (to my delight) would be quite raw in the middle - therefore, I was quite disappointed when it arrived nearly cooked through. I suppose the menu did specify "chargrilled" rather than "seared", which would explain for how well-done it was. The sweet, almost Indian-spiced lentil salsa and coriander shoots were the perfect accompaniment. John had the cote-de-boeuf, which was slightly chewy, but the herb butter won me over (yeah, I totally stole bites). For dessert, I had a slight panic because it was the first time I'd ever seen a banana split offered on a British menu and I knew I had to have it - problem was, I felt more inclined toward the chocolate tart and coconut ice cream. What to do? I went for what my heart told me to do and enjoyed every minute of the tart. John seemed quite happy with his strudel but I didn't have a chance to poke my fork in because at this point, we had become embroiled in some wine-fuelled, deep conversation about something or other.

At Frederick's presentation is nearly everything. From the decor, which makes you feel as if you're dining in an over-sized marquee within a greenhouse to the beautifully arranged dishes, it's a visual feast and I'm a glutton for beauty when properly eating out.

So if the food and surroundings are so great at Frederick's, then what lets it down? The service, unfortunately. Don't get me wrong, our sommelier was stellar: initially pairing my menu choices with Riesling and when I complained that I detested Riesling, he insisted I have a taste anyway. When I still protested at the sharpness of the wine, he instead charmingly led us to a bottle of Mittnacht Gyotaku - a blend from Alsace which is especially paired with sashimi and/or sushi (I had ordered chargrilled tuna and John wanted a white instead of red anyway). His knowledge and passion for wine, as well as his extremely personable manner, made the wine selection a delight. Our head server was the real problem. Offering us bread to begin, he rattled off the choices so quickly and in the lowest growl possible, I could barely understand him. When I asked him politely to repeat, he sighed and repeated it back as if I was an insolent child. "Which would you recommend," asked John when hesitating over his choice of main course. "The lamb cutlets or the cote-de-boeuf?" The waiter, who had been at this point scanning the restaurant impatiently and tapping his pad with his pen as John displayed a slight indication of indecision, looked at John with a mixture of pity and contempt: "The cote-de-boeuf is a rib-eye steak, the lamb cutlets is lamb." Silence. Wow, that was helpful - the assumption that we were ignorant as to the meaning of "cote-de-boeuf" and condescension in his voice was enough to drive anyone away. "The steak is good," he added hastily, with a sharp jerk of his chin. "Um, right, I'll go with the steak then," said John. "Would you like to order wine?" he inquired. "Yes," I said, flipping the wine menu open to the whites. "And what would you recommend for a white?" "Well, they're here," he replied, pointing his finger at the selection I'd been considering for the past 15 minutes. He looked distracted again. "My colleague will help you, he's more knowledgeable with the wine," he said before turning sharply on his heel and summoning the sommelier. Yes, he would be - he's the sommelier, my friend. Sigh. Fortunately, the lack of people-skills from one server didn't entirely constitute bad service, as we were well looked after by others during our dessert and coffee courses.

If there's one lesson I learned last night, it's that if you're looking for a special meal out, there's no need to venture into the stiff West End stand-bys on Toptable or Tatler recommendations - there are always secret gardens lurking around the corner. That and the fact that my boyfriend has impeccable taste in choosing restaurants. And I'm spoiled.

Photo source

Decoupage Pig: Or How I Spent My Sunday Afternoon

2011-06-16T08:17:00.000+01:00

Meet the newest addition to our just-unpacked-flat: Decoupage Pig. Yes, that's right. We walked into Cass Art looking for picture hooks and walked out with a 1 litre bottle of PVA glue, a flat brush, a pre-formed pig and some scraps of expensive tissue paper.

It wasn't my idea.

I wanted to go downstairs for the sale items and John got distracted by the giant decoupage giraffe featured in the corner. "Look! Look!" he said, voice full of awe. "WE CAN MAKE A ... [wait for it] DECOUPAGE PIG." A small boy, probably around the age of 4 or 5 was also tugging at his mom's hand and pointing to the pig. I'm pretty sure John's enthusiastic sales pitch helped. "What the hell are we going to do with THAT?" I snarled. "Use it to decorate our flat!" he said, completely convinced. And once John's convinced, there's not a lot you can do. "Fine," I said, snatching pieces of expensive tissue paper at random. "No, no, we have to think about this," John said, carefully selecting sheets according to color. So I stood to one corner with my hand on my hip, sighing and rolling my eyes dramatically until he finished making his selections and then we trundled back upstairs, where I made him pay for his ridiculous pig project (it wasn't cheap).

But then I must admit - when we returned to the flat, put the stereo on, squeezed the glue into an empty Gu ramekin and started patching up Decoupage Pig, it proved to be a highly entertaining and fun afternoon activity for a rainy day. Now, I used to be an ultra-arts-and-crafty-person who would have jumped at the first opportunity to make a decoupage anything - but now I've realized I'm just a bitter, jaded 9-5 commuter who's forgotten the joys of getting one's fingers sticky with gold flakes and PVA glue. I read my friends' crafty blogs over at Art, Like Bread and Le Petit Elephant with a mixture of admiration and envy. "I want to make another one!" I shouted at the end of the project, disappointed that our creative work was over. John gave me a strange look. "I think one is enough," he said, carefully placing Decoupage Pig on the shelf to dry.

Now, the special thing about Decoupage Pig is that it also double as a PIGGY BANK. Yes, John actually used that as rationale for buying the thing when trying to convince me of its merits: "I can put all my loose change in there! You'll never yell at me for having coins around the house again!" Now, not unlike a 5-year-old, he comes in from work, takes off his suit jacket, pauses at Decoupage Pig while rifling through his pockets for change and gleefully deposits his coins into the slot on Decoupage Pig's back. Sigh.

Afternoon Tea and Birthday Cake @ Number Sixteen

2011-06-14T18:55:00.000+01:00

Can you think of a better way to spend a rainy, gray London afternoon than sitting in the beautifully decorated drawing room of Number Sixteen hotel in South Kensington, eating mouthful after mouthful of freshly prepared (and perfect) finger sandwiches (cucumber, smoked salmon, egg cress and mayo, in case you wanted to know), macaroons, fruit tarts, brownies and scones washed down with the tea of your choice (I had jasmine)? Um, I can't.

We gathered at the small boutique hotel in West London to celebrate a friend's birthday and I left feeling that I ~~wanted~~ needed to treat myself to a weekend there - it was slightly nauseating just how perfectly our party dresses matched the decor which matched the candy-colored macaroons and cakes.

Not to mention the actual birthday cake (also crafted by the hotel), which was - I'll have you know - carrot cake covered with the most delectable buttercream and cream cheese icing and adorned with (YES!) edible flower petals, served with champagne and a drop of creme de cassis:

Lush? Yes. Luxurious? Yes. Over the top? Never.

Aside from the marvelous cakes:

I was absolutely in love with the plump cushions (which prompted one guest to kick off her patent heels and tuck her legs under) and ultra-thick embroidered silk cushions which made you feel instantly like Alice in Wonderland - minus the Mad Hatter. Plus, I was particularly taken by this piece, hanging above our heads:

Essentially, it's a room I want to have in my house. Someday.

So even if it's not your birthday, I'd recommend dropping in to Number Sixteen and taking your tea in the garden, which I heard is even lovelier on a sunny day.

There's No Place Like My Local Curry House - I Mean, Home

2011-06-11T07:52:00.000+01:00

There are certain routines - rituals, even, people have to make their home feel like home. For me, a place doesn't feel like home until I've put books on my bookshelf and hung my favorite prints on the walls. But since I've moved to London, I've discovered one vital part of moving to a new area: immediately seeking out the nearest and best Indian restaurant. In Whitechapel, it was Tayyabs; Shadwell, East Is East; Maida Vale, Meghna Grill in St. John's Wood and now that we're in Islington, it's got to be Zaffrani. Finding the perfect place for your Thursday night jalfrezi is as essential as registering at your local GP (in fact, I still haven't done the latter).

The best part about discovering your soon-to-be-favorite local Indian restaurant, however, is the realization that none of them can be compared to the other. John may be forever loyal to Tayyabs and convinced that it is the best in London (and admittedly, Tayabbs is somewhat of an institution among both common folk and celebrities), but I loved every dine-in and takeaway experience I've had at each restaurant equally. Fact.

So what makes Zaffrani so special? We rushed to its tucked-away premises on Cross Street on a Wednesday evening for a quick meal together before my rehearsal with the Polish Chamber Orchestra in London (another story for another time). "I don't think I'll have time to eat," I said, tapping my watch nervously as I balanced my violin case against the wall. "How much time do you have?" asked the attentive waiter. "Um ... half an hour?" I mumbled, embarrassed. He quickly took our orders (Dumkamurgh and a peshwari naan for me and Murghi Jalfrezi and a plain naan for John, with a rice to share) and instructed staff to rush them through.

Within ten minutes, our food appeared - and I was highly skeptical that this wasn't the work of Mr. Microwave - until biting into the most tender, succulent pieces of chicken marinated in a creamy, spicy tomato-based sauce with generous helpings of coriander, onion and garlic. I melted. My peshwari naan was prettily arranged into four slices (not for those who prefer ripping off huge fluffy chunks themselves - I personally like mine to be less overwhelming and cut just so) on a long, thin plate. The texture was less fluffy but slightly crispy at the base and mouth-wateringly soft at the top. As a result, I didn't feel completely weighed down by the naan (which I often finds turns itself into an indigestible lump once it hits my stomach) but instead, found it served as a delicious accompaniment to my highly enjoyable curry. John was equally impressed.

So impressed, we visited for a second time this week, when the restaurant was buzzing. The couple seated next to us were immediately recognized by their waiter as a regular and he rattled off "their usual", much to their amusement. "Oh no, I can't have naan anymore," the lady crowed. "Why's that then?" asked their server. "I stopped eating carbs since January!" she proudly (and perhaps a little too loudly) proclaimed. I felt eyes drift over to our table. My hand froze over my naan momentarily, before I decisively scooped another two spoonfuls of rice onto my plate and ate the warm, coconut and sultana filled treat with slow, gloating pleasure.

Aside from the high quality food offered at Zaffrani, I can't help but notice how incredibly polite and accommodating the staff are - making for a more pleasurable dining experience. From the smart decor to the serious attention of the service, it's obvious that Zaffrani seeks to distinguish itself from that "local curry house" feel I was describing before to a place reserved for fine dining. That being said, its cuisine and ethos is entirely different to, say, the revered Cinnamon Club, which gives the restaurant an overall more relaxed and comfortable atmosphere.

And this is most certainly reflected in the price: our bill, on both occasions, including drinks and service, came to an even £25. But for the food and attentiveness, Zaffrani is worth so much more.

Zaffrani is located at 47 Cross Street, Islington, London, N1 2BB.

I May Not Be Going To The London 2012 Olympics But ...

2011-06-04T13:36:00.000+01:00

... I got a souvenir! Well, sort of. Sadly, we didn't get any tickets that we applied for (I was certain we'd be in for the canoe slalom event - I mean, WHO THE HECK GOT THOSE TICKETS??), like the majority of our friends. But John arrived back from his business trip to Berlin late Tuesday night and proudly thrust a gift bag bearing the London 2012 logo on it into my chest. "What's this?" I asked, rubbing my eyes blearily (after all, it was past my bedtime of 9:30 pm. I kid you not, folks, I kid you not). "A present!" he said happily. I peered into the bag warily (which is mean of me, I know) but was ecstatic to pull this out:

That's right, a London 2012 Adidas running top with the Olympic logo on the front and back from the official London 2012 shop at Heathrow (and if you click on the link I've just provided, you'll see that my major girl crush, heptathlete Jessica Ennis is wearing the same one, but in yellow. *swoon*).

It's fashionable, fantastic to run in and even bears some words of encouragement on the lower back, which just might help me along during my non-Olympic feat of running to work (which is a measly 3k) every morning:

Maybe those words are meant for a marathon runner instead. But still, it was some consolation after discovering the bitter fact that I would be subjected to heaving crowds of tourists during the summer months of 2012 and still only watching the Olympic games from our flat. At least we have a projector.

Pubs I Feel Incredibly "Meh" About: The Duke of Cambridge, Islington

2011-06-04T13:15:00.003+01:00

Since I've moved to Angel, everyone has been waxing lyrical about this organic pub located on the corner of Rheidol Terrace and St Peter's St, but after having dinner there on Saturday night, I'm just not so sure.

First of all, £17.50 and upwards for mains? You gotta be kidding me. I don't care if you caught the fish and brought it to me flapping personally from Loch Whatever, but those prices are quite high for pub fare, in my opinion - even for an "upscale" pub. £12-£15 I can understand but once you hit £20 and over, I'm just not amused. My beer battered cod was certainly not worth the price and worse yet, gave me an upset stomach. The chips were soggy, cold and flavorless. Perhaps the only redeeming aspect were the mushy "somethings" (not sure if they were peas, but rather some kind of unappetizing grey matter that resembled jail-house slop you see in cartoons) that were quite tasty if not a tad too garlicky. Dishes were given a similar rating by friends: good, but not remarkable. No one exclaimed, "Delishush!" while chomping on morsels of pork belly, salmon or roast chicken.

I asked John for a Diet Coke and he returned from the bar apologetically with a "sparkling cola drink made with vegetable extracts and natural ingredients". "It's like the cheap stuff but way more expensive!" he said enthusiastically while plonking it down on the table, referring to the Timothy Taylor pubs that serve their own brews (though strangely, I'm a huge fan of those and don't mind drinking tiny sarsaparilla-flavored beverages. For my after-dinner treat, I didn't dare stretch my pre-payday wallet any further with an overpriced dessert, so I settled on a Bailey's - only to be told there wasn't any (or anything like it - not even an imitation made from vegetable extracts and natural ingredients) and was given a rather disgusting chocolate liqueur to sample instead. Retch.

There's no doubt it's a gathering place for the cooler-than-cools - everyone is impeccably groomed and seemingly outfitted by Reiss. But it's just not my cup of tea - or should I say, glass of bitter? Seems like I'm not the only one who thinks it doesn't live up to the hype.

Shopping For Babies ... When You Don't Have A Baby

2011-05-27T20:11:00.000+01:00

I'm getting to that age now where it seems like my entire friend circle is slowly becoming more and more focused on procreating. "I couldn't possibly have a baby now," I said, in deep discussion with some fellow Those Without (there are two groups now: Those With Children and Those Without). "I'd feel like a teenage mom!" "And you'd look like one too," quipped John, referring to my youthful (by youthful, I mean child-like) looks. Those Without nodded in sympathy and cracked open another beer. "Want one?" my friend asked, reaching over to slide me a Corona. I wrinkled my nose. "No thanks, I'll stick to the Coke." I felt wary looks being exchanged. A silence fell. Someone smiled at me expectantly. "UM, IT'S LIKE, NOT WHAT YOU THINK!!!" I shouted, turning red. "LIKE, WHAT DID I JUST SAY?"

Still, my aversion to having children now or any time in the near future doesn't mean I have an aversion to children. In fact, combine "children" with my favorite pastime, "shopping", and you have a terrific combination. Shopping for children!

Again, I blame my mom. I follow by example. At the announcement of a baby being born to someone she knows, she runs to Nordstrom (or rather, sits down with a cup of jasmine tea at Nordstrom.com) and buys a beautifully wrapped, tissue-papered box containing the most unbelievably adorable Ralph Lauren baby outfit in a size 0-3 months. She doesn't go overboard (overboard = Baby Dior. No baby needs to upchuck all over a £135 cashmere sweater in size 0-3 months, thanks - I'm sure a bib from Target will be fine for that). And when I was a wee one, she took great joy in buying pink striped velcro Adidas sneakers for me (one of which, unfortunately, became loose and fell from my foot in a Safeway parking lot, only to be run over by a ginormous pick-up truck just as my mother turned to look).

Fashion tragedy aside, I love perusing the racks at Baby Gap or John Lewis. However, there's one breed of childrens' clothing/accessories/toy store that unrivals any other - the "high-end" "boutique" "childrens' specialists" on high streets featured in places like, oh, Little Venice, Notting Hill, Marylebone and even Angel. You know the ones I'm talking about - the kind that go dead silent when you walk in, mostly because there's no one in there or also because the shop assistants have fallen silent as you approach, appraising you from head to toe. Beady eyes follow you from the rail of miniature Stella McCartney tutus to the shelves of D&G diaper bags.

I pick up a baby bikini between my thumb and forefinger. "Ooh!" I squeak. "Only £65, honey, look at that!" I say to John, my voice becoming higher and higher. The beady eyes bore a hole into the back of my skull. "Isn't it cute?" I sound like I've sucked helium. I think one of the shop assistants actually opens the door in anticipating of my departure - the first they've budged from their positions at the till where they perch, like vultures ready to descend on flailing prey. The bell rings merrily behind us as we leave.

"I resent that, you know," John says, stomping down the high street. "What - a £65 bathing suit for a kid who'll pee in it as soon as it hits the water?" I ask. "No," he says. "The fact that nothing in there was even remotely ... good ... and yet, was so overpriced. I'd buy something for X's baby for £65 if it was GOOD, gladly, but that was SHIT." "Okay, okay, calm down," I say, running along beside him, for he's now taken a rather purposeful stride.

I also resent stores like that - the kind that make you feel like you're in the wrong place. That's why for Tom and Danni's gorgeous new arrival earlier this month, I turned to online designer baby clothes store, AlexandAlexa.com. They have a marvelous selection of designer baby apparel and toys ranging from the very reasonable to the downright luxurious, so you can make the decision as to how much you'd like to spend. And no beady eyes watch over you as you peruse the website, which is always a plus! They also do lovely gift boxes with handwritten gift cards (with your message) attached to the tissue paper-wrapped item with a cute sticker. I approve.

So the next time you're desperately searching for your local Petit Bateau, consider shopping for babies online - you may just find it gives you more freedom and choice.

Why My Phone Bill Is So High (Or, How I Came To Find Myself Locked In A Fitting Room For 45 Minutes)

2011-05-26T20:02:00.000+01:00

One Friday evening, I found myself locked in the Covent Garden H&M fitting room for over 45 minutes. Don't worry - this lock-down was entirely voluntary and, to make matters even stranger, I seemed to be mumbling at my phone and letting out frustrated "tsks", willing it to send an urgent email. Four urgent emails, that is - all to my mother. Each had a photo of me, not unlike the one below, attached with, "Yes, no, maybe? Is it too short? Is it too boring? Does it wash me out?"

"Send," I pleaded quietly with my Blackberry, seething with jealousy as I overheard the voices in the cubicle next to me where a mother was giving her sound opinion to her equally opinionated daughter. "Darling, it's TOO tight," the mom countered as her daughter tried on what I imagined to be a dress. "No, it's NOT, MUM," her high-pitched daughter yelled. "I CAN BREATHE STILL." I considered flinging open the door for a minute and asking brightly, "Excuse me, my own mom isn't here, but would you mind telling me what you think of this ..." but quickly realized I might be escorted from the store for strange behavior instead.

Too impatient to wait any longer (I had been in there for 45 minutes, after all), I pressed call and took a deep breath. When my mom answered, she sounded deep in sleep. It was 5:30 a.m. in Seattle. "What?" she asked, not unkindly, but slightly annoyed. "Mom," I whispered, urgently. "I need you to go to the computer, NOW. I've been walking around with the same skirt in my hand for an HOUR now, mom, and I DON'T KNOW WHETHER TO BUY IT OR NOT!!!" I realized that I was now shouting, in the middle of the shop floor at H&M. I was becoming hysterical. "Okay, okay, let me see," my mom said, opening her emails. "Oooh, that's quite special," she said, referring to the skirt. "YUCK! Definitely NOT," she said, referring to a maxi-dress. We quickly hashed over the final decisions again, before I made my way to the till. Sorted.

Yes, I'm one of "those" - women in their late 20s approaching 30 (and yes, I know I look about 15 and still get asked for ID when buying alcohol IN THE UK) who still, incredibly, remain staggeringly close to their mothers and seek their approval over nearly decision (especially those involving sartorial choices). I think, every morning, when I complete my work outfit in front of the mirror, "Would mom like this?" I reach out hesitantly when selecting a skirt from the rail at Banana Republic to try on, desperately wondering what my mom would say if she was there.

You see, we have traditions when I go home to the States. And they all involve shopping. From Ross to Nordstrom, we hit every store within a 1-hour drive radius from our house - we don't stop unless hunger or foot cramps force us to. It's may be sickening, but I'm pretty sure that there's nothing in the world I enjoy more than shopping with my mom.

But it's not just clothes I have a hard time deciding over when I'm without my mom. It's those important life decisions as well. Should I change jobs? Should I move to a new area? Should I go to Cyprus or Croatia for my beach holiday? It's not that I can't decide for myself - it's that I want my mother's approval, whether tacit or explicit. I want her to say she loves my newish long hair as much as I do. My heart soars when she tells me my holiday looked "relaxing and luxurious". I breathe a sigh of relief when she emails me back to say, "Great that you've joined a book club now." It doesn't mean I won't do things I still want to do without my mother's approval, it simply means I'll think twice before doing it. And in the case of clothes, I just won't buy them.

I'm sure there's a Dr. Phil out there or other self-help psychiatrist who will say, "You need to let go, honey," but I don't think there's anything wrong with continuing to seek my mother's approval - as long as that desire doesn't rule my life. Perhaps it's my way of coping with how much I miss her.

Yankee Doodle Dandee: Royal Philharmonic Orchestra Performs 'American Classics'

2011-05-25T21:18:00.002+01:00

I knew as soon as I received the Cadogan Hall brochure earlier this year that I wanted - no, HAD TO - go to this concert: Bernstein, Gershwin, and Copland all in one place? Not gonna miss out on this rare opportunity. So just because no one wanted to go with me (cue sobs) didn't mean I couldn't go - I just went by myself.

Upon arriving at Cadogan Hall, however, it was clear that I had totally misunderstood the seating chart on the online booking screen. What I thought was the back of the auditorium was actually the front, facing the stage, so I basically ended up in the first violins' armpits (which is not necessarily a bad thing, but the sound is a bit out of balance - however, it did allow me to notice, for the first time, what a vital part the harp plays in the Overture to Candide - who knew?). The last time I was this close, I was sitting with my mom under Julian Lloyd-Webber's nose, as he performed Faure's Elegie. Good times, good times.

Next to me was an attractive older man in an expensive business suit who was also unaccompanied. We both stole sideways glances at each other as we fiddled with our Blackberries before the concert began.

Finally, the doors closed, the lights dimmed, the winds, brass and strings tuned and the concertmaster (sorry for any UK readers, "leader") took his place. Dmitry Yablonsky, the conductor (and also a world renowned cellist) appeared on stage to luke-warm applause (it didn't seem as though the audience was familiar with him, though his not-small-in-size stature caused two little old ladies behind me to titter, "Oh MY, he's BIG." Tact, ladies, tact. Even if you're just whispering) and I braced myself for the opening of Berstein's Overture to Candide as it's quite a gutsy introduction, not to mention an incredibly, incredibly difficult piece to play (I've sightread it once). And it was wonderful - so wonderful, it moved me to tears (and that was within the first page of the score - oops). The ensemble was absolutely spot on, the sound solid, though I questioned a certain lack of playfulness which the piece requires. Nevertheless, I was thoroughly impressed and happy to see many audience members around me also smiling and enjoying the piece. American music - it's toe-tapping stuff. You can't expect to sit there in thoughtful meditation when imitations of car horns are blaring (Gershwin) or gun shots are being fired in a Western shoot-out (Copland).

The Overture is possibly my favorite piece - ever. Controversial, I know, but I can't think of another piece that makes me happier, hopeful and in an instant good mood. And it's the best kind of piece to hear performed live. Blasting it on even the best hi-fi stereo system won't do it justice. But like a dessert you never want to end (what - am I the only one who experiences that in restaurants? A sad regret that you didn't enjoy every morsel a tad bit slower?), the piece was over as soon as it had begun and we had reached the next piece, the also highly anticipated Gershwin Piano Concerto in F Major, featuring pianist Farhad Badalbeyli.

Now, I'm not familiar with Mr. Badalbeyli, but I found he had a rather interesting posture when sitting at the piano which involved him gripping the fall, often with both hands, during the rests or before his entrances, as if bracing himself for a job to be done. How a pianist behaves on stage and in concert is part of what makes him unique, I feel, but for whatever reason, I didn't particularly warm to Mr. Badalbeyli's playing. That's just my opinion, so don't chastise me if you disagree. Technically, he executed a flawless performance, but again, missed the playful, jazz-infused, mischievous character of the concerto. He did, however, after two rousing rounds of applause, return to the stage to play an encore. Before he had nearly sat down on the bench, he began a serious of arpeggios in the right hand: was it Liszt? I questioned. No, too modern for Lizst. Somewhere In Time? No, not soap-operatic enough, although it did sound akin to a movie score. So I tweeted RPO frantically (the suspense was killing me) to find out what he actually played and the answer was this: his own composition. How ... nice? Despite my slightly unimpressed attitude however, the audience loved him and he returned the favor by bowing deeply and gripping something other than the fall - his heart, which was a lovely gesture of gratitude, I felt.

During the intermission, I exchanged a few pleasantries with my seat partner and he asked (in a voice eerily similar to Javier Bardem's), "Are you involved in music?" "Well, yes, I mean, no, I mean, yes, sort of - I play for the Royal Orchestral Society," I answered. "And you're American?" he remarked, with a smile. "Yes! I am," I replied. "And these are my favorite pieces!" I said emphatically, pointing to the program. "And you?" I asked, not wanting to offend a famous musician or conductor I had no knowledge of. "Are you a musician?" "Me? No," he laughed. "I'm Brazilian. I own a business in Brazil but left it in the hands of my partner so I could go on a 2-month sabbatical. I lived here 20 years ago and used to come here all the time." I switched my Blackberry off. "And you," he said, "Are like me ... always 'on'," he said, gesturing towards my phone. "Oh no," I said, blushing thinking of my minute-to-minute updates of the concert to Udita and my mom (as in: 'ZOMG, I'm in the front row, right under the firsts' and 'ZOMG, American in Paris is on the program!!! LOLZ'). "Yes, but this is personal, not for work," I assured.

Suddenly, the man in front of us swiveled around and took the opportunity to chastise my new Brazilian friend for "bumping his knee into the back of his chair". "It's constant, it's like ... like ... like being on a ship," the incensed man spat. My eyes rolled up to heaven. I gave a death stare. There are more polite ways to put forth complaints, you know. "Oh? Did I?" the Brazilian said, very surprised and deeply apologetic. "I'm so sorry, I didn't know, I hope you didn't think I was doing it on purpose." "Yes, well that's the problem," the man continued ranting before turning around. "You didn't realize what you were doing." The Brazilian looked at me and shrugged helplessly. "Would you like to trade seats with me?" I hastily suggested to my new acquaintance. "There's more room here since I'm in the aisle and you'd be more comfortable." "Oh thank you," he said, acquiescing. "That's very kind." Then the lights dimmed and the orchestra commenced with Copland's Billy the Kid.

I lost myself once again in the music (a disgusting, cliched phrase I hate, but sadly, true). Having played El Salon Mexico and the Red Pony Suite during my days as a first violinist in our highly competitive but local youth symphony in Washington, I had forgotten how accurately Copland's vast, sweeping melodies (and dissonances) paint a picture of the American landscape. Copland, of all the American composers, is the only one whose music makes me feel nostalgic for America; I am so easily moved by the stillness and quiet of his pieces and simultaneously wrenched by the jarring dissonances of conflict within as well.

But the gem of the evening, and what I had been really looking forward to (aside from the Bernstein), was Gershwin's An American In Paris. My own memories of this piece involved playing it at a youth symphony summer camp, having been given only one week to prepare and perfect it, under the nose of a terrifying conductor who'd thwack his baton on a black, metal stand whenever he got annoyed we couldn't transition smoothly between the various time signatures and syncopated rhythms. Picture a symphony orchestra comprised of 16-18 year olds, squinting at an impossible score while being scared shitless by a man who threatened to make you play difficult passages on the spot before you could have lunch. But it was still a happy memory. So happy, in fact, that when the familiar, whistling opening theme started, I got goosebumps up my arms.

I was too shy, but if I could have mustered up the guts to give the RPO a standing ovation from the second row, I would have. They played as one throughout piece after demanding piece and with an intelligence and sensitivity I haven't yet experienced from any of the English orchestras I've seen so far. The wind and brass shone (as they usually always do) but the strings were really remarkable, creating a velvety sound that was maintained from the leader to the last stand.

This isn't the RPO, but Leonard Bernstein himself conducting Candide - I hope you enjoy it as much as I do, even if you're not a classical music fan:

Photo source

Life's A Beach

2011-05-23T20:26:00.000+01:00

Last Saturday, I misjudged the bus journey time by - oh, about 45 minutes - and consequently arrived at Waterloo train station nearly an hour early for an Oliver Bonas warehouse-sale trip with a friend. What to do, what to do?

So I did what any sensible girl would do: ordered a soya vanilla latte from the Nero at the station, walked straight out again and moseyed on down to South Bank, where the air was warm and the tourists were surprisingly lacking. And this is what I saw:

And a pop-up beach complete with sand, shovels for making sand castles and bright buckets full of empty beer bottles (clearly from the night before), courtesy of Southbank Centre. Cool, no? Admittedly, it was even cooler because there was hardly anyone there at 8:30 a.m. on a Saturday morning. When it's heaving with people, it might not be as much fun. Still, the colors and atmosphere cheered me immensely, especially after seeing a group of people giving out high-fives to passing runners. The beach attitude is clearly infectious.

We've Moved!

2011-05-23T20:14:00.000+01:00

Yes, it's true. Last weekend, John and I waved goodbye to our lovely, bright flat in leafy Maida Vale and moved on to pastures anew in a cute, two bedroom Georgian apartment in trendy, urban Angel. I'm trying to get used to having Sadler's Wells and a Reiss (along with plenty of my other favorite stores) on my doorstep and a plethora of restaurants to choose from rather than trees, kids on scooters and the same two cafes I frequent every weekend.

The differences between Westminster and Islington are apparent already - for one thing, the council is exceedingly friendlier here (setting up my council tax was like having a nice chat with an old friend over a cup of tea - literally, I had a cup of tea in front of me). And instead of yummy mummies exiting the door with their offspring during my morning commute, I am confronted by girls my age who look like they just stepped straight out of Grazia's Style Hunter pages. Cue intimidation.

Sadly, there won't be any more Tube Rants as I've been running/walking to and from work and getting to know the bus routes quite well (but not to worry - I'm sure I'll find something else to rant about).

So stay tuned - I'll be posting updates of the cool places I discover in North London and more adventures galore ... as they say, change is good.

Yo, Wills & Kate, I'm really happy for you and I'm gonna let you finish, but ...

2011-05-09T20:25:00.000+01:00

Yo, Wills & Kate, I'm really happy for you and I'm gonna let you finish, but we had the best bank holiday of all time:

While you were getting married in some little white chapel and all that, we had iced drinks in hand upon our arrival at Thalassa Boutique Hotel & Spa in Coral Bay, Cyprus. And yes, that's the beach in the background. I know, you're like, super jelly.

Your wedding might have cost a fortune, but for 2 euros, we had our breakfast delivered to our private balcony every morning:

And the trees in the Abbey were a nice touch, Kate, but y'all didn't have palm trees. Major mistake:

I know you stayed at The Goring before the big day and your fam had the run of the place and all, but I'm not sure it beats the poolside view at Ayii Anargyri Spa Resort in Milou:

I also read in People or In Touch or something that you ate well on the big day, but I bet it didn't live up to this amazing, fresh sea bream caught on the same day it was served:

So yeah, congratulations, guys, I'm sure it was fabulous. But I've got a tan to show for it!

Atari-Ya: Your Sushi Solution in NW London

2011-05-08T13:44:00.000+01:00

Selecting a restaurant that serves sushi for dinner is a tricky business: one false move and you could be landed with either food poisoning or an astronomical bill with unsatisfactory results. Back in the States, my parents and I regularly rack up hundreds of dollars at our local favorite, Koharu and we order liberally from the sashimi and sushi menus. However, as delectable the delights at Koharu are, the bill leaves my tummy churning.

With Udita in town, however, dinner called for a special occasion and Karim suggested we all meet at Atari-Ya in Swiss Cottage, one of several sushi restaurants and Japanese food shops operated by T&S Enterprise in London. Nestled between a corner shop and a few estate agents on the unassuming Fairfax Road, one could be excused for hurrying past Atari-Ya without giving it a second thought. But I was pleasantly surprised with just how good it really was.

The boys started with some salmon sashimi and nigiri, while we snacked on some edamame that came with our "Party Platter for 2":

Karim's favorite, the spider roll, was probably the best and easiest to eat (most hand rolls are crafted into beautiful pieces of sushi art, but unfortunately for me, my boorish eating habits make a mess of things) in my sushi consumption experience:

Udita had the sake sampler "A", which proved to be a bit meh, but nothing could beat our Party Platter, which triumphed over the boys' choices - what, with its three choices of sashimi, teriyaki salmon and chicken skewers, egg omelette, California rolls, tuna maki and other goodies:

The sashimi was melt-in-your-mouth and the rice around the rolls was perfectly done - not too sticky or gloopy, which I'm usually quite critical of. The amount and variety of the Party Platter was perfect for two, but I'm tempted to order solely from the sashimi and hand roll a la carte menu on my next visit.

But the best part, aside from the fresh and delicious sushi, was our bill: £76 for four people, including drinks (excluding service). Madness, really.

Will there be a next time? Most definitely. Yes.

I Don't Like Plays (but I sure heart Hampstead Theatre)

2011-04-27T20:55:00.001+01:00

Let me preface this post by admitting something rather controversial: I don’t like plays. There, I said it. I don’t like going to the “theatre”. I especially dislike musicals (unless it’s called “Wicked” and I’m seeing it with Udita or, actually, I’ll allow for the “Lion King” as well and only if I’m flanked by my mom and dad – but that’s it, I swear. No Jean Val Jeans for me, thanks).

Plays make me fidgety, nervous. I become aware of the sound of myself swallowing in the theatre – you know, when it’s all quiet and you need to swallow (which is, after all, a natural function) and your throat gurgles and it’s, like all awkward and stuff. I get anxious. As soon as the lights dim, I convince myself that I need the toilet and check my watch after 5 minutes, then the program, to see how long I’ve got until intermission. After intermission, I find myself reluctantly trudging to my seat, like a child that has been pulled away from the playground by his mom. Then, rather annoyingly, I find it extremely difficult to concentrate (and no, I don’t have ADHD – at least, I don’t think I do) and focus, especially during the opening of the first act, first scene.

But John loves plays. Like, loves. Particularly Shakespeare (for example, he bought tickets for a July performance at the Globe in January. Enough said). And for a while, we were on a roll in terms of attendance at Southwark Playhouse (a very small, intimate, rather unusual venue not far from Tate Modern) until we realized that every single (albeit amazing) play we saw there reduced us to tears and tantrums afterward due to their incredibly depressing nature.

So then we stopped going to Southwark and kept missing the box office for “hits”, such as War Horse (despite the fact that I work nearly next door), and inadvertently fell into a theatre rut, until John spontaneously bought tickets for Enda Walsh's Penelope at Hampstead Theatre in Swiss Cottage. I’ll be frank: we chose to go because a) we had nothing better to do that night and b) it was a 5 minute drive away (this was before our precious Yellow Peril of a Skoda decided to break down on the entrance to an on-ramp). But since then, we’ve been back again for RSC’s production of Little Eagles and I think it’s safe to say we’re fans. And I’m converted. Wholly.

Why?

Well, for one thing, Hampstead Theatre is special – it’s like no other theatre in London. It doesn’t have the reputation and gravitas of the NT (National Theatre) or the innate quirkiness of smaller, cooler-than-cool venues like Southwark Playhouse. But its premise is simple: great companies performing great plays by great, new, up-and-coming writers in a welcoming, creative environment. One of the winning aspects of the theatre, in my opinion, is its “look and feel”, which I think is crucial to the audience’s experience. The design and architecture of the theatre itself is slick; but not in such a way that would turn you off. Patrons can grab a gastro pub-style dinner (food is not great but then, that’s not terribly important) before the show and relax with a glass of wine without any real rush, as the doors are just a few steps away (unlike the Barbican, where you feel like you’ve traipsed the length of a shopping mall in order to get to your seat from the bar or the toilets). The seating and stage layout is simple – and yet, this simplicity lends itself to a kind of beauty and (for me, at least) assurance you just don’t get in most modern theatres. It’s comfortable. The staff is always friendly and helpful, which isn’t something you’d necessarily look for in your theatre experience, but I find that it encourages me to return in this case.

So if you’re looking for something slightly different, want to wander away from the crowd but not have an entirely wacky theatre experience, I highly suggest you pop over to Hampstead Theatre and see what’s on. Good seats can be relatively cheap, might I add. An incentive for everyone.

Photo source

Wednesday Morning Tube Rant: McDonald's, McDonald's, Kentucky Fried Chicken and a Pizza Hut

2011-04-20T21:38:00.000+01:00

No, don't worry, no one was eating a Big Mac during my morning commute - this happened on my way back from yoga tonight.

Perhaps one of the most anti-social things to do on public transport - especially on the tube - is to eat McDonald's. Yes, specifically, McDonald's. You know how you walk by Subway and you get that whiff of ... Subway? Or Pret? Or Itsu? Well, McDonald's has that distinctive whiff too. And even if you're not feeling particularly ... delicate ... it can still give one's gag reflex a good workout.

Put it this way: it's a bit like eating garlic. If you and your partner eat something garlicky, you don't notice it on each other's breath so much because you're both in your own lovely garlic-infused world. However, if you refrain from eating garlic at lunchtime and your significant other has a chicken jaipuri for lunch (I should hope not - that's quite a heavy lunch) then you'll be kept awake all night with the putrid garlic smells oozing from his/her pores. Sorry, was that too graphic?

Anyways, back to my point about eating McDonald's on the tube: please don't do it. Not unless it's a) something that doesn't smell and thus, offend (like a strawberry milkshake - no one can smell a strawberry milkshake from a seat away. At least, I don't think.) or b) you're suffering from low blood sugar and unless you really pound some fries down, you'll faint and fall into a diabetic coma. No, I would definitely forgive you for committing a McDonald's felony for that.

But the well-groomed, well-dressed lady sitting across from me on the tube tonight seemed like she was laying out a McD's spread: on her lap, she balanced her fries, whilst holding the quarter pounder to her lips and then conveniently placed her drink on the empty seat next to her. I was transfixed. I kind of wanted to offer her a picnic blanket. I felt like maybe she meant to be outdoors enjoying her fast food delights in the warm, spring evening in a park somewhere, but accidentally stepped on the tube, stumbled onto a Bakerloo train and decided, oh well, hey ho, gotta make do with this ... and munched happily away.

I changed seats.

OMG: CHOCOLATE COVERED PEEPS!!!

2011-04-19T19:54:00.000+01:00

This was perhaps the best and worst present to receive on a day I just had a root canal done. My eyes were still smarting with tears at my work desk from the hour or so of drilling, scraping and other almighty unpleasant stuff, when this lovely box was delivered to my desk: chocolate covered Peeps beautifully packaged (complete with fake grass we use to fill Easter baskets in the US) from fellow blogger, A Wife Called Chuck. Now people, not only did she include chocolate covered peeps and fake grass in this amazing display of Easter cheer, she also had the style and elan to enclose a nice little message on adorable Kate Spade stationery. Impressed? I was. My tears of pain quickly turned to tears of joy. Observe and weep. Just don't let my dentist know.

Just In Time For The Royal Wedding: William & Kate Dress-Up Dolly Book

2011-04-16T14:31:00.000+01:00

Look what I got sent in the mail from Ladybird y’all, just in time for the Royal Wedding – a Wills & Kate dress up dolly book. Thassright, the future king and queen in their skivvies (I’m not gonna show you any inside images as this isn’t Amazon “Search Inside The Book”, folks, so you’ll have to buy your own copy. But I can reveal that Kate’s famous blue Issa dress is recreated to a truly exacting, illustrated standard).

Now I’ll bet that if I had been living in the US this whole time, I’d be sitting at my work desk right this instant, refreshing any page that provided royal wedding gossip enough times to get me disciplinary action from the boss. Instead, I’m in the UK, desperately trying to avoid it. It’s not that I’m not interested in what Kate will be wearing (will it be McQueen? Or Temperley? Or McQueen for The Dress and Temperley for Pippa’s dress? It must be McQueen. No, it must be Temperley. Ooooh, I just don’t know!) but the minute-to-minute updates are Really. Driving. Me. Crazy. Chelsy will be Harry’s plus-one. Chelsy won’t be Harry’s plus-one. No, she won’t. Yes, she will. And oooh, just look at all the SCANDALOUS guests who are being invited, tut tut! Crazy. Just … crazy.

So crazy that I decided to book a holiday ON the day of the wedding and fly out the morning of – just when UK customs will certainly be heaving with tourists ambling to get in. “Nooooo!!!” wailed my mom when I informed her of my departure. “How could you?” she asked, as if I had betrayed some sacred promise. Now, mother, I’m sure every hotel room in Cyprus will be covering it on their television screens, but I’d just rather watch it sipping a pina colada in a beach bar than cheek to jowl with screaming tourists waving a British flag on a plastic thingy along the Horse Guard’s Parade on the day. “But how will I live vicariously through you?” complained Le Petit Elephant (but she is an adorable elephant; I would rather live vicariously through her).

Then, via Twitter and Facebook, I received a message from my alma mater urging me to follow a fellow alum’s journey to London to blog about the royal wedding. I couldn’t click “close” quickly enough (no offense to her, as I’m sure it will be brilliant and you can read it here). It was the last straw.

But this – this, I like. I showed it off to the girls next door in Production and they thought it was cute and even remarked on Kate’s sizing, which should surely “promote positive body image in young girls” as she is probably 2 sizes down from this in real life (“HAS KATE GONE TOO FAR???” screamed one headline yesterday). As for Wills? Well, let’s just say no royal has looked better in boxer briefs and dress shoes. And that six-pack? Mmm, yummy. Better yet, inside are fourteen different outfits for you to cut-out and dress the dolls with, including – and ladies, this is important – accessories. Swoon. I can confirm that I will be emulating the “Weekend in the Country” look very soon.

So if you've had enough of the royal hoo-ha but still want to be in on some psyched-up-wedding-fun, I highly recommend taking an afternoon off and inviting paper Wills & Kate to a royal tea party at your place. Just make sure their accessories match their outfits (just sayin').

Thursday Morning Tube Rant: Read-Walkers/Walk-Readers

2011-04-14T21:59:00.000+01:00

Dear Sir or Madam,

I'm so glad that you find One Day by David Nicholls / The Pilot's Wife by Anita Shreve / Insert Other Generic Bestseller Here by Generic Bestselling Author so engrossing that you can't possibly stop reading it for justonesecond to look where you're walking in the crowded tunnel and platform, thus slowing down and getting in the way of a throng of morning commuters, especially on your way up to the escalators and on the stairs. You might want to be careful that you don't just accidentally One Day-your way off the platform and onto the track. Because that would be pretty bad. And really delay my journey.

Thanks.

Add A Bit of Country To Your Morning Commute

2011-04-10T18:37:00.001+01:00

Who doesn't get the Sunday blues come 6 pm on a Sunday evening? As I type this, I'm already pushing away visions of paper on my desk, though at least I have the London Book Fair to look forward to tomorrow.

I don't think I actually dread going to work - once I arrive, it's fine. As evidenced by my weekly tube rants, however, it's the getting there that I find problematic and stressful.

But I think I've got it sussed out. Well, at least, I think I've found something that can help: country music. Yes, seriously. I'm not talking about going crazy here, but instead of the usual combinations of Radiohead and Massive Attack (which send me spiraling into instant depths of depression and/or total un-motivation) or Copland and Dvorak (which prove too soft to drown out the horrible tube sounds) or Rihanna and Kanye West (which is a bit too "party" on a Monday morning), I found my face spreading into an involuntary grin when my iPod shuffle landed on Lady Antebellum (which is the closest you'll get to country on my MP3 player). Actually, it made me laugh. A lot. Listening to country on the tube can only be described as ... ironic. I can tell you right now, there's no weirder place to experience the lyrics, "Met up with some friends outside of town / we were headed towards the lake / I hopped into the back of a jacked up jeep and felt the wind upon my face / We got to the spot and the sun was hot, everybody was feelin fine / So we jumped on in for a midday swim and then we lost all track of time" than sitting across from a serious man in a dark suit with a leather briefcase and a frown on the Bakerloo line at 8:23 a.m. on a Monday morning.

Try it.

Spring

2011-04-10T18:10:00.000+01:00

On days like this, I lie on my back in the garden with my arms outstretched and watch the underbelly of planes go past as they prepare to land at Heathrow. Sometimes, if I cock my head at just the right angle, I'll catch the sight of the all-too-familiar BA tail - the one with the Union Jack - and get the strong urge to hop the next flight to Seattle-Tacoma International Airport.

Mothering Sunday: #Winning

2011-04-03T16:13:00.001+01:00

Back before Charlie Sheen made #winning a trending topic on Twitter, my mom already had a lot to say about the subject. And since it's Mother's Day here in the UK and I've just received an awesome delivery of Peeps in anticipation of Easter, I'm gonna go ahead and tell you a little anecdote about my mother and her attitude towards #winning - Mother's Day/Easter mash-up style.

I grew up in Small Town, USA, which was unofficially separated into three parts: North Hill, Downtown, and South Hill. I lived on North Hill, which had two major grocery stores that ran an annual Easter coloring contests for kids. Every year, for about four years or so, I entered this contest. I still remember what the coloring page looked like: an Easter scene (usually of a bunny or a basketful of eggs) photocopied onto an 8 x 11" piece of white paper with a space to fill out your name, age and address at the bottom of the page. The prize was usually some incredibly large, fluffy, snuggly stuffed animal and the opportunity to have your photo taken with the store manager and displayed at the entrance of the store.

Every year, I would ask for an entry form at the counter, grip it tightly in one hand and my dad's hand to cross the street with the other, take it home and carefully, meticulously do my best coloring job EVER. Like, I mean, EVER. Not only did I stay inside the lines, I did the best shading a five-year-old could possibly manage and on occasion, I even remember sprinkling a bit of glitter on the eggs to create a Faberge effect (not that I knew what a Faberge egg was at the age of five). Then I'd carefully pass my finished masterpiece over to my mom or dad, who dutifully handed it over to the clerk next time we went shopping for groceries on North Hill.

And I never won. Not once. Not even third place.

Instead, the winning entries (they were always taped to the wall near the photo development kiosk) were always furiously scribbled with mis-matching colors, clear OUTSIDE-THE-LINE rookie mistakes, and no attempts at effort whatsoever. As a five-year-old, disappointment doesn't even begin to describe how I felt. What had I done wrong? I picked complementary pastel colors, I stayed within the lines, I did SHADING FOR GOD'S SAKE!!! And the ones that were repeatedly picked were lousy excuses for coloring. I mean, really, they brought shame to the competitive coloring world.

I remember asking my dad to take me to the store after work to see if my entry was up yet. I remember scanning all the horrible ones for mine and not seeing it. I remember the hot tears that quietly welled up in my eyes as I tugged my dad's hand to go home, then running into my mother's arms when I got there. "What's the matter?" she'd ask me, bending down to my level. "I didn't win, AGAIN!" I'd cry with frustration. "I don't know what I'm doing wrong!" "Silly girl!" my mom would say in Chinese, wiping away my tears. "There are plenty of opportunities in life for you to win. This is a coloring contest! This is small beans!" But of course, when you're five, you just want the giant stuffed bunny prize and your picture taken with the store manager, you don't want to learn life lessons (which my mom also usually conveniently followed up with a Chinese proverb that was more infuriating than helpful).

And you know, she was right. I later won an art contest and my work was featured on a billboard on North Hill (I would be lying if I said I didn't feel some sense of vindication for having never won the Easter coloring contests at that point - and yes, I totally used the same shading techniques). I won scholarships in high school and fellowships in college - and this sense of #winning slowly became less important to me. Because I quickly realized that life isn't about #winning at all - it's about the people who believe in you and will stand by you and love you, no matter how many coloring contests you lose.

So today is dedicated to my mom, who always considers me a #winner in her eyes, which is special and important (although sometimes she calls me a "loser" and laughs hysterically while making the "L" sign at her forehead, albeit with the wrong hand, but that's for another time), because she's my mom and because she's (nearly - I can remember a few bits of fashion advice that were slightly misjudged when I was in junior high) always right. Thanks mom, for always believing in me.

Peeps Ahoy!

2011-04-03T15:23:00.000+01:00

Peepin' heck - look at all the Peeps I got in the mail yesterday!

They were sent all the way from Seattle from a very special friend who took pity on my Peep-less run-up to Easter - which, as you might remember, I complained about last year. I couldn't wait to dig into the marshmallow-y treats, but obviously had to take some pics of my treasure trove of Peeps to share with you, dear readers, before tucking in:

Aren't they beautiful in all their pastel-rainbow glory? No? Are you British, then? Because they simply wouldn't have played a role in your childhood if you are. I, however, spent many a Easter-holiday in a family friend's backyard hunting for eggs with baskets featuring cellophane grass, Peeps, and other American goodies.

John was not impressed. "That's a lot of boxes," he commented. "You'd better eat them all, otherwise they'll go off," he said, inspecting the sell-by-date closely. "Oh never mind, they don't go off until 2012. Don't open them all then," he instructed. I didn't understand how someone could be so cold in the presence of such adorable candies. "Don't you want any?" I asked, my eyes still shining (and nearly brimming with tears from joy), mesmerized by the beautiful Peeps display before me. He wrinkled his nose. "Um, no thanks," he said, walking off. I received a similar reaction from Bindy this morning when I extended the great privilege of sharing my Peeps treats with her. "Yeah, I'm not just not that impressed with them," she said, shrugging.

Okay, whatever. I'll just bask in Peeps-heaven by myself then. Thanks, Holly!

Look What I Got!

2011-04-01T07:53:00.000+01:00

Look what I got! That's right, a free London Review of Books mug to make my workplace jollier, happier and, you know, perhaps a little more distinguished. Not sure about Mr. Renaissance man or whoever that is on the front (watch for an angry comment below schooling me in about 0.2 seconds) but it's still cool. After my second trip there with Natalie yesterday, I collected enough stamps at the Cake Shop (okay, so it wasn't fair because I had help from Natalie and Iain - I should have offered the mug to them first ... and I kind of did) for a free mug. Now isn't that nice?

Walking into the store itself (rather than using it as an intermediary to cake) also tempted me with lots and lots of new books that I really want to read (although Natalie blew my cool when she exclaimed loudly, "OOH, AND A FREE BAG TOO!" Not cool, Nat, not cool.). So next time you're browsing the books at the London Review Bookshop, there's even more of an incentive to visit the cafe (aside from their amazing gluten-free chocolate and almond cake and delicious egg mayo sandwiches) - something to sip your ~~thinking juice~~ coffee out of as you ponder the latest literary success.

I Got Schooled, Iyengar Style: Iyengar Yoga Institute

2011-03-27T18:55:00.000+01:00

There are several different types of yoga and though I love Lauren's Vinyasa flow class and am a devotee to her teachings on Wednesdays and Sundays, I took advantage of the fact that she wasn't teaching today to try something new - specifically, a "general" level class at the Iyengar Yoga Institute in Maida Vale.

Despite living less than a 10-minute walk away, I'd always avoided the institute because: a) I don't particularly enjoy Iyengar yoga and b) it, quite frankly, scares the bejesus out of me.

Let's tackle these two issues one at a time: why don't I enjoy Iyengar? And, is yoga about enjoyment? Well, the answer to the latter question is yes, I think one should enjoy practicing yoga. If you don't, there's no point in doing it at all. To answer the real question at hand, though, you have to understand a little bit more about Iyengar yoga and what it involves ... so read this Wiki entry (and OMG, that picture is SO bad and SO misleading!). Anyway, Iyengar is too static, rigid and confined for me, as opposed to the great, flowing movements of Ashtanga. And while I'm careful not to compromise my form when practicing Ashtanga, the precision required of any Iyengar class is enough to make me want to walk through a glass window. Secondly, the Institute scares me because I know it's good, I know it's serious and I know they don't mess around (i.e. you're supposed to have studied at least 2 years of Iyengar yoga before taking the "general" class level. I have - I just didn't tell anyone that this was done in the basement conference room of my former employer's offices and taught by a woman who I'm pretty certain never made any trips to Pune (which is, like, the ultimate testament to an instructor's credibility at the Institute) to study with BKS Iyengar himself and almost never made any corrections, which is why I quit in the first place).

But at the encouragement of my co-worker, who has been a regular at the Institute for years, I decided to try the class. The Institute itself is tucked away on Randolph Avenue - only about a 2-minute walk from Maida Vale tube station - and is a simple, sanctuary-like building. Studio 1, where my class was held (pictured above) bright white walls, polished wood floor and skylights and floor to ceiling windows looking out into a garden. It is undoubtedly the most beautiful studio I have ever visited.

The absence of mirrors (which is a no-no in most serious studios) is the first hint that there's no cheating when it comes to alignment: you can't see your reflection, so you need to know how a pose, or asana, feels, when you're doing it correctly. Gulp.

The regular students quickly filled the room and I was relegated to a corner. The assistant, Chris, came by with a very nice smile and whispered, "Alaric will probably ask you to move as you don't have much space there, so feel free to take the other corner." I nodded gratefully and took my mat to the opposite side of the room. Most students were already lying in supta baddha konasana with all their props neatly arranged beside them (that's something I didn't mention about Iyengar yoga - you're expected to use props to enhance and help your practice. This can sometimes result in you having two bolstsers, two blankets, four foam blocks, one wooden block and a strap beside your mat. Aside from having a serious deficiency in remembering things, I'm too dumb to remember what to do with the props - another reason why I find Iyengar yoga tedious). Then my friend came plodded up and quietly suggested that I move to the middle of the room as I wouldn't be able to see. So I ended up directly in front of the teacher's raised stage area. Great.

Suddenly, a loud voice boomed across the floor. "I want all of you to begin in supta baddha konasana. You!" he barked at a girl to my left. "Adjust your belt BEFORE you lie down. Do it NOW." Chris hurried over to me and helped me with my belt as I frantically tried to position it correctly. Class hadn't even begun and I had a feeling I will be kicked out soon. After much struggling, I managed to lie back on my bolster. "You!" the teacher barked again, pointing down at me. By now, my arms were trembling from fear and I had forced myself into the most uncomfortable supta baddha konasana I had ever been in. "Your back is not long," he growled, quickly adjusting my hips from under me. "There. Now, can you feel?" I nodded vigorously. "Good," he said sternly, moving on. "Your back cannot be long if your buttocks aren't pulled away from the bolster!" It was a small adjustment, but made the world of difference. Again, I was scared, but grateful.

"Now rise up and turn to place your bolster between your knees, balasana." Shit. What is 'balasana'? I sneaked a peek and saw everyone getting into child's pose. The teacher sat inches away from me. "If you can't sit back on your heels, place a blanket underneath," he barked, clearly to me. I reached my arms long in front of me and put my head down on the bolster. But apparently, my child's pose wasn't good enough. "You!" he shouted. I didn't know he was referring to me as my head was down. He snapped his fingers. "Helloooo?" he said, annoyed. I looked up. "Turn your bolster the other way." I fumbled about, still quaking. "Like this?" I asked in a near-whisper. He grinned, as if to say, "Duh!" Great, so now I felt stupid in even the safest pose of all.

But it didn't end there. As we bent over in a forward fold with our legs mat-distance apart, he began to talk us through the muscles in the legs. My left hamstring had began to twitch and my palms were sweating like mad from nerves. "Rotate your inner thighs!" he commanded, and flicked his thumbs swiftly across my right, then left hamstrings. I was familiar with this rotation from Lauren's own instruction and worked hard to turn them the required way. "The important thing is to RELAX the muscles!" he boomed. Every time he commanded, "relax!" I did the opposite, involuntarily tensing. "Straighten your arms! Contract your triceps!" he barked at the girl next to me. "Come on!" he said, smacking her arms. She giggled, as did the rest of the class. Wait - was I missing something? Was his toughness merely a joke? As the new girl, I decided not to test it.

Throughout the class, I received some terrific corrections. I found out that I hadn't been stretching my hips flexors properly in a simple seated hip opener due to the way I've been crossing my ankles. I discovered that I had been tensing the wrong muscles when I sit in upavistha konasana.

Then we came to inversions. "If you're menstruating, ladies, stay in the middle of the floor and do the following asanas," he boomed. To be quite honest, I was too scared to mess up my inversions (though I witnessed quite a lot of people kicking up into headstand, which was quite interesting, given the level of perfection this teacher seeks) and face the wrath of the instructor so opted to stay in the middle of the room.

We finished with with a long savasana (there's even a correct way to do that) where he shook his head and told me I wasn't correctly positioned and worked on our pranayama, or breath control before rising to a seated position for the final "Namaste." I thanked the teacher and he smiled and replied, "Thank you," in a gentle tone. The best part was that he didn't tell me to go back to the Beginner's class. I breathed a sigh of relief.

So - what did I think? I got my butt kicked (nearly literally). But in a good way. And I think I'd like to go back. Then again, I'm a glutton for punishment.

Photo source

Cuba Libre: Your Friday Night With a Twist (and a side of heartburn)

2011-03-27T10:55:00.000+01:00

The great thing about eating out in Angel is the sheer concentration of terrific restaurants all in one area. Want a massive, mouth-watering meringue from a world-famous chef? Head over to Ottolenghi. Something cheap but cheerful (and Natalie's favorite)? Le Mercury. One of my and John's old fast-food standbys? Chilango. It's all there.

But after a disappointing flat viewing in Highbury on Friday (how an estate agent can look you in the eye and tell you with a straight face that a 2 bed flat overlooking the Overground railway and a scrapyard is going for £460 p/w and has "two offers already" is beyond me, I'm afraid), John and I wandered down Upper Street in search of something a bit more - something different from our usual extremes of eating either Toptable deals at Michelin-starred restaurants or £6.95 prawn pad thai from our local above-the-pub Thai restaurant.

"I've been in here before," John said, nodding toward Cuba Libre, a Cuban restaurant and bar that boasts both happy hours and Paella Mondays (which is something you should seriously consider if you ever have "a case of the Mondays" - sorry, I've been watching Office Space a little too much lately). By then, I was desperate for some food and felt the low blood sugar demon creeping into my system. "Let's just go," I said, and we made our way into the half-full, reggaeton-pumping restaurant where John immediately ordered a Coke for me and an Aperitivos "Cuba Libre" to share. The starter consisted of some large olives, grilled chicken (which was oh-so-delicious! It tasted like a BBQ-summer), some plantains, an empanada, chorizo and more - the perfect way to tide a growling tummy over.

For my main, I selected the El Plato Cubano (pork, chicken, chorizo and shredded beef served with black beans and rice and plantains) and John went for the Palomilla al estilo de la casa (steak served with potatoes and cassava). I have to say, both of our main courses were like, taste sensations - I especially loved how the cassava complimented John's steak (yes, I had slight food envy) and the tender shredded beef on my own plate. If anything, however, the food was quite rich and on the ever-so-slightly-salty side, so I must admit I suffered a bit 20 minutes later during the cab ride home (don't worry, no one hurled in a black cab, though it did remind me of that one time I had to ask the cabbie to stop as John proceeded to get out, walk to a corner and violently vomit after watching the Leicester Tigers thrash the London Irish during the Guinness Cup Final. He had one too many celebratory pints of Guinness, poor thing). And by the time we left around 8, the restaurant and bar were in full swing (apparently there's salsa there on certain nights as well) and if I had been in a better mood, I would have probably stayed to dance.

So if you're looking for something a little different, fun and definitely friendly (the staff is awesome), go to Cuba Libre. Just don't forget your Alka Seltzer.

Wednesday Morning Tube Rant: Noisy PDA

2011-03-23T06:28:00.000Z

Euuuuuuurrrrrrrrhghhhh. Unhghghghhhhhhh. EUURRRRRRGGHHHHHH. What? That sound? That's the sound of me vomiting up my non-breakfast at the sight of loved up commuting couples - not just any loved-up couples, I'm talking about the ones who insist on smooching loudly for their entire journey into central London.

You've seen them: from the platform to Oxford Circus, they act like the tube is their high school locker. I'm not bemoaning the presence of PDA (that's 'public displays of affection' for all of you people who weren't fortunate enough to attend an American high school) on the tube, just people who plant repeated, wet, suction-ey, kisses that cut-through your iPod's in-ear headphones. I feel like going over with a ruler at the high school prom and asking them to keep 6 inches away from each other's faces.

The latest guilty offenders were found in the ~~elevator~~ lift at Holland Park station. All was quiet on the Western Front, then I heard: smooooooooch ... smacccckk ... smmaacckkk. "I ruv you," said the woman. "I ruv you more," said the man as he nuzzled her neck. Awkward for the 3 others in the lift? Nah, not really.

Serenity Now.

2011-03-20T11:27:00.000Z

This is what it looked like when we drove into Leicestershire yesterday morning: blue skies and green country that stretched for miles and miles in front of us. This, my friends, is the life. And on Monday, we go back to the grind.

London Review of Books: Not Just a Pretty Face

2011-03-17T06:49:00.000Z

This post is about cake. So if you're looking for something about LRB, you've clicked on the wrong link. Sorry.

When I was a ~~freshman~~ first-year at MHC, Professor Hill returned my first paper to me in his infamous Medieval to Commonwealth class (where the weak are weeded out on the first day and the strong are commended for their bravery, etc.) with a bunch of illegible scribbles (as he does) and a not-so-decent grade. When I queried this not-so-decent grade, he instructed me to, "Read the London Review of Books. That'll improve your writing style."

So I'm sure he'll be proud to know that nine years later, I found myself having lunch in the London Review Cake Shop (which is attached to the London Review Bookshop), eating a lovely slice of quince tart with creme fraiche for dessert, sipping on a chocolate sprinkled cappuccino and thinking of nothing related to the LRB at all.

That isn't to say that I'm not a huge admirer and fan of the literary titan that is the actual LRB (and yes, I did follow Professor Hill's advice and still read the LRB whenever I can get it), or its bookshop, located just a hop, skip, jump and away from the British Museum in Bloomsbury - but rather, well, that I just happen to like cake more. *shrugs*

I met Iain at this tiny (and I mean tiny) cake shop for lunch yesterday with a growling stomach and didn't care that there were only about 4 items on the chalkboard menu: quiche with accompanying salad, soup of the day, salmon and cucumber baguette or egg mayonnaise sandwich. "You don't have much choice here, do you?" asked a disdainful woman of the waitress when her fussy boyfriend complained of his partner's lunchtime selection (apparently he "doesn't eat sandwiches, hates quiche and is allergic to barley"). They left shortly. I, however, was enamored by the charming menu of limited selection and opted for the egg mayonnaise sandwich, which came on homemade granary bread with rocket, sliced black olives, sundried tomatoes and a thin layer of mustard (I know, I'd never think of putting those six things together either, but it totally worked). Iain had the salmon baguette, which was simple but apparently, "really good". We finished off with slices of the quince tart topped with almonds (so think bakewell tart here, people) and flourless chocolate cake.

I can't think of a better way to spend your lunch hour (that is, if you can get a seat). And afterward, if you have time, you can even browse the books next door - if you're so inclined, that is. If you're like me, you'll just eat your cake and run.

Photo source

Bento Box My Face Off: Tombo

2011-03-13T16:06:00.000Z

If you're in the South Ken area doing some shopping or catching a show at RAH (I just like abbreviating it 'cos it's funny: RAH. RAH!), then I highly suggest you drop in to one of my new-found favorites (okay, okay, I can't take credit - John found it): Tombo, an incredibly charming Japanese cafe and deli located a stone's throw from South Kensington station.

A breath of fresh air from the ubiquitous "Japanese" chains, Tombo is the perfect place to go when you're looking for something between pre-packed sushi and greasy udon pots - something homemade and nourishing, such as the bento box above, which includes your choice of main (chicken, salmon or tofu), multigrain rice (which feels a lot better in your tummy than the usual white rice) and a choice of three sides (I had the mooli and carrot salad, seaweed and edamame bean salad and carrot and radish salad). The chicken is succulent and tender and the sauce isn't too sweet, which is always a common complaint of mine when selecting chicken donburi or bento boxes.

They also have a delicious selection of Japanese desserts (oh how I miss mochi and iced mochi!) and teas which I am dying to try the next time I break from a shopping trip.

The smart decor and friendly staff also add to the enjoyable dining experience; the white walls are decorated by whimsical paintings by the magnificent Nastko Seki, which, accompanied by the comfort food makes you feel like you're dining in a friend's chic living room, rather than a West London cafe.

If you plan on going, be prepared to wait at least 5-10 minutes during peak hours (lunchtime, for example) as it's clearly a popular place - but totally worth the wait.

A Little Roadside Assistance? Please?

2011-03-13T09:33:00.000Z

So ... yesterday, John and I had a little adventure on the corner of Wood Lane and the Westway (yeah, that's an entrance to an on-ramp, but don't worry, we managed to pull up onto the curb until the car decided to die completely):

All I have to say is, thank goodness for:

1) iPhones and Google Maps

2) friendly, kind and cheerful breakdown repairmen such as the wonderful man above

3) free weekend parking in the Latimer Road area, specifically, outside the only garage available (which was conveniently closed until Monday)

... and ...

The inside of those tow trucks? They're like, totally awesome. Extremely roomy and fits seven people. I like the addition of the bar across the back, which makes you feel like you're either a) on a rollercoaster or b) a simulation ride. Someone should make a ride based on a tow truck. It would surely blow the HP Theme Park out of the water.

That's all.

A Little Slice of Heaven: The Grove

2011-03-10T21:35:00.001Z

On a cold, windy, dark January afternoon, I found myself en route to an undisclosed location, known only by the driver - John. "Where are we going?" I asked crossly, kicking at the Longchamp carry-all at my feet which held a bathing suit and gym gear (as instructed), a dinner dress (also as instructed) and the plethora of girl stuff girls require, including a magazine. "You'll see," John said excitedly, as he pulled onto the freeway. "I booked somewhere special, don't worry."

Thirty minutes later, we pulled up to a large, gated estate in the middle of Hertfordshire countryside, with its own stoplight at the foot of a tiny stone bridge. I tried to hide my excitement as I caught a glimpse of a hedge shaped into a giraffe peering over an enclosed garden and acres of grass, which slowly revealed themselves to be a golf course. Then I felt a knot of nervousness as we parked in front of the sprawling building - it looked ... expensive. And I felt ... self-conscious.

Tucking my hair awkwardly behind my ear as we walked into the lobby, members of an engagement/wedding party in gorgeous pink and gold saris and D&G handbags air kissed each other at the front desk. But when we were shown to our room, I really had to keep my cool - I've stayed in nice places before, but this was probably the highest end of the spectrum. During my weekend stay at The Grove, it became clear that the small details truly count: a Bose iPod dock and DVD player sat conveniently on a night stand, the shower and bath controls were positioned directly at the foot of the bath rather than underneath the shower head to eliminate the awkward leaning and inopportune soakings that accompany traditional showers and baths. Last but not least, as I went to pull out my magazine from my bag, I noticed a thick, glossy new issue of Harper's Bazaar (one of my faves) on the other nightstand. Did someone read my mind?

I went to (quietly) admire the mini-bar under the glass counter and study the mini-bar menu: "Earl Grey the Grove - £16" it read at the bottom of the menu. "What's that?" I asked John, pointing to the item. "I don't know," he shrugged as he cranked up the volume on the iPod dock. "Probably a champagne." I then sat down at the desk to study the spa menu ... and there it was, sitting adorably in front of me: Earl Grey the Grove, a little plush toy donkey with a price tag attached that read, "Hello, I'm Earl Grey the Grove. Please take me home." (I might do if you didn't cost £16 - sorry).

It wasn't before long before we decided to take a dip in the spa pool, which soon proved to be unlike any other pool I've ever been in. Upon realizing it was a dark-tiled pool with dimmed lights and soothing music, I shook my head. "Nuh uh, I'm not getting in that," I said, backing away. "It's like swimming in a dark lake and I already have a phobia of pools." John didn't hear me as he popped his goggles on and dove in. Sulkily, I dipped my toe in. It was warm ... pleasantly warm. The pool and room didn't smell of chlorine but rather, lavender and jasmine. Was it my imagination? I allowed myself to let go and swim a couple laps - and ended up staying there for an hour. To say that I loved it would be an understatement. I hadn't felt that calm or safe, for that matter, for months.

When we managed to tear ourselves away, we found the Vitality Pool, set off in its own room a couple of corridors away, overlooking a small courtyard. Inside this heated pool were massaging jets of all sorts, similar to the Hungarian baths we'd experienced in Budapest a year ago. And as we were the only people there, it was utterly relaxing.

In addition, each of the pool locker rooms held a fluffy, white ankle-length robe, with accompanying fluffy, white towel and fluffy, white slippers - any more fluffiness and my heart might have burst. Lit mirrors with low seats, hair straighteners, Babyliss hair dryers, nail kits, and Espa lotions lined the room. I had trouble leaving the changing room.

For dinner, John had made reservations at The Stables restaurant, one of four restaurants at The Grove. Described as "informal" in the hotel guide, I was still glad I brought a knit dress as most of the clientele dined in smart clothing. The meal was wonderful (save John's tasteless soup which he attempted to save by dumping half the balsamic vinegar from our bread basket and sprinkling copious amounts of salt and pepper) but the magical part was being driven to the restaurant and back (as it required walking outside and it was freezing) in the hotel's "buggy" golf carts, complete with thick wool blankets on each seat. I tried to pretend this was all normal service, rather than an exception.

Later that night, we popped our Harry Potter dvd (hey, don't judge - though we needn't have brought a dvd after all as the hotel has a library of 200) into the dvd player and ate chocolate in bed until we fell asleep (not before brushing our teeth though, obviously, cuz, you know, that would be like, gross). Simply amazing.

The next morning, breakfast was served at The Glasshouse - a buffet of waffles with fresh fruit and omelettes made-to-order. I indulged in a bagel and lox, something I hadn't had for a while. John commented that a couple of posh children in Boden ensembles ran up to the fruit and exclaimed, "Raspberries!!! Strawberries!!!" as if they were the best discoveries they'd made all weekend. Hilarious.

Luckily, the hotel was kind enough to allow us to use the spa facilities after we checked out, so we enjoyed a full hour or two more in the luxurious pool and steam room, before heading back to the grind, albeit in a much better place (mentally and physically) than before.

So the next time you're feeling a little wound up or under the weather, I highly recommend a short visit to The Grove - it's like a little slice of heaven.

Photo source

Wednesday Morning Tube Rant: Worst. Journey. Ever.

2011-03-10T07:48:00.000Z

8:05 a.m. - head out the door.

8:10 a.m. - arrive at bus stop. Bus I need is scheduled to arrive in 8 minutes. I debate taking the tube and decide against it.

8:28 a.m. - my bus finally arrives. I get on. It's packed. I feel an instant surge of regret as soon as I take my place under a man's armpit and in direct line of the stairwell.

8:32 a.m. - I get off the bus on a whim at the next stop and decide to take the tube, only to see another bus right behind it that is empty but pulls away just as I run up to it. Wonderful.

8:40 a.m. - I arrive on the tube platform for the train to Elephant and Castle and just miss an empty train where there are multiple seats available.

8:42 a.m. - The next train is packed beyond belief, so I skip it.

8:44 a.m. - I have no choice but take this train even though it's full because I'm now running late and will need to change at the dreaded Oxford Circus for the *shudder* Central Line.

8:52 a.m. - After being squashed several times by giant men who belong in Avatar rather than on public transport, I stumble onto the platform at Oxford Circus and am confronted by a big girl who bounces me off her ample bosom in effort to get past me.

8:55 a.m. - I manage to fold myself into the intricately orgami-like arrangement of people on the Central Line train to my destination. The blonde next to me with a vintage leather bag and Hermes scarf sizes me up with a look that brings me back to the second grade playground.

9:02 a.m. - I get off at my stop and queue to get up to the actual escalator bit of the station.

9:04 a.m. - I finally reach the escalators but some Tweedle Dums and Tweedle Dees can't decide whether they want the right side (to stand) or left side (to walk up) of the escalator and instead, have the brilliant idea of stopping right in front of it.

9:10 a.m. - slightly over an hour later, I'm seated at my desk and vowing to never, ever take the Central Line again and counting down the days until we move.

Maida Vale, I love you, but your quaint little Northwest corner is inadvertently giving me high blood pressure on the weekdays.

Abokado vs. Itsu: Let the Battle of Grab 'n Go Sushi Commence

2011-03-08T20:21:00.001Z

One of the major advantages of working in the new location I do is the sheer number of lunchtime options. Before, it was Pret, Leon or ... Pret? Now it's: shall I have bimbimbap at the local Korean cafe? Or a warming bowl of fresh pasta from the Italian deli down the road? Do I want to grab a bit of culture and eat in the British Museum cafe? The possibilities are endless ... and often I get excited just thinking about lunch when I sit down at my desk at approximately 8:53 a.m. (that is, when I'm not trying to save money and buy 2 for 1 soups at Sainsbury's instead - then it's ever so slightly depressing).

And then there is the inevitable dilemma when it comes to sushi. You kinda feel like a salad but you want something slightly more substantial, so nigiri and a couple slices of salmon sashimi should fill that I-feel-like-something-more-than-a-salad-but-less-than-a-carb-laden-food-fest hole. But who to choose, who to choose? Just three or four (or possibly less) mere storefronts away from each other, Abokado and Itsu face-off in a lunch-time fast-food sushi challenge.

In corner one, we've got Abokado, the underdog, small chain, who's motto is, ""Live your life, love our food" and whose specialties include things like a delicious choice of dressings (I had the chili and coriander today and can confirm that it was tangy and terrific) for your accompanying rocket salad and hand rolls, that resemble sushi wraps - the perfect mid-afternoon snack (or lunch option).

In corner two, we have Itsu, the popular chain founded by the same dude who started Pret a Manger (which is, as you know, one of my undying loves, for some reason) which boasts, "Health and happiness." (For the record, I get a little annoyed with this in-your-face yogic mantra from most sushi chains, you know, the whole "IF YOU PUT GOOD THINGS IN YOUR BODY, YOUR BODY WILL LOVE YOU, AND YOU WILL SWEAT BEADS OF GOLD OUT OF YOUR PORES" gimmick. I eat sushi because I enjoy it, not because I want to be "healthy". Rant over) Itsu has two menu choices that currently rank on my top ten favorites: the chicken pot-su, a thai-infused veggie and grilled chicken brown rice bowl that makes your colds shrivel and die a sudden death, and the "super salmon 3 ways" sushi box (yes, did I mention I was a glutton? Well, I am. See previous post on portion control i.e. I have none. And as I write this, I am waiting for Domino's to deliver my two medium pizzas and yes, I am tracking their progress in real time on my laptop).

Sometimes, I feel sorry for Abokado, because it's like going to the mall to spend time with your friends when really, you should be staying at home and watching Judge Judy with your mom (not that I've ever encountered that quandary before). So the other day, I paid a visit to Abokado and picked up their "Deep Blue" sushi box, which consisted of some salmon nigiri, rocket salad, and salmon and avocado rolls. Omg, the rice was nearly inedible on the nigiri: completely gloopy and stuck together, plus some of the rocket leaves were black. And no one told me about the separate dressings that I was meant to choose myself so I went without. And non-dressed rocket (or arugula as y'all call it back home) doesn't taste so good. Still, I felt like I was supporting a good cause, and it made me sad to see the quality slip. So I was most impressed when I received a reply from the manager (to my extremely polite but detailed missive as to why the Deep Blue box sorely disappointed me) which was open, honest, genuine and very apologetic (a voucher for a complimentary lunch also helped).

In contrast, the Super Salmon box from Itsu is extremely satisfying - thick, luscious pieces (not slivers) of fresh salmon sashimi, salmon nigiri with non-gloopy rice and deliciously rolled salmon and avocado sushi. But it always feels a bit soulless and corporate eating at Itsu with their irritatingly perky slogans plastered across the wall and beaming down at you, but you know, I get it. I know why that kind of self-affirming marketing works and why people - certainly I do, to an extent - buy into it. And like Pret, it all begins to taste a bit "samey" after a while, something that doesn't happen with the variety and home-made tastes available at Abokado.

So the conclusion is: it's a toss up. Up to you. Let me know what you think.

Portion Control

2011-03-06T16:38:00.000Z

I don't practice portion control when it comes to food. I believe in it, but I don't practice it. And I really should.

A couple of weekends ago, I woke up on Sunday morning with a huge craving for a Catch of the Day (shrimp, lettuce, avocado, melted cheese, mushrooms, alfalfa sprouts, tomatoes and mayo on a large, thick, French loaf) sandwich from my favorite deli in Tacoma, Washington. I didn't know why and I tried to shake it, but it just wouldn't go. I said nothing of this to John as I left for yoga. On my way back from the gym however, he texted to say he had a "delicious chicken sandwich" waiting for me at home. I pictured chicken salad in my head for some reason and was eternally grateful since I was ravenous. But upon my arrival, what sat on my plate was more akin to an American sandwich than a measly-filled British baguette and my eyes brimmed over with tears in gratitude (not really, more like a line of drool exited the corner of my lip ... sorry for the image, guys): a warm, chicken, avocado, tomato, lettuce, fried onion (that was the clincher) sandwich on a toasted roll from Vicki's on Clifton Gardens.

As an American living in Europe, I've grown accustomed to the reduced portion size of main courses and, well, everything and anything Britain has to offer food-wise. Back home, if my mom got a box of donuts from Dunkin' Donuts, I wouldn't have one, I'd have four - and that would be entirely normal. But since I've moved here, I've learned to adopt a healthier lifestyle and eat in moderation, exercise more, blah blah blah.

However, sometimes, and I mean, sometimes, my American eye for size starts wandering and I just can't help myself. For example, on Friday, I met John at our local pizza joint, which makes massive, mouthwatering (albeit thin crust) pizzas. While we were eating, John was telling me something about work but my eyes had fixated on a moving object right behind his head - a waitress carrying three scoops of chocolate ice cream with chocolate syrup drizzled on top in the most appetizing sundae dish you have EVER seen. "Are you even listening to me?" John asked, incredulously. "Not really," I said. "Look at that." I jabbed my thumb in the ice cream's direction. "I mean, look at that. Can we have dessert?" I asked him. He sighed. "I'm too full but you can have something if you want," he said. "Okay, I'll have the brownie." The menu described this tantalizing dessert as something along the lines of, "Treat yourself with a slice of decadent warmed brownie topped with vanilla ice cream." So in my head, I had this image of like, a Cheesecake Factory style brownie tower (which I had before my high school prom - the one good memory of prom, that is) with never ending fudge syrup and ice cream dripping down the sides. So when my dessert plate arrived with a square that was most definitely the feeble end of the brownie tray and a teaspoon-full of vanilla ice cream sitting pitifully on a mint leaf, I couldn't help myself but gasp in shock (and horror). "That's it? That's it?" I sputtered. "I'm paying £5.50 for this?" I shrieked. Luckily, the restaurant was playing back-to-back Destiny's Child which drowned out my rising panic. John sighed again. I polished it off in 0.5 seconds, stomped home, and ate 3 cinnamon cookies. And a bar of chocolate. The end.

(p.s. The photo above was taken from a lunch buffet in Budapest, so ... yeah, the whole portion control/Europeans-eat-less-thing ... take it with a grain of salt. On second thought, I'm pretty sure the buffet was aimed at American tourists ...)

The Imperial War Museum @ Duxford

2011-03-05T22:34:00.000Z

This, my friends, is an actual Spitfire in repair (for the lowdown of why I would actually care, read this blog post) in one of the hangars at the Imperial War Museum, Duxford.

I know I'm a bit late in posting this, but for Valentine's Day, I couldn't think of anything more romantic than for John to take me to the Imperial War Museum. Yes, you read that right - instead of roses and breakfast in bed (though I did receive the latter), I specifically asked my boyfriend of six years to take me to the Imperial War Museum in Duxford on February 14th. "Are you sure?" he asked, a little concerned and no doubt worried about the possible repercussions his actions might have if I wasn't 100% serious. "Yes!" I glared at him. "Why, don't you want to go? It isn't a phase, you know, I do have a genuine interest in the Battle of Britain and I want to see a Spitfire for reals. Anyways," I paused here as I excitedly clicked through the IWM website. "The Concorde is open for viewing today!"

So we made the drive to Duxford (I say we, but as usual, John drove while I played DJ and traffic monitor with the iPhone) and entered the museum on a very cold and windy day. Prior to my visit, I had no idea that the museum was organized into different "hangars" with themes e.g. Battle of Britain, AirSpace and even an American Air Museum. Perhaps what amazed me the most was how accessible it was to families and children - there are all sorts of fun activities and games to enable children to learn about everything from how planes work to how planes were used in war. I thought back to all the times my dad took me and my brother to the Museum of Flight in Seattle when we were little and boring I thought it was. I just think it's nice now that I can finally appreciate a museum like the IWM, Duxford and more importantly, that a place like it exists. John and I took advantage of the flight simulator located between a couple of hangars that supposedly gave you the experience of flying a Spitfire that shot down an enemy plane with real footage from the Battle of Britain - absolutely incredible (though I did feel a bit pukey afterward as we had just eaten a roast lunch and dessert at the cafe). However, my favorite part was probably the audio accounts from RAF veterans describing their experiences fighting in the air: truly amazing and inspiring stories. What can I say? First Light had a huge impact on me (and I was very happy to see copies of it in the gift shop).

I highly recommend a visit - maybe for that first date?

The Joy of Garden Centres (or How My Mom Turned Our Living Room Into The Little Shop of Horrors)

2011-03-02T19:03:00.001Z

So, like, while I was sick, I spent some time at home watching unfortunate day-time TV, which included MTV's Teen Cribs. In case you've never had the extreme pleasure of watching this highly intellectual program, it's basically about spoiled rich kids between the ages of 13-22 who live in homes resembling spas/resorts. The parents are interviewed in this tiny little pop-out bubble in the corner of the screen and they say things like, "I just wanted to give my kids a good life and a place that they could come to with their friends. I want my kids to wanna come home during college breaks and have happy memories, you know?"

And since I feel particularly emotionally sensitive when I'm ill (i.e. homesick), I started to reminisce about my family home in Washington. I think about how sad I am when I notice little things have changed when I go back for visits e.g. a new microwave or *fridge (*the fridge is a really sore point for me. Last year, my mom didn't wish me a happy birthday for the ENTIRE DAY because she claimed she had to deal with cleaning out the old, broken fridge which "smelled like a dead body. The whole world does not revolve around YOU," were her exact words. Ouch. For the next couple months, I received a missive each day in the form of an email detailing the stress she had to endure with the new fridge being delivered. Sigh.). But the last time my dad pulled up in the driveway after having picked me up from the airport really took the cake.

I could see our living room from the driveway and I let out a little scream. "What is WRONG with you?" yelled my dad as he jumped, nearly reversing into a wheelbarrow. "OMG, it's like the Little Shop of Horrors," I wailed. That or my mother had turned our living room into the Rainforest Cafe. Plants filled every available corner and space. Raised, hanging, perching ... you name it, she had it. Just as my eyes started to adjust to the light behind the jungle, she emerged from the darkness with a slightly maniacal smiling face, waving at me from above. "Ack!" I jumped back again.

I should have seen the warning signs before my trip: on Skype, she mentioned visiting garden shops almost every day. Monday: "Hey mom, what are you doing today?" "Going to McClendon's - they have buy one get one free peonies and I thought they would look soooo nice in th ..." but by this time I had glazed over. Tuesday: "Mom. Where are you going?" "Watson's. I need to get a new pot for my lilies. They're not growing properly and I think it has to do with the pot." Wednesday: "Mom, are you there?" "I'm leaving now, don't talk to me. I have to go to Windmill." "You just went to Windmill yesterday." "No, that was Watson. This time I have to go get some peonies. "You just got peonies." "Yeah, but these are a different color." And so on, and so forth.

So when John suggested we visit the garden centre a couple months ago, I looked at him like he was insane. "How old are you?" I snarled. "Wait, wait, wait. Sixty-two? Seventy?" "I know, I know," he said, with his head down, feelings hurt. "But it's so cool!" So I grudgingly followed him to Clifton Nurseries in Maida Vale where I stomped and grumbled until I promptly ran into (quite literally) Michael McIntyre (who none of you in the US will know, but that's what happens when you live in the UK long enough - you get excited about UK celebs).

It only got better from there.

First, I saw a kitty hiding behind a plant pot (it bit at me when I tried to tickle it behind the ear):

Then we took a break in the cafe, where I had this delicious scone with jam and butter (and a pot of tea, of course):

So yeah, there's no guaranteeing that I won't turn my own house into the Little Shop of Horrors when I become Of Age, but until then, I might not mind hanging out at the local garden centre. Because I'm sad like that.

Puttin' on the Ritz: Cooking with Kraft

2011-02-26T10:05:00.000Z

When I cook from Kraft recipes, I feel like I'm doing open-heart surgery in the Sahara Desert. "Use a quarter cup of your favorite grated Kraft cheese! Add your favorite Kraft dressing! OR MIRACLE WHIP" it brightly suggests. First of freaking all, I don't have no "quarter cup". I don't have no "half cup" or "3/4 cup" for that matter, so I'm guestimating. And for the very last time, I don't got no MIRACLE WHIP!!! Nearly every recipe requires Miracle Whip (I once looked up how to make Miracle Whip, which is different than mayo, people, and I decided it wasn't worth the effort).

I also feel like I should be wearing mom jeans, Mary Kay lipstick (yes, mom, I know you wear Mary Kay lipstick. No, mom, there's nothing wrong with Mary Kay lipstick. Yes, mom, I know you got it as a gift) sneakers, a sweatshirt with my kid's elementary school emblazoned on it (a turtleneck underneath that) and have a bad perm. "Quick and easy recipes THE WHOLE FAMILY will love!" or "Budget Wi$e" boasts the top of their web page. I think the dollar sign on the word "wise" is what really befuddles me.

Then there are the "reviews" which you can access at the top of each recipe page. They mostly say things like, "My husband LOVED this!" or "So simple and easy, the ingredients went straight from the mini-van after my kids' soccer practice and onto the plate!" (Okay, so I made up the second one, but the first one is an actual review taken from the website).

My mom forwards the Kraft Food&Family newsletters with these "Quick and easy recipes! For a budget!" because she knows that my busy life is the equivalent to a typical soccer mom's (but with tailored jackets, micro-suede heels and MAC lipstick, I'd like to add) and has deduced that, well, I have no time to cook.

So on Tuesday, I wrote a breathless email to John after work that went something like this: "I'vegotyogatonightbutifyoucanbuymaterialsthenI'mhappytocookdinnerIneedsomeRitzcrackersandsalmon. Okay, thanks, bye." Ritz crackers and salmon. John came home and plonked the ingredients on the kitchen counter. I duly went about crushing Ritz crackers. "Wow, this is fun!" I marveled, as I went straight from the tube and into the kitchen, crushing the crackers. Only an American recipe would call for crushing Ritz crackers to make a crusty, parmesan-infused salmon fillet topping. As I didn't have Kraft grated parmesan cheese, as the recipe called for, I instead grated my parmegiano-reggiano block from Tesco into a bowl. Mixed it with mayo, slathered generously on top of the lemon-juice drizzled fillets, and excitedly sprinkled the Ritz crumbs over. It was like being five again. Then I popped it in the oven and prepared my salad with my non-Kraft favorite dressing. All in all, it took about 10 minutes.

The result? I personally thought it was delicious, very American tasting. John politely forced forkfuls down but I thought I saw the gag reflex going a couple of times - however, he washed it down with a glass of pinot grigio, so I think it was okay.

Why not put on your mom jeans and subscribe to the newsletter yourself?

Glasser @ XOYO

2011-02-26T09:38:00.000Z

I distinctly remember the first time I heard Glasser: I was sitting cross-legged on the floor of our flat, eating Domino's Extravaganza pizza and drinking Corona from the bottle, on the cusp of a food coma after binging post-gym workout (I'm not sure Domino's is what the gym advises you to eat post-workout - in fact, I believe one trainer specifically instructed me to "eat nuts, not bread - bread is evil" so heaven knows what she thinks of Domino's). "Who's this?" I asked John dreamily (which came out more like "Whosh thish?" with bits of sausage flying out of my mouth). "It sounds like a cross between These New Puritans and jj and Bjork ("It schoundchs like a crosh between ..." you get it)." "It's Glasser, one of my Rough Trade CD club albums," he said, carefully chewing his pizza before speaking in order not to follow in my disgusting ways. "Humph," I mumbled in response. "I like it." But by this point I had drifted off to comatose sleep (burp).

The next day, I forgot all about Glasser and that album, "Ring", but then we started listening to it again and again - in the car, in the flat, and I began to love it. I'd put "Apply" on as soon as I walked out the door in the morning and thought of that and "Home" as sort of my battle hymns as I set off to conquer wheelie bags and a new job. And they were quite effective.

So it was no surprise that when John's birthday rolled around (and I was completely stumped in terms of presents at approximately 8 pm the night before) that I bought tickets for the next Glasser show (or "gig" as they shudderingly refer to such performances here in the UK - ugh, ugh, ugh, how I hate that word) at XOYO in Shoreditch. There are loads of bad reviews of XOYO on the web - most label it as "the worst venue I've ever been in my life" and "the staff is rude and there is no air con, making it for a very sweaty evening", etc. so I had the worst expectations. One reviewer complained, "The stage is RIGHT by the stairs, which is ridiculous." Or makes for a great getaway, depending on how you see it.

Anyways, the show started at 8 and we arrived around 8:30 to catch the last couple songs from Lia Ices, an ethereal, breathy Olivia Palermo/Whitney Port-esque lookalike with soothing vocals and the best ankle-boot and tights combo I've ever seen (sorry, I should have concentrated on the music, but I was pretty fascinated by her perfectly thrown-together look). But the crowd soon grew restless until Sampha joined the stage and did a set of (in my view) rather ambitious five songs complete with a surprisingly strong voice set against dissonant electronic beats - different and extremely intelligent, but I don't think anyone in the crowd (including me) really appreciated it or got it (there's a great remix of the xx's Basic Space by him out there if you're interested, though). It wouldn't be for another half hour until Glasser (AKA Cameron Mesirow) reached the stage and in the time it took for me and John to get a fabulous spot on the left side of the stage, a massive dickhead with a massive coif (and yes, I am totally entitled to call this 6'11" 18-year-old punk - and his girlfriend, while I'm at it - a dickhead, because his coif was backcombed into a rather phallic interpretation of a rat's nest and also mostly because he and his lookalike androgynous gf were 6'11" and pushed themselves, rudely and forcefully in front of the people around them who were all around 5'3 or under) pushed in front of us. So of course, the rage took over and I managed to step on some poor hipsters' feet in my rage and got us a prime position about 4 feet away from center stage.

But the brilliant thing about XOYO is that it's indeed such a small venue (a little bigger than my flat, I don't think, if you knocked out the walls), that it makes for some extremely up-close-and-personal viewing. When Glasser finally took the stage with her band (who were in patterned boilersuits, nonetheless) and launched into "Apply" in what seemed to resemble a cobbled together traditional Korean (?) outfit but reinvented with a vintage blouse and hooped skirt, the hipster crowd went into a sort of rapturous/awed/stunned/swooning cheer. Her voice, as powerful and perfectly on pitch as it is on the album, generated a crazy amount of energy in the small room and I was grateful that we could be so close to feel it.

Halfway through the performance, her energetic dancing seemed to have caused her to rip a hole in her skirt, prompting her to laugh and exclaim, "Oh no! Look what I've done! What do I do?" as she looked bewilderingly around her. She picked up the excess fabric: "Do I throw it over my shoulder like a continental soldier, as we say on the other side?" (I was the only one who laughed, since I was probably the only American in the room who knew the childhood rhyme) And this might sound condescending, but I just loved the way she spoke: her totally, down-to-earth and very Californian accent. She thanked the audience after every song and, aside from the performance aspect of the show, she seemed, well, almost very ordinary.

One of the best aspects of live performances is hearing songs from the album played just a little bit differently and Glasser did an amazing, stripped-down version of "T" midway through the show. Her voice, accompanied only by electric guitar (which was made to sound like a synth) was so moving and bare, that at times one probably felt one should look away. "Wow," she said with a generous smile after breaking the spell. "Thanks so much! I've never heard it so quiet before! Not a lot of people have the patience to sit through that, so yeah, thanks!"

Oh, Cameron. If only you knew how we (secretly) worshiped you. Or at least, I do.

Listen to "Apply" here:

Photo source

Thursday Morning Tube Rant: Wheelie Bags

2011-02-24T19:58:00.000Z

You know, looking back at the past year's worth of blog posts, I don't know what I was complaining about on my "tube rants". Seriously? That was the Bakerloo line: people were polite, even civilized, compared to the neanderthals that board the Piccadilly or Central lines. Those Piccadilly or Central line travelers have no qualms about physically attacking you in order to not miss a train (I've had first hand experience and yes, I'm not proud of it, but I retaliated. It made me feel better).

But aside from the serious aggro and negativity Piccadilly and Central line users project between the hours of 7 a.m. and 7 p.m. every day, I've found myself confronted with a very peculiar impediment to my train journey every morning, consistently, for the past two weeks: wheelie bags. You know, those medium sized travel bags or suitcases that are wheeled behind you for overnight stays at grandma's house or something. And every morning, I seem to be stuck behind one and its owner, who is oblivious to the obstacle his stupid bag is providing to all weary commuters. One man seemed quite apologetic and considerately picked up the small bag by its handle when moving through areas of congestion, but others insist on dragging it about four feet behind them, so that the person immediately following does a helpless sort of wide-legged hobble/dance to get around it while having his heels nipped at by the person behind. You follow? It's annoying. These bags should be banned. Sometimes I think, 'Oh, it's not their fault - I might be guilty of this someday when you know, I'm coming back from grandma's house (except that wouldn't happen because my grandma lives in Hong Kong but that's another story)' but then on other days, when some skinny chick has just come flying at me with claws and all because she's desperate to get to the closing doors of a Piccadilly train, then I rage and rage and think 'No, get your $%^&&*^ piece of @#$% out of my way you @#$%^&* imbecile.'

And to think I was complaining that my commute was boring last year - ha! Oh, how times have changed. But I asked for it.

Newsflash: The Blog Is Revived

2011-02-24T07:22:00.000Z

Sidenote: after a lot of encouragement from the Twittersphere, blogosphere, and beyond, I've decided to continue blogging - but the truth is, I've missed it. I miss sharing my tube rants of the day, or douchebags of the day, pet loves and pet hates about the US and UK. I might not have as much time as I used to write regularly, but I'll sure as heck try. You can also follow me and my random, rambling, unimportant thoughts about displacement, misplacement, displeasure and more on Twitter: @angloyankophile. So yeah, thanks for reading. More to come soon.

Audio Assault: Plane Talk

2010-12-26T13:15:00.000Z

I've come to accept the fact that we Americans (and some more than others) have very distinctive accents and more often than not, very distinctive voices. Now, as I mentioned before, I work hard to preserve my American accent in London because a) I'm not ashamed to be American and b) I don't wanna sound like Madonna or Gwyneth Paltrow AKA sporting the dreaded "transatlantic accent" (although I've been told I have one now - sigh). But, in the words of my role model and buddy Sarah Palin, gosh darn it, why do the Americans with the most annoying nasal accents SPEAK SO LOUDLY? WHY MUST EVERYTHING BE IN CAPITALS NO MATTER WHERE THEY ARE? IS IT BECAUSE THEY HAVE TO BE HEARD? IS IT BECAUSE IF NO ONE LISTENS TO THEM, THEY'LL HAVE TO BRING IN THE BIG GUNS?

AN EXEMPLARY INSTANCE OF SUCH BEHAVIOR CAN BE FOUND ON MOST PLANE RIDES CONTAINING TRAVELLING AMERICANS (sorry, once I start with the caps, I just can't stop. It's quite enjoyable, I must admit). Example: at the onset of our nine hour plane journey across the Pacific from Tokyo's Narita Airport to Seattle Tacoma International Airport, I was drifting into blissful, guided sleep when BAM! It hit me. The verbal diarrhea of some Abercrombie-wearing twenty-something male (and yes, I said "male" because I won't even dignify his presence with the word "guy") two rows behind me to the equally annoying Shanghainese girl engaging him in constant conversation. "... I mean, Korea is like, like, such an amazing, amazing place, you know, like, I was teaching there and I, look, it's like a very, very male-dominated society and like, women have no say and like, yeah, totally, it can be very frustrating but like ..."

20 minutes later ...

"... and yeah, so my girlfriend is so skinny, I mean she has a six-pack but doesn't work out. At all. I mean, I work out and I lift, you know, and I have a six-pack. I have a six-pack because I work out. She is like, laid back, gorgeous, funny, I just love her. She is like, amazing. You know, some girls, like, can be high-maintenance. You know? Like super high maintenance. She is SO not like that, I mean, she is truly a wonderful person."

4 hours later ...

"... like, I love Chinese food and stuff, but like, don't you get bored eating the same thing every day? I mean, American food is like, so awesome, because you know, what's special about American food is, listen, you can have pizza. You can have spaghetti, you can have pasta. You know? It's different. Or you can have a burger. But like, how do you do it? How do you not get bored of eating rice every day? I couldn't do it, I really like, just - man, I just like, couldn't do it."

(And yes, I was so traumatized by his monologue that I remember these snippets distinctly and I believe, very accurately)

Look. I get it. I've met some awesome people on planes. Having a chatty and friendly seat-mate on a long flight is undeniably great and comforting, especially if you're travelling alone (for some people). But not the kind of verbal diarrhea I and other passengers were subjected to NON-STOP FOR EIGHT HOURS AND THIRTY-FIVE MINUTES. I MEAN, HE NEVER STOPPED. THERE WERE NO PAUSES. IT WAS TRULY AMAZING. Or as Kim Kardashian says, "amaze."

American accent or not, I, like, can't stand it. You know? And British people do it too ... it's just that ... they, like, stop. At some point. Americans keep going on and on and on and on ... and on. AND LOUDLY. REMEMBER? ALL CAPS. I once was sitting in the bulk-head row of a BA flight from Seattle to London and a woman who was eight rows back - yes, eight, because I counted - had a voice that carried like the wind. It was nasal as heck and I learned all about her new kitchen floor. Fab.

If you're ever on a plane chatting with a stranger, just remember - I'm not interested in hearing your life story. AT LEAST NOT IN ALL CAPS.

Photo source

Ooh La Lush!

2010-11-19T23:33:00.000Z

Lady friends of mine, avert your eyes! For you just might receive this gorgeously wrapped gift from me at Christmas this year (if you're good, that is). Isn't this lovely? Have you ever seen a prettier and/or more creatively wrapped present? This is courtesy of Lush in Covent Garden Market, y'all. I was storming towards Space NK for some last minute presents when these in the store window made my head turn instead.

You pick whatever products you'd like to go inside (each are individually bagged and tagged so the recipient knows her bath bomb from her massage bar) and choose the scarf of your liking from a wide variety. The cashier expertly wraps it for you (in my case, a British-accented LA native - yes, I know, ew, but he was so nice!) and voila - happy fashionable christmas! The one on the left was made entirely of recycled bottles (how this is possible, I have no idea) so it's SUPER eco-friendly! And at £3.95 per scarf wrap service, it's not a bad shout, as John would say (though I still don't really know what that means so might have used it incorrectly).

Perfect for the inner (or outer) fashionistas! (Male friends will not be receiving this, although if you're fabulously gay, you just might!)

As an added bonus, Lush staff are undeniably entertaining (if not a tad too overenthusiastic). One super faboosh employee broke into a brilliant impromptu dance routine to a Janet Jackson anthem, prompting me to wag my finger at him: "You should be on The X Factor, you know, you so should. You're amazing." "Oh thank you," he said, blushing. "Thank you!!!" No, thank you.

27 Books Before My 27th Birthday? Not A Chance.

2010-11-19T08:08:00.002Z

Well, I had the best intentions, and I'd love to say that I did it - but I didn't make it. Well, at least, I don't think I'm going to. My birthday is less than two weeks away and there's no way I'll read (I mean, *really* read) 9 books in that time. Sigh of all sighs. Grumble. And I had really wanted to prove the naysayers wrong (John, who scoffed, "That's impossible!" or "You should just read short stories or a really thin book!" Err ... great idea, but defeats the purpose of my quest). Oh well.

It was an interesting experiment though, and I learned quite a lot of valuable lessons along the way - I highly encourage everyone to attempt it. Think about it: out of all of you, who can honestly say, with their hand on their heart, that they read *regularly*? I just don't think it's possible, with a full time job and a social life, to do so, unless you're motivated by a bookclub (which I have since joined) or a peculiar self-motivational experiment like mine. Over the course of this experiment, I've read some truly, great books - and some that were ... um ... not-so-great. I even received my first hate mail on this blog (see my review of Julie/Julia, then subsequent bashing of Cleaving - I had some hardcore Julie Powell fans running after me with spiked clubs and the like), which I was quite proud of, and a lovely, touching letter from a 90-year-old World War II veteran - none of which would have happened without my grand (little) scheme.

At the end of the day (and boy, do I hate that phrase), attempting to read 27 books before my 27th (whoops, I actually typed 17 in there at first! I wish ...) birthday made me realize how little time I truly devoted to myself. Time to yourself is always important to have, but not a lot of us have the luxury of curling up with a good book for 2-3 hour chunks of time. So we find time: we read on our commutes, on our lunch breaks, in waiting rooms and reception areas. We read books that make us so angry, we throw them (again, refer to Julie/Julia). Or books that humble us, make us so grateful, that they move us to tears. We read books that are so-so and we read books that we are practically evangelical about. We even read trashy books for fun. That's okay (because books don't judge you - people do).

So what made the list? Here they are, in all their 18-titled glory (and with some annotations):

1) To The Nines - by Janet Evanovich (That was my one trashy allowance. Hey, we all have to start somewhere! Right? Right??)

2) Disobedience - by Naomi Alderman (Good effort, but ultimately crap)

3) Then We Came To An End - by Joshua Ferris (Utterly brilliant)

4) The Grass Arena - by John Healy (Touching, harrowing, and yet, amazing)

5) The Road - by Cormac McCarthy (Not bad, for a bestseller main-stream type)

6) The Help - by Kathryn Stockett (Best Oprah endorsed book of the year)

7) Travels With Charley - John Steinbeck (I *hearted* it - yes, I used "heart" as a verb and in the past tense - I didn't study English at Oxford, Mount Holyoke and York for nothing)

8) Julie/Julia - by Julie Powell (Despicable)

9) Cleaving - by Julie Powell (Even more despicable)

10) The Unnamed - by Joshua Ferris (Not as good as the other one)

11) Perfume - by Patrick Suskind (Just ... plain ... weird)

12) For Esme: With Love and Squalor - by J.D. Salinger (Classic beauty)

13) Short Girls - by Bich Minh Nguyen (Too ambitious)

14) Skippy Dies - by Paul Murray (What *should have* won the Man Booker Prize 2010 instead of the awful title in #18)

15) First Light - by Geoffrey Wellum (My hero)

16) Finding Nouf - by Zoe Ferraris (True airport literature - basically crap)

17) Girl In Translation - by Jean Kwok (Thought provoking and relatable from a cultural viewpoint)

18) The Finkler Question - by Howard Jacobson (Winner of the Man Booker Prize 2010 - awful, just awful)

I wish I'd ended on a high note but I'm afraid to say the opposite was true. Granted, I still do have a week or so to squeeze in one last book, but in case I don't make it, readers, there you have it. My full and final list. I think a more realistic goal for next year will be to aim for at least one book per month. But come on, people, 18 books in 9 months isn't too shabby.

Douchebag of the Day

2010-11-10T21:24:00.000Z

Just look at this douchebag on the tube. What kind of man wears MBTs? With a suit? Seriously? Getouttahere! (And yes, that was sexist of me, and no, I'm not apologizing)

Lord of the WTF?

2010-11-09T22:27:00.000Z

Oh dear, oh dear indeed. What has Michael Flatley done – to his face and Lord Of The Dance?

You might remember my post from a few months ago, highlighting the fact that I was once very much in love with Irish dancing and convinced that I wanted to be an Irish dancer, only to have my plans thwarted by my Dr. Evil-esque mother (not really, but kind of, really) who told me that there aren’t “any Chinese Irish dancers” (which I think is probably correct). Anyways, during this period of confused adolescence, I became slightly obsessed with Riverdance and subsequently, Lord of the Dance.

So to fulfil this childhood dream, I bought tickets shortly after writing that post for Lord of the Dance – a show that Michael Flatley has come out of retirement to perform in and a show that once took my the world by storm. And last Wednesday, I saw this show at the O2 Arena with Lauren and Bindy. What did I think?

You know when you buy a new toy and you’re just so excited about it and you play with it for hours and hours and sleep beside it because you’re just so excited that you’ve got it? And then you put it away for a while and after a few years, you discover it again and excitedly take it out to play with? But then you look closer and realize it’s a bit chipped, the sounds it make are a bit distorted and it’s definitely not so shiny anymore and in fact, it looks … well, like the Joker from Batman? No? Okay, well that’s kind of how I felt about Lord of the Dance.

First, since when did the show become rated XXX? Seriously, there are children present, people. Call me a prude, but I so do *not* remember the skin tight bodysuits and stripping down to underwear part of the video (yes, I watched it on video). Whilst the choreography seemed to remain the same, the costumes were far more risqué and unnecessarily inappropriate than what I remembered and added absolutely nothing to the show – in fact, if anything, they ruined it.

OTT and tacky; that just about describes the whole set and concept for the new tour of Lord of the Dance, unfortunately. I think I pretty much covered my eyes and/or looked at my feet in embarrassment when the screens behind the dancer began to show a screensaver-esque montage of red flowers with the silhouette of a stripper dancing sexily to the music (I shuddered as I typed those words). Sorry, I thought this was Lord of the Dance not some fetish video! Seriously, I was so embarrassed.

Furthermore, I was not convinced that the “tapping” sounds or the live performances (save the singer) were completely, well, live. With the exception of Michael Flatley himself, it seemed as though the taps were pre-recorded and included in the soundtrack they were dancing to (which again, I thought would be performed with a band, live, but alas, a track was used), which is fine but a little disappointing. I could be wrong, but that’s what appeared to be the case. What I did have issue with, however, were the “fiddlers” who appeared to be miked and playing “live” but I watched closely and noticed they were often out of sync with the music and I’m sorry, but there is no way one can jump around and maintain the integrity of what they were playing. Walk, yes. Strut, yes. Prance, even? Yes. But gyrate and jump about wildly? Uh no.

Wait.

Hold on a minute …

Yep, just tried it. It doesn’t work. Now, I’m positive they were actually playing – just don’t think that what they played was the same thing that was coming out of the speakers. Just sayin’.

Aside from my complaints and my gripes, it was still a really enjoyable performance. No, it really was. For one thing, it made me extremely nostalgic for my childhood and reminded me of just how much I loved – and still love – the beauty of Irish dancing. I marvelled at the dancers’ technique (when I wasn’t gawking at their attire, or rather, lack thereof) and Michael Flatley’s ability to still get it up – literally, he was quite light on his feet but I could barely recognize him for all the work he's had ... on his face.

However, I was deeply disappointed that the only way the creative directors thought LOTD could be "updated" was to sex it up. But instead of producing something hip, sexy, and modern, they came up with something contrived, cheesy, and at times, downright embarrassing.

Think this is one dream to finally leave behind.

Oh Why Do You Have To Be So Cute: Imogen Heap @ The Royal Albert Hall

2010-11-07T17:58:00.002Z

Contrary to what you'd might deduce from reading my blog, I actually listen to a lot of music other than classical and on Friday, as a treat to myself, after celebrating a little personal triumph, I bought a ticket to see Imogen Heap perform at The Royal Albert Hall.

If there was a soundtrack to my life, Imogen Heap would certainly be on it - it's not surprising, however, as she's a Grammy-winning artist who has appeared on numerous soundtracks, including the ever-popular Garden State. Something about her music really lends itself to that extremely emotive, illustrative quality that is indicative of motion picture soundtracks.

Quite aptly, she opened the first half of her show conducting a full symphony orchestra and choir who performed an original score (complete with movements!) against the backdrop of a series of Planet Earth-esque nature scenes with titles such as "Beauty" and "Grandeur". For anyone else, this would be an eye-rolling, pretentious act, but because it was Imogen Heap, it was entirely acceptable and endearing. And it was clear from this orchestration that Imogen knows exactly what she is doing: the textures, layers and transparency with which the music soared accompanied the film perfectly. Plus, I find myself invariably drawn to musicians who are classically trained - especially those who are as innovative as Imogen, because I'm consistently amazed by their gift in composing. Classically trained musicians have an innate understanding of music that artists without formal training lack (I know that's controversial, but it's my opinion).

Innovation is one of Imogen's greatest skills; her work with ambient sounds and recordings bring to mind The Books and you never quite know what kind of instrument she'll use next. The stage resembles a mad scientist's lab, with bells and a triangle hanging from the beautifully carved white tree in the centre, glasses half filled with water to make the familiar sounds you made as a child bored at a grown-up's restaurant that she's cleverly incorporated into the beginning of "First Train Home", keyboards, synthesizers and a multitude of other instruments you can't even see.

It's not difficult to understand why Imogen has won so many awards and garnered the affections of so many music fans. She gives a lot. What I mean by "giving" is this: for, in a venue as grand and immense as the Royal Albert Hall, she has the uncanny ability to make you feel like you're the only person in her company and, in fact, quite possibly chilling out in her living room. She has the habit of chatting to her audience - rapidly digressing and easily distracted, which is at once disarming and also incredibly charming. And if that doesn't win you over, there's the option on her website to vote, yes vote, for your favorite songs to appear on her set list because, as she explained, "people should hear what they wanted to come and hear." Isn't that so ... thoughtful? "I had no idea this song was so popular," she said in her adorable, bumbling way before launching into "Say Goodnight And Go" (one of my favorites). "I never played it and then it ended up in the top three of the poll almost every time and I thought, 'Oh no! I'd better play it." So. Lovely.

But with the loveliness is also an honesty and firmness that is really very refreshing. Explaining why she doesn't believe in encores, she said, "These are the last two songs that I'm doing with the band and then I'll do a couple more on my own. I can't stand it when someone goes off and then you know they're coming back on, and you have to clap and wait and I'm just not going to do any of that."

Notable highlights of the evening included "Let Go", (of course) a heart-stopping rendition of "Hide and Seek" as her final song and "Canvas", from her new album, Ellipse, which had a sample of the crackling bonfire she invited her family over to share in. I love how there's no caginess or cryptic messages in Imogen's music - she's very happy to explain exactly where she was when she wrote a piece of music, what was going through her mind, what the song means and most importantly, what the song means to her. In that sense, she's extremely generous. I love her.

If you've not heard Imogen's new album or had the chance to see her live this year, check out the video below of one of my favorite songs off of Ellipse, 'First Train Home':

Photo source

It's Cake Time!: Fireworks (Funfetti) Cupcakes

2010-11-07T11:59:00.000Z

To celebrate Guy Fawkes Night, I made "fireworks" cupcakes using the Funfetti Udita brought over for me a few months ago* (*to be honest, it was all a bit of coincidence and I had no intention of making these multi-colored treats in celebration of anything. Truth was, I woke from my three-hour nap yesterday afternoon in desperate need of a cake fix and looked up my favorite chocolate cake recipe. Deeming the recipe a bit too involved, I decided to rummage the shelves and fridge for a different sweet fix, but to no avail - until I discovered the box of Funfetti at the back. In fact, I'd never even heard of Funfetti until Mel mentioned it in a comment on this blog a few months ago. I was a little disappointed to find out it was simply pre-packaged cake mix with sprinkles inside. Oh well, cake is cake).

So there you have it. They're quite tasty, except some unlucky person will have the eggshell cupcake because in my bleary-eyed, post-nap state, I was a bit clumsy with the egg cracking. Sorry.

Remember, Remember, The Fifth of November: Bonfire Night

2010-11-07T11:38:00.000Z

So if you've seen the film, V for Vendetta (one of my favorite movies), you'll remember the allusions to Guy Fawkes, the gunpowder plot, and the significance of November 5, 1605. Or if you studied British or even World history in high school (I didn't - I was one of the lucky few who scraped by having only ever taken Washington State History and AP American History, so by the time I graduated, I had only a vague idea of the two World Wars and not much else. I know what a Native American longhouse is but can't really recall the details of the Spanish Inquisition.), this will all sound familiar to you. No? Refresh your memory here (because I'm too lazy to explain and will also probably get it wrong).

Our time for fireworks is the 4th of July; for the Brits, it's the 5th of November. And for our "garden" (I use the term "garden" loosely, because the green area behind our flat resembles a small park), it was the 6th of November, as we had a bonfire (pictured above) and a truly fantastic fireworks display last evening. Thing is, as we live relatively close to quite a few other communal "gardens", it turned into somewhat of a Who Has The Biggest And Best Fireworks Display? competition (I'm pretty sure we won in terms of length and quality). The other advantage of living near these other gardens is that by the end of the night, you really get three fireworks shows, since they're all viewable either from the street or your flat window, as we saw.

The Brits like to celebrate with wine (mulled wine, if it's Christmas time) around a bonfire. And why ever not? It's big, it's warm and kids love it (under strict parental supervision, of course). I also love that bonfires have been a traditional means of celebration since 1605, because as you know, I freaking love traditions (I went to Mount Holyoke, after all).

It was a great feeling last night to see families out and about on the street enjoying the fireworks occurring around the block - I even saw a smattering of police officers filming the displays on their camera phones. There was an especially friendly atmosphere in our garden, where we chatted with our neighbors and were offered sparklers to wave around with the under-5-year-olds (and there were a lot of those around).

Elsewhere across London and England, there were parties, celebrations and other fireworks going on well into the night - a truly great way to welcome the winter.

The Yoga Show @ Olympia

2010-11-05T07:55:00.000Z

Anyone who knows me knows what a huge role yoga plays in my life - it has such a profound effect that if I skip class even once or twice a week, I notice an invariable change in me that isn't very nice. As Adeline once accurately described, practicing yoga on a regular basis is like showering inside out - a funny way to think about it, but if (like me) you love showers, you'll understand what I mean. It makes me calmer, stronger and a heck of a lot happier.

As well as attending Lauren's class twice a week at Jubilee Hall in Covent Garden, it's always fun and a great experience to learn from other teachers teaching different styles of yoga as well, which is one of the many reasons why I love going to The Yoga Show at London Olympia, which is a three-day event that occurs once a year. Here, yogis and yoginis of all different levels, shapes and sizes are offered a variety of open, free half-hour classes by well-known (and some not-so-well-known) teachers (last year's favorites of mine included Katy Appleton's and Dylan Ayaloo's classes) as well as longer, paid-for classes, lectures, musical performances, and stalls selling apparel, health foods and other thought-to-be-yogic-related accessories (frankincense, anyone? No? Me neither.).

I love having the opportunity to try different classes and experience different methods of teaching because while you might prefer one method or style (as I have come to find after studying with Lauren for nearly two years now), it's always good to change it up and try something new. Although the classes on the menu this year didn't appeal to me as much as last year, I did have the chance to take a class from Unity Partner Yoga, taught by Sevanti, which I absolutely loved. I really like the benefits of practicing yoga with a partner and also the beautiful symmetry that is achieved through the poses (see above - that's me in the black top and Lauren in the pink bottoms). I also enjoyed Sevanti's approach to teaching, which was patient, open and kind - three characteristics that are so important to me when learning from someone I'm not familiar with.

Earlier that morning, I also dipped into Dru Yoga Dance, taught by Nanna Coppens, which, to me, was very much like tai chi combined with yoga - I could see the attraction and benefits there, but it wasn't really for me as I prefer something a bit more structured and physically challenging (I could see my mom loving it, though). But I'm glad I took this class to try something new and different, as it reminded me to keep an open mind and heart to new experiences. The teacher was friendly and encouraging and as I looked around the floor, everyone seemed to be smiling and enjoying themselves, which was lovely to see.

And you meet great people too - I randomly met a girl on my way to the show from Earl's Court. I wasn't completely sure I was going the right way and she helpfully asked, "Are you going to The Yoga Show? It's this way." We chatted on the 15-minute walk to Olympia and I learned that she was originally from Guatemala, but lived in California for most of her life and over in London studying accounting and finance at LSE. She was super nice and it's always fun to meet new people. Though we lost each other at the show itself, we ended up leaving at the same time together without knowing and getting on the same train carriage back - must have been that yogic connection! After wishing each other well, we continued on our separate journeys and when I got home, I felt like I had just showered inside out.

Photos courtesy of Bindya Solanki, all rights reserved.

Douchebag Of The Day

2010-11-04T07:49:00.000Z

What kind of dickhead:

a) Sits on a bus like this?

b) Wears shoes like that?

This douchebag got on my bus on Abbey Road and got off around Baker Street. You think he puts his shoes on his furniture at home too? Frankly, I don't know what he should be arrested for: putting his feet on the seats or committing such a heinous fashion crime. Getouttahere!

Vladimir Ashkenazy Conducts the RCM Symphony Orchestra

2010-11-04T07:41:00.000Z

It's safe to say that 2010 has reunited me with my childhood classical musician-heros: Emmanuel Ax, Gil Shaham, and then last Sunday, Vladmir Ashkenazy. Now, correct me if I'm wrong, but I daresay there wouldn't be a single opportunity anywhere in the United States to watch Ashkenazy in concert (granted, he was conducting rather than performing himself) for less than $20. But on Sunday, I was fortunate enough to watch him do just that for £10. Look, when it comes down to it, I wouldn't mind paying £30, £40, even £50 to watch Ashkenazy work his magic. It's worth it. It just so happened that this particular concert, in the newly refurbished (which delighted in its sparkling and bright infancy) Amaryllis Fleming Concert Hall of the Royal College of Music was sold out, but John and I had been lucky enough (due to our wonderful neighbors downstairs who purchased the tickets for us) to nab two seats.

Like Ax and Shaham, I grew up listening to Ashkenazy. He, along with Evgeny Kissin, were my particular favorites primarily because of their Chopin recordings, which I listened to on endless loops in my room by myself (loner, much?). Of course, Kissin appealed to me because of his looks and age (at the time, at least) whereas Ashkenazy, like Ax, was more akin to a trusted and wise grandfather - the David Attenborough of pianistic performance. So I listened to Kissin when I wanted passion and Ashkenazy when I wanted advice.

Sunday's concert consisted of two of my favorite pieces: the Schumann Piano Concerto in A minor op. 54 and the Brahms Symphony No. 1. I'd never played the Schumann myself, but as it is often paired with the Grieg piano concerto (of which I studied and played the first movement for a competition) on recordings, I became quite familiar with it. The soloist was Sofya Gulyak, winner of several prestigious awards, most recently, first prize and the Princess Mary Gold Medal at the Leeds International Pianoforte Competition. Technically, she was flawless, but unfortunately I didn't find anything particularly exciting or inspiring about her playing and she was often overpowered by the orchestra - not in the sense of volume, but by, perhaps unwittingly, their own agility and flair. I focused my attention on and became decidedly distracted instead, by the concertmistress of the symphony orchestra, who was not only enviably and extremely gifted but devastatingly beautiful. I never thought it was fair - musicians like Anne-Sophie Mutter, et al, to have beauty, brains and talent.

With the concerto out of the way (I'm so harsh - it's not that I didn't enjoy her performance, I just found it ... a little ... formulaic), I turned my attention to the Brahms symphony, which I hadn't heard since I was very small. In fact, it sounded so unfamiliar to me that until the ever-popular theme of the fourth movement occurred, I hadn't realized it was a symphony I'd heard before, so one could say that it's a "revived" favorite of mine. This was the orchestra's opportunity to shine and they surely did just that: Ashkenazy, with his white tufts of hair and slight stature, would repeatedly and broadly smile at the section he was harnessing (I use the word "harness" because I'm sure, given free reign, that they would have ran off like a wild horse - so free, spirited and fiery was this orchestra!), certain of their maturity, their talent and prowess. LPO and LSO take note: these are the young musicians of the future and musically, they are so much better than you. For one thing, their ensemble is perfect. I've been to concerts where the LPO and LSO were so embarrassingly out of sync, I literally put my head in my hands. For a professional orchestra to play so poorly is abominable. And for students to show them up? Well, I wouldn't say it's surprising, but it sure is worse.

There were so many beautiful points in the Brahms that I developed goosebumps, which John mistook for chill and tried to remedy - but it wasn't the air conditioning in the hall that was making me shiver, rather the undeniable passion these students put into the symphony. You could feel the excitement in the air, hovering there between notes - it was electric, like the charge in the atmosphere before a storm. Ashkenazy obviously had a strong influence on this electric feel - in fact, when the glorious first and fourth movements swelled to their greatest crescendos, I was, I'm ashamed to say, nervous for his health.

Overall, it was a real gem of a concert to attend and again, I do sometimes feel it's far more exciting and fun to watch and hear young musicians perform rather than professional orchestras - the RCM symphony orchestra sure gave them all a run for their money.

Photo source

Cabbie Chat

2010-11-02T19:51:00.000Z

When I was growing up, my mom taught me to never talk to strangers. Even now, when I'm back home and heading out to meet a friend at Starbucks, she peers down from the top of the stairs and shouts, jokingly, "Don't talk to strangers!" When I roll my eyes, she says, "I mean it!"

So she'll be terrified to know that I love nothing more than making casual small talk with strangers. I think it's the American in me. A couple years ago, John and I were enjoying a lovely winter weekend in Stratford-upon-Avon. "You know what would make this trip perfect?" I asked John dreamily over a half-pint of shandy (with more Sprite in it than beer) in the cozy, warm pub we were in. "What?" he asked, somewhat nervously. "Some good, friendly, local chat," I responded, looking around the room for my victim. I was disappointed when no one wanted to engage with me, the crazy Asian-American girl. But the next day when we were taking photos by the River Avon, an older lady walking her dog approached us. "Lovely, beautiful day, isn't it?" she said cheerfully, dressed like she had just appeared out of a country home catalogue. "Would you like me to take a photo of you?" she asked. We gratefully accepted. "Ah, that's nice," she said. "Are you visiting Stratford, then?" she asked, still in the same, friendly tone. "Oh you're from London, how lovely," she said. "My son lives in London!" We continued our little chat for a few minutes more before she headed off with her dog. "Are you happy now?" asked John. I nodded, beaming. I had my fill of friendly, local chat.

Another great opportunity for chatting is with cabbies. This will horrify my mother - what, with all the stories of girls being kidnapped, murdered or worse after taking a black cab - so of course, common sense (and the sixth sense) is always exercised. London cabbies are not particularly chatty, although you'd be surprised. I had some great chat with the cabbie who took me to the hospital for John's suspected swine flu medicine pick-up (he didn't have swine flu, btw, more like man flu) about immigration and the strength/weakness of sterling. Then there was the time I jumped into a nice Scottish cabbie's car in Edinburgh on my way to meet Adeline. He wistfully confessed he'd always wanted to visit America, after asking where I was from, but that his wife refused to go because she was convinced that everyone carried a gun and there was too much crime. I chuckled as I always find it interesting and funny to hear stereotypes about America, just as Americans frequently stereotype Brits (or anyone who doesn't live in The Greatest Country In The World).

Last night, I had some quite enjoyable, albeit brief, chat with a cabbie from St John's Wood back to Maida Vale. He asked which end of my road I'd like to be dropped off and after my description, he commented, "Oh, the nicer end, then" (although when he said it, it sounded more like, "Oi, the noicer en' ven", with a proper, East End accent), which led me to gracefully segue into an article I had read in the Guardian that day about the squalor of Notting Hill in the 60s. "Oi reilly?" he said. "Yeah, srsly," I replied. We continued on like this for a few minutes until I hopped out and paid my fare. "It was noice cha'in wiv ya!" he said with a smile. "Likewise, have a great night," I replied. I unlocked the door to my flat with a smile on my face.

But seriously - don't talk to strangers. Only nice ones.

Photo source

Geoffrey Wellum: First Light - Update

2010-11-02T08:24:00.000Z

Last month, I blogged about Geoffrey Wellum's extraordinary account of his part in the Battle of Britain in a book called First Light. You might remember that I was so incredibly moved by his story that, having had permission from his editor at Penguin, I wrote him a letter thanking him for his service to his country and his heroic actions. What I didn't tell you, however, is that I received the above reply, only two days later. To say it made my day is the understatement of the year.

I saw the envelope on the floor when I returned home that evening and thought the handwriting looked familiar - that is, of a friend's. When I opened the letter, however, I literally jumped around the flat with joy - this man is a legend! I was so glad that he received my letter of thanks and thought it was so kind of him to write back.

If you haven't already been persuaded by my previous recommendation, do go and buy it now - or I will be happy to send you a copy. Without sounding trite, it's a book that will stay with you forever, regardless of your interest in the Second World War or fighter aircraft.

In the meantime, check out my two latest Battle of Britain-related purchases:

Yep, I ordered Ten Fighter Boys (a collection of first-hand accounts taken from ten Spitfire pilots, not all of whom, sadly, lived to see the end of the war) shortly after finishing First Light. Spitfire, below, is a coffee-table-type reference book entirely devoted to the Spitfire airplane, which I randomly found at a garden center, of all places (by 'random' I mean I accidentally wandered into the books and gifts section of the center and, upon spying the book, hysterically ran up to John, tapped him on the shoulder and shoved the book into his face with undue excitement before racing to the counter to buy it. And yes, I searched for Geoffrey Wellum's photo as soon as I got in the car, and yes, he is in it, although not mentioned by name).

Obsessed much?

What the Pho?: Banh Mi Bay

2010-11-02T07:39:00.000Z

There is a tradition in my family: before someone (namely, me) gets on a transatlantic flight, we always pop in to Linh Son in Federal Way for a steaming bowl of rare beef pho. It's not fancy; the entrance is lined with fake, green plants and the vinyl booths squeak as you squeeze in by the windows lit by Linh Son's neon sign, serenaded by old, Vietnamese pop songs. If anything, it's tacky. But it's damn good. And we've been going for years, frequenting the restaurant at least 3-4 times a month. It's also dirt cheap. Pho is available in two sizes: medium and large. We order the same thing, every time. When someone deviates from their usual, eyebrows are raised, but nothing is said. "Two number 2As, three number eight mediums and one number seven medium," my dad rattles off to the waitress before we've had a chance to slide our butts into the vinyl booth. To this day, I have no idea what the dishes we've just ordered are called. All I know is that the summer rolls are plump, filled to bursting point with vermicelli noodles, thin slices of char siu pork, tiger prawns and a delicious peanut sauce.

To me, pho is comfort food - a lot like chicken noodle soup. Any anxieties I have before getting on a plane and saying those painful goodbyes to my family are quelled by the delicious, steaming hot bowl of soup noodles in front of me. On the other days we visit the restaurant, I look forward to hopping straight back into the car and heading for a short shopping trip at the Supermall or Trader Joe's before they close.

So when meeting Tom and Cristy at Banh Mi Bay in Holborn for dinner, I knew I had to try their pho as a sort of taste test (it passed).

The interior of Banh Mi Bay is everything that Linh Son isn't: chic, trendy, bright and friendly, you might mistake it for a posh cafe or deli in Notting Hill. They offer a delicious selection of fruit smoothies and a childhood favorite of mine, cold chrysanthemum tea.

To start, we had two orders of summer rolls (one veggie and one meat) and the pork meatball wraps. Although only half the size of the summer rolls from Linh Son, it's clear that Banh Mi Bay focuses on quality, not quantity: the rolls were stuffed with fresh ingredients and tasted just like a spring (or rather, summer) day. I could have done with a bit more meat/prawns, however, rather than the vermicelli rice noodles. The accompanying sauce was also a perfect complement - not too sickly sweet, as some Vietnamese restaurants serve. The pork meatballs were delightfully fun, as you were presented with mint leaves, grated carrots and vermicelli noodles to make your own wraps.

When it came time to order our main courses, Tom had the utterly yummy Banh Mi (which is made on a freshly baked baguette) while John and Cristy opted for large, delicious bowls of Bun Thit Nuong. As for my pho, well, it was heartwarming and tasty - everything I could have hoped for. It stirred up quite a lot of nostalgia for the Vietnamese cuisine I grew up with in the Seattle/Tacoma area and reminded me of home. I was slightly disappointed to find a wedge of lemon nestled in my beansprouts rather than lime and I think the broth could have used slightly more coriander, but other than that, I had no complaints. And to top it off, the presence of one of my favorite hot sauces, Sriracha, on the table gave the restaurant real credibility.

At the end of the evening, our £33 (for four people) bill only made the meal all the more enjoyable. I wish I had discovered Banh Mi Bay earlier to satisfy my pangs of longing for pho, but I predict I'll now be a regular visitor.

Photo source

angloyankophile

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